When poems write themselves
To save good eating for last
They refrigerate desserts but
Set them out a while to ponder
on blocks of delivered ice rapped
In preservative newspapers
Until Just before supper is served
Plates are stacked by older
Siblings the coal is stored
In the indoor shed for the evening
Warmth that is there to keep
Comfort before the blessings and
Bible reading verses are marked
The pages tucked the songs
We sing will themselves sung
From memory or hidden verse
By the unison that remembers
Opening sonnet words but
Drowns in long forgotten lines.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I really like this. It is written in an even tempo and is easy to read. I agree with Patricia and like these word a lot. Poetry is the song of the soul, and when the muse taps us on the shoulder, it sings to us to write it down. A wonderful smorgasbord of words and lines. A 10+++++ and thank you for sharing. Love & hugs, Barbara