The Pen Calls
I sit at coffee
Cup and muffin
My fingers want to write
The pen screams
Me — me — me — me.
But there are no words
Only phrases and fragments
Scramble around my brain.
The fingers itch
For swirls and slants and ovals and lines
The pen has been obedient and silent
In its leather case, hid in my bag
But now it is a petulant child
Me — me — me –me.
And so a tree is drawn
Along the side of the paper
Only a partial tree
But a beginning
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The Pen Calls
I sit at coffee
Cup and muffin
My fingers want to write
The pen screams
Me — me — me — me.
But there are no words
Only phrases and fragments
Scramble around my brain.
The fingers itch
For swirls and slants and ovals and lines
The pen has been obedient and silent
In its leather case, hid in my bag
But now it is a petulant child
Me — me — me –me.
And so a tree is drawn
Along the side of the paper
Only a partial tree
But a beginning
With shadow and root and limb
Now words can be added
With shadow and root and limb
Now words can be added
With a tree framing the swirls and slants
That jump to the page.
Pen and ink are happy
Thick, black, permanent
It flows from the nib
To the paper
With swirls and slants
It is home.
larry's meanders 