The Poem

 Don't you love, love how happing upon an unexpected Poem
can make everything else better?!

Sometimes, while I wait for Victoria at her Saturday morning piano lesson, 

I read poetry and find poems(both literally and metaphorically:) I otherwise might not...

(click on image to enlarge for easier reading)

The Poem’s stage is tucked, age-old

In turn of pages in a book

It stars, not in script, loud and bold

But stirs in bracken by the brook

Or wind as it washes through leaves

Or frosted ilk on fronds forlorn

A poem runs through brittle sheaves

Or twist of ink or mist of morn

The Poem seeks no accolade

No crowd to cheer, no loud applause

Enough to touch the promenade

Of sighs and skies with o-o-h-s and a-a-a-h-s

It satisfies without a sound

Its stage a mere wordage or three

And never by a showcase bound

Is the aplomb of poetry

The Poem needs no pedestal

No grandstand to be seen or heard

Enough to love through madrigal  

Enough to leave its lover stirred

Sequestered far from front-row noise

Or ribald popularity

Glad, glad, The Poem sings soul-joys

In quiet anonymity

© Janet Martin