My fountain pen in hand to press the page,
a tree for thoughts with sap in burly case
to flow its heart for others to engage,
a maple stem for words in ink to trace.
Its root a nib to fill its dark blue vein,
in polished branch alive by fingers’ clutch,
with dripping cut by which it bleeds and stains
upon the paper to pump my pulsing touch.
Perhaps its pensive pace is waste of time,
a time of cyber signs so quick to say
by rapid speed and easy spilling lines,
rejecting paper, pen and slower ways.
Yet this pen with inky marks holds me when done,
When computer keys and screen are only numb.
Comments
Hi there!
thanks for sharing.
Alid
Remarkable comparisons
Remarkable comparisons between man made & natural (in spirit if not in literal context) captured and illustrated creatively in this poem, which was an eye opener for me. It has given me a new direction for appreciating the trees.
Regards,
Arrow
I am usually writing about the pen and the old scribe that moves it across the paper, the same one that taps the keys and writes some poetry or stories mostly about the gentle side of being but I am allowed to spread out sometimes and bring in some naughty people, it is a fun side even the so called dark side can be fun.
Most of my writing is fiction but people ask sometimes if I am OK and they say sorry about some of the things I write as if it happened to me, more fun.
This piece is waiting for you to put your pen against the paper again anf tell us of things you know.
Take care out there, Yours Ian.T