Wednesday, July 10, 2019

To Think That Poetry Runs Dry...

To think that poetry runs dry
Were to lose awestruck ‘wonder-why
Were to lose sight of sky-sea-sod
Were to lose faith in faithful God
Were to succumb to fear and dread
Were to forget to pray instead
Were to be deaf and dumb and blind
And be no longer sound of mind
Were to despair in discontent
Exchanging laughter for lament
Exchanging love for bitter feud
Forgetting God’s mercy renewed
Forgetting to give thanks and sing
For we owe all and own nothing

To think that poetry runs dry
Would be to hate Beauty’s reply
To find no joy in bloom-strummed fence
Or in cherubic innocence
Or boyish mischief’s guilty look
Or worlds away inside a book
Or find only a doleful gloom
When beholding a mop and broom
Not feeling blissful as a dream
When windows sparkle and floors gleam
When supper waits in garden-plots
Then finds its way to pans and pots
When feeling glad to be alive
Is like a God-to-man high-five

To think that poetry runs dry
Would be to just lie down and die
And not put flowers in a jar
To marvel at each detailed star
No chuckle for the curious pup
No meadow for the buttercup
No back-front porch comradery
No coffee-break or cuppa-tea
No to-do lists or curly-tops
Or tree limbs threaded with rain-drops
Or grins that steal your very breath
Only the sins that hasten death
And there would be no you-and-me
If poetry would cease to be

© Janet Martin

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