Once, simple quill dipped in


ink as rudimentary as the universe,


scraped words across finest linen,


or cheapest pulp paper, rice paper.




A fat little jug of ink held its mouth


open, welcoming intrusions into its maw.


giving poet fuel for the inner fire.




Devout monks bent over tomes that


outlasted all governments and ideals,


scratching truth into epistles.




Shakespeare, Dunn, Dickinson. . .


and Poe, that ****** genius from hell,


marked thus: “Quoth the Raven, nevermore…”




Now poets have keyboards, computers,


word processors, a labyrinth of tools to


shape their thoughts into worthy words.




Alas, progress must come to us all, and yet


when I have those special heart-words to


spill, I prefer the simple quill and well.

God pondered one day
asking himself if all His creativity
had been used
He ate a ripe, juicy peach

He drummed His fingers on billowing clouds
and fanned His face with a frond
Angels heard Him saying
"No, No - it has been done..."

A little bird perched on His shoulder
and whispered in His ear...
a light, as of a thousand candles, came into
His eyes

He turned the little bird into
a glorious bird, and called it Hummingbird
He laughed joyously as its wings
fluttered so fast as to be invisible

All the kingdom was laughing with joy,
when a little princess approached and asked,
"Please dear God, sir - may I have a ride on this
precious creation of Your hand'.

And thus it came to pass...
beauty in the world grew ten-fold.

Father sun awakened me
with his warm kiss and I flowered
My sister, the moon leaned in to
give me butterfly kisses on my cheek
She who is mother holds my cradle
and offers me to the world as a gift