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.