My opened eyes mean I see things, some precious, some profane,
Yet words are strange, for they grow wings, to fly inside my brain…
And there they nestle, while I think and question what each brought,
Until they take me to the brink of what each writer thought…
The choice is mine when words I see, for I could turn away,
They either draw me magically, or else I cannot stay…
Yet if I stay, what will I gain? A treasure chest revealed?
Or just a puzzle in my brain, a mystery concealed?
I take the risk, perchance to find, some blessing meant for me,
Some wondrous words to tease my mind, the thrill of poetry,
The open door to God’s own heart, the window of Man’s soul,
The ancient tomes, still play their part and thus fulfil their role…
Yet God grants time for me alone, when I write words to share,
A time for rhyme when on my own and no-one else is there…
When words assail this mortal frame and gather fervently,
Pressed down like grapes to then proclaim sweet truths that I must see…
My opened eyes help me write down the letters word-by-word,
When inspiration forms a crown by which my mind is stirred…
As if to bless with gems and gold, much richer than before,
With just a new tale to be told, something to fill with awe…
God gave great reason I must write and read and edit, too,
The reason I write day and night… is you… and you… and you…
Denis Martindale March 2018.