Taming the tempest

Sitting alone, iPad in hand, to pen a poem on demand, attempting to translate bliss beats, the rapture refrain that repeats, feeling within joy germinate, we write because we cannot wait, for once symbols in rhythm are belled, with our creative tempests quelled, what’s imbibed in form is ingrained by both head and heart, entertained, by merging feeling with thinking, as pure awareness unblinking, even though none but us may know, the way nectar in us does flow, birthing ethereal cool heat, in which we’re bliss drenched head to feet.