Monday, February 8, 2010


You taunt me with a tender word
Some special lines and phrases
Until my senses become blurred
My thought of time or places
And with your pleasant mystery
You softly lure me in
Though I do come willingly
To drink your spell again

All other loves and vague desire
Have lost their sweet appeal
I look at you and oh, the fire
That burns is good and real
And I must see what’s hidden
Behind your tempting glance
I’m glad you’re not forbidden
As I give your hope a chance

Books and cookies, coffee, shoes
Sometimes you make me weak
Palm trees, sea-shells, music too
Are not the thrills I seek
I smile as I feel the rush
Of pure adrenaline
For a painter it’s a brush
For me, it is my pen

All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin

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