The thing about poetry is that it is very personal. I think a poet is suddenly inspired and locks him—or herself off in some closet to breathe life with words into the idea that had struck. When poets are done, what have they to show for their effort? A few lines on paper that may or may not rhyme. Those lines may have some semblance of rhythm or meter, or perhaps they do not. The poet’s work may be embraced by an audience, or it may be destined to banishment in a drawer or box. One thing is for sure, though: the poet will feel a sense of personal accomplishment and pride, having finished. That is why writing poetry is so personal.
Let her fall!
Night from the heavens,
She envelops me
In her somber light.
While You sigh a knowing breath,
And salvation fades from my sight,
I freefall from a dizzying height.
Lost at once to the sullen day;
Hope’s an illusion of Your ethereal way.
Oh love, a frail tapestry,
Now offer it I do to thee.
Please take my hand in revelry,
And hold my heart so carefully.
So, wake my soul from dormancy,
To bring my spirit ecstasy.
I wait for you so patiently.
My purpose cries relentlessly,
For you are all my eyes can see;
As I pursue you zealously,
For in my life new life you breathe.
Whose eyes are these that hold my thoughts?
Dark and warm, their sultry gaze
Sifts through the contents of my soul and, like fire,
Burns deeply into my conscious haze.
Whose smile is this that melts my heart?
It warms the essence of my day,
Restoring purpose to my being and, like flame,
Lights the path as I go my way.
Whose voice is this that soothes my ear?
The sweetest sound, it ever rings.
Strings and harp pale in beauty, and, by God ordained,
Angels fall silent when she sings.
What woman is this whose hand I hold?
With gentleness, she treats my soul.
She cares for wounds I cannot hide and, with practiced hands,
Heals my being to make me whole.
©2017 by A. E. Fonner