Aren't you glad for all the poet's who dipped their quills into the quiet 'poet-tude' of middle day or middle night to find the poem waiting to be brought to light?!
The above poem was penned in 1787.
One’s very skin can ache with weight of what does not exist
Though it laughs in the wind that washes white and amethyst
And sometimes just the thought of seeing you for the first
time
Provokes the pulse of poets scavenging the air for rhyme
Ah, just the possibility of you keeps one awake
Where you are nothing more as yet, than longing’s nameless
ache
Peering into a lake that mirrors days and dreams gone by
Which cannot be appeased by these; a smile, a tear, a sigh
Strange suffering, this ecstasy of yen-anointed cast
Where poetry must ever be the phoenix born of Past
Thus, sometimes just the thought of seeing you for the first
time
Sends poet-pulses racing as they chase the air for rhyme
The heart is far too small to hold the seasons as they fly
Where we are all first-timers learning the art of good-bye
And all of us are taken by surprise, it seems to me
...by the holding-on-letting-go composing poetry
© Janet Martin
The boys I babysit are having their after-lunch TV-time and suddenly
the quiet kitchen seems itchin’ for poetry;-)
Oops, a basket-ball just bounced/thudded into the kitchen!
I think the hour of poet-tude is over.
