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Poem

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul 
and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.  
- Emily Dickinson 

 

My search for gold dust glow in harvest moon 
depletes me when once fertile ground’s plucked bare. 
Yet hope, it rises like a stretched balloon, 
and begs of me to rise above despair.    
The ripened dreams of youth cannot escape 
me though some may be buried, worn, and wrung.  
When bitter seeds are all that I can taste, 
oh hope, dear hope, you burst just like a grape! 
An unexpected, sweet juice on my tongue 
to relish like a love the heart’s encased.   

I feel a steady pull within my core 
to step from haunting shadows into light. 
Lured out by warm winds, seeping through my door,   
in sun-steeped clouds, my soul stirs, rouged by flight. 
As love, deep love, drifts free with hope on high, 
like sapphire stars, together how they burn! 
But hope, my hope, I lost for quite some time, 
though awe-struck, watched its bough reach brightest sky. 
Some nights I thought it never would return. 
Some nights I dreamed of limbs on which I’d climb. 
 
Oh hope, dear hope, I struggle to hold on. 
You slip from shaky hands, I outstretch wide.  
But like a Song Thrush commencing the dawn, 
your soft and ceaseless voice could be my guide. 
So now I ask of you to care for me 
just like a newborn struggling first to breathe. 
My drowning lungs feel black and knotted tight. 
Oh hope, dear hope, alight on darkened sea. 
Give garland from stargazers’ sights to wreathe 
around my path in poetry and light.

   

Written 5/12/22
for: Form O - Ode - New Poems Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France

Theme: Idea

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