A Plethora of Poet’s Prompts

ah, what might I have become
without my moment's notice,
that I should inspire you and you me
and together write good poetry?

easier is walk to walk
when inspiration calls one's name
and there, beyond a forest fringe
is moon upon a lake shore stroll
and upon that sand, another soul
who knows healing by one's own hand
is best and most beloved
when two can stand and attempt
to define the stroke of luck
the stars remind  that on such path,
a wanderer be found
stretching at some overgrowth
it is I who would call forth
a wind to lay down
what I owe you, my poetic friend,
is more than pen to paper fine
what so easily rend and mend
is healed by words: dear friend of mine

it is said, what of clay is made
is dust used for first response
to waiting world: a gardener,
his draft and rib to graft
a harvest of wheat and roses,
each their part to play on earth.

Whence fired, a clearest gem to be recovered
from ash of sorrow's silent press.
But then, from mud more rise
for we are naught without a group
and each will have their place and space
and yours is here, within my heart...

a twin to soul is sacred found
a twice-vined voice, is heaven sent
when head, in sorrow oft is bent
but hearing song on fertile ground

is but a choice to hear or not
a petal rise, a petal drop
when hand in hand, a friend is prop
when road is rough and path is fraught

with aloneness, in spite of company
and Muse is one's best and quiet friend
spent placing words from end to end
and there a knot to make with thee

a promise, no, a very vow, ‘tis true…
if you ever need a shoulder on which to brace,
turn to this spot and find my place
where I am most inspired by you

she, of loosened robe
she wraps in comfort's cause
for night is nigh here in the east
and west is yet a diner's delight away

‘tis here, beneath a lamp's soft glow
her fingers tap the tender truth
that such as found on laughter's ease
is worth the hour in sweet repose

and so to put a pen to bed
a hush must fall on a Muse's patter

so dream, dear poet, of poems to scribe
upon a night's fresh brush with gods