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
