Oft you evoke in my in-most being
Hollowed indictments I cannot ignore
Passionate pleading; rushing receding
Oceans of wonder and pondering roar
Desire dances in sanguine circles
Duty remands with a stiff, solemn grip
Wanderlust whispers; temptation trickles
I need a pen between my fingertips
A-h-h-h-h…
Smooth satisfaction probes inspiration
Pulses quicken with anticipation
Muse, oh languid and luring impression
Teasing and taunting the fringe of my thought
Do you seek kinship or mournful confession?
I feel you but to touch you, I can not
Are you the shadow that ruffles the willow?
Are you the Shepherd of star-spangled deep?
Or do you burrow beneath my pillow
Murmuring to me as I fall asleep
A-h-h-h-h
You are a rebel tormenter of men
Provoking the poet without a pen
Oft you evoke intangible beauty
Caught in the lilt and the bend of the breeze
Oft, in the middle of modest duty
You kiss the moment with sweet memories
I cannot hate you, therefore I must love you
Feed on the hunger of what you withhold
Darling, I am so empty without you
Tease me; torment me until I am old
A-h-h-h,
Poet, poor poet; are you blessed or cursed?
Caught in the vortex of life’s best or worst?
© Janet Martin