Implementation

This pen writhes
hisses and spits
poison darts
from the bow of my fingertips.

I wrestle and choke
it down
on an empty
page
the feeling bleeds through
the collected pulp
smearing the white sheet.

Against bone,
the pressure to cave in
begins
at the first period.

Etching the paper
so that complete erasure
is not an option. I strangle
the words, Go On,
in the process.




Artwork credited by Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, 17th-19th century [Public domain].

Finely printed news

The woman with the thin narrow hands
trimmed and nude nails,
received the good news
And here she was
spent
and broke.
She was tired and should have slept,
instead, she nearly died
with the pen in between her fingers
and raw knuckles.
Even this was half expected,
she thought the words were enough
but they did not touch her in a good way.



Drawing credit by Ernest Blaikley (1916) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Trees before forest

Long ago,

I relished, savoring that golden hour

In which people so often flock to the sea

Eyes set on the dipping radiant sun

And me now

Caught completely off-guard, unarmed,

By the bright gold glint reflecting upon

The beige page I cradle,

This glare that makes me lose

Place, interest, grip

in, on, or about anything

but this propositioning, this pen

and a poem

waiting for me

to see it there.


Painting by Tom Thomson [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Nom de plume

My pen tells me All
I need to know about Me
More than thought could say












By George Shuklin (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe

To write!

Marking and mucking it up

not ambidextrously

although it may read thusly

manually, this is searching

I write.

I feel the ink flow

I make it come out so

dark and round

bilingually between

print and cursive

encrypted, now I write

more in pen, coded cursives

and dismissives, symbols 

instructions only I know

making living language breathe

O how I want,

from my pens' tip to your sweet lips

How so sweet do I know?

I taste the words first.

I write

sometimes it gets loose and away 

from me, high and inside

-if I can grab it

and show you-

if I can find it

I can write

until nobody reads cursive

Ye olde quill

becomes nill

turning to teletype

telepathy script better have Edit

Well, 

I will write 

still

cradling, holding, pulling, drawing out the words

needing to bleed it out

in tendrils

of untranslatable text

while thinking of what to write next...

Image By "Tichnor Quality Views," Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. Made Only by Tichnor Bros., Inc., Boston, Mass. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.