Bereft Of Words.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes we are

left bereft

of all the

inspired rations

that bring us

beauty in our souls.

Anorexic and unable

to serve the

alphabet soup

simmering in hot ink.

Poetry has

a blank side

one only need turn

over the white sheet

on which a

poem is born

to find the emptiness

just beneath

words spent.

Pencils get leadaches

pens become prisons

for our soul,

hearts lose the -arts

and leave the he-

destitute of poetry.

But time, beauty,

love and faith

wait in the shadows

of a dark mind,

Seeds of promise

planted deeply

until the poet

flees dormancy

and can do nothing

else but

invite them back.

Then they

wrap tendrils

of hope through

fallow flesh

and turn potter's fields

into pastures of

forget-me-nots.

When I am

without words

I turn to other

blank offerings

like a canvas

to be pigmented

or a lump of clay

to be made life.

And if I am

without love

I travel back

to other loves

that spawned

great poetry

and bask in

their warm embrace.

Eventually new love

slips quietly

into my busy life

bearing words

whispered gently

into hungry ears

taking communion

in the comfort of two

and again the

paper beckons

for the caress

of my thoughts.

©-MFB III

 

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Comments 2 comments

Putz Ballard profile image

Putz Ballard 6 years ago

Excellenta'


Brenda Durham 6 years ago

I agree, this is excellent!

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