Poem...

As tender as the hour when dusk fills the wooded hill

And friendly as the flower on a winter window sill

Bigger than a belfry of books and smaller than a sigh

Ah poem, you are like a laughing brook, a butterfly

…a girl of half-past three or baby wee, you steal the heart

And ease upon the mind’s eye sentimental works of art

Like seasons swept to simper in the solace of the soul

Poem, you vex, you tease and please with syllabic cajole

You scoff at time, you touch but not with finger-tips, soft pink

Passion in every form smolders in storms of static ink

And in life’s racket cold and hurried you draw us aside

Poem, the darling of the pen, you fill meek men with pride

The way you move through they who pause to glory in your springs

Makes monarchs of everyday ‘us’; turns beggars into kings

A soulmate to the drifter, ageless lover, how you touch

Poem, a kindred spirit in a world that talks too much

A mentor when desire torments eyes with pomp and show

You teach the mouth to murmur, feet to stop, or at least slow

Modest, first glance can never guess by your plain dress of ink

How poem, humble poem is pen’s Masterpiece, I think

© Janet Martin