Little Pen

Before me: THE PAGE, bathed in pristine white glow … 

except for criss-crosses looped row upon row –

like tire tracks whaling on fresh fallen snow.

I think and I ponder … with all of my might.

I put pen to paper and write:  WRITE!!!  WRITE!!!  WRITE!!!

NOTHING:  not a thing … Well, maybe …… not quite ……

For then: like a torn seed pod drifts from a tree …

like a ship reaching port in a tempest tossed sea …

WORDS – start to light – like a playhouse marquee!

My pen strokes catch fire and sail cross the sheet.

My narrative snatched from the jaws of defeat.

Little Pen … Little Pen … Thy Victory … Sweet

"The pen is mightier than the sword"

Edward Bulwer-Lytton, 1839 in the play, Richelieu

note:  posted for Poets United.

Though my "Little Pen" took me in a "light" direction, I do believe that the pen is, indeed, mighty … the pen, I think (with the advent of modern technology) having become a metaphor for chronicling the truth, whether it be by ink, print, film, phone or The Arts.  Evil hides in darkness.  Only when injustices and atrocities are brought to the attention of people of conscience (and they are legion) can there be hope for change.

photo:  Tracks – W. Bourke

© 2015 Wendy Bourke

faded pages

in the days of mostly easy time, 

there is the odd reminder of another place.

fragrant reminiscence in a flash; 

passed - but in its wake - a trace.

like a tired book of poetry

that tries and fails to resonant.

close, so very close, but in the end 

tenuous, vague, ethereal.

page after page careful to avoid 

warmth of feeling or familiarity ... and though 

subtle images, occasionally, kindle a pleasant reverie,

it is far less vivid than the recollection begs to be.

the nearness of memories made where they can be revisited,

in that sweet connectedness that time and place evoke. 

the chance encounter on the streets,

traversed by past and present home town folk. 

tinged forever with the young thrill of what could be.

the laughter, the closeness:  the comfort that home brings. 

the houses filled with family and friends.

the hopes - the heart stirred by simple things. 

in the days of mostly easy time,

in the final passages - bright symbols turn to gray ... 

the missing touch stones of those memories

of so much life - lived far away.

note:  posted for Poets United.

photo:  Another Place - W. Bourke

© 2015 Wendy Bourke