Bard's Ballroom

 A poem is a chalice full of vintage joy to share...

To sweep across a parchment ballroom floor with twirls of ink

To hear a ballad wafting over dusk-worlds washed in pink

To sense a composition stirring as night and morn merge

To feel the turquoise ocean of devotion reel and surge

To smile because an isle of hours flowers on the air

Waiting for whispers to unveil a picture hanging there

A teddy-bear, a tot, a garden, a twilight tableau

The green sheen of first blossom or dazzle of sun-kissed snow

To dance upon a page like raindrops on a dusty street

To let the music of a moment sweep us off our feet

To follow the lead of a lyric not prehended yet

To revel in the pleasure of a poem-silhouette

To bear the heady rush of syllables, still wild and free

Waiting to wear the breathless blush of new-born poetry

To hunger and thirst as if we could burst with want of ways

To tame the taunt to frame fraught font to perfect turn of phrase

To search with humble honor for the crown-jewel of verse

To stress the beauty of the blessing, not to curse the curse

To siphon from the silt of seasons, lilting gilt of time

To trace the face of echoes and to etch them into rhyme

To bring with utmost fervor, fervent offering of laud

To splay upon each paper-altar pure worship to God

To never let less-noble ruses steal its claim to fame

But strive without excuses to exalt the Giver’s name

A poem is a chalice full of vintage joy to share

It is a pauper’s palace, a ballad, a hymn, a prayer

A solace to come home to, or enchanting getaway

A lens that we can peer through to rediscover today

To make us more aware of what we else might overlook

To waken us to love and other mercies we mistook

To take us by the heart and lead us where we would not see

Without a parchment ballroom floor, footwork of poetry

© Janet Martin