Featured Poem: The Poet In Me -by Martins Deep

The world sleepeth, not I

whose rest flees when I hear the yearning cry

Like the wailing knell in the churchyard

...and Bezaleel the son of Uri within comes alive.

He teacheth my fingers to weave

Worlds bygone and coming on leaves.

I sail wherever with my disguised sceptre.

Returning with a thousand ethereal sheaves.

O Prisoner behind the bars of my soul

What gainest thee so

That thy errands hath made of me

A mortal never my dreams told?

What meanest this quest my pen doth run

Like a thirsty hart after a pond?

Night after night springs this strange lust

And every adventure is a mystery born.

The clamour of thy fiery harp

Charms my heart like honey drops

I yield as a man to the snare of a seductress

I lay my seven locks on thy laps.

It is now I who stands obsessed

Keeping you alive like a songbird.

I am holding tightly on what once was straw

And my lips branded like the psalms of the blessed.

No whiskey, rum, nor ale

Doth taste like a mug from my inkwell.

My ravished soul can no more wish for paradise

It is here, I need not sail.

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