I can’t feel the sunshine on my face,
not like the touch of some muse
that would set fire to my puny pen.
Okay, it’s a wireless keyboard,
but all these poets will go on
about that word…pen…like t’was
handed them from Olympus or Ararat.
For some it is the manifestation
of their gift, whether they have
the one for stringing words
into image and emotion or not.
To many others, it is the word
signifying the act of using said pen
to turn word seeds into rosaries
of verse that fall from their hands
onto the blank space before us.
That sunshine thing?
Not to be too pennish about it,
but that’s the real engine of this art
I stumbled into. There wasn’t enough,
and I tripped upon a haiku, the silly
little thing. Then there came so much
it blinded me in words blooming forth
like the dandelions’ resurrection
I just witnessed and tell you about today.
Flash, and there they were…
Just like this. I hope you can sense
this light without seeing it, too.
I’m staring at a wall and it’s
an illuminating inspiration.
Poem Number 21 of this month’s 30-day marathon of new poems. After this past week’s batch of Stygian composition, all written within a sack of gloom, I decided I’d better cut myself out into the light, whether I can feel it or not. So I did, with this, my little (forgive me) PEN knife.