As I am done with another poem,
I put my pen’s tip to rest
on the white chest of my paper,
and look at the clock
that runs from its own shadows
and chases its own reflection,
While it reaches the unanticipated.

Terrified, I close my eyes
and think of a moment
when the close does not matter,
when it grows so tired of running and chasing itself
that it stops.

Now as the clock has been silenced
And I can no more hear it shrieking,
I hear her voice.

Her voice, calling my name
like a leaf gently lying on a pond surface
that had been mute for too long.

Her lullaby, ringing like a wind charm
that has been touched by a raindrop,
makes me sleep in my thoughts.

Her hands, holding me into her arms
like the sunlight embraced tightly by
a droughted land.

Her fingers, feeding me food of thought
like a drop of ink that falls the pen
and fills the paper.

Her eyes, looking at me with love
like mine looking at the clock
that has stopped moving while
my pen at rest has not.

Her smile, that she throws at me
like the dandelion which throws
her children away to be free,

Her tears, that slide down
From her eyes to her lips
like the rocks on the mountains
that cause avalanche.

Her food, that she cooks
While she burns in and out
like the cells of the body that
die out quickly
for the new ones to be born.

Her stories, that she teaches me about
the world around
like the wind that whistles to the
water that never stops flowing.

Her lessons, that she wants me
to learn and remember
like a book that turns to the right page
with every command the wind makes.

Her love, that keeps me alive while
she is dead,
like the earth that gives birth
to her new ones from the womb
she no longer owns.

I think of her as I realize
How the clock has paused
I now know, she and her thoughts
stop time.
My mother, stops time.

So, I lift up my empty pen
from the ‘just blue turned’ chest of my paper
and look at the clock
that is again chasing its own shadows
and running from its own reflection.
I am done with another poem.

And give my body the beating deserved

The sadness it's had coming since the get-go
I've been fortunate enough to avoid it for the most part
It's only grazed me til now

To write again I need wounds so that I may dip my pen in the blood to spell out my tragedy in bright red ink

.
The orb sinks below an horizon,
through a ***** window
bowing out with all grace,
concluding another day
and I write.
A stream of conscious falls
and fills a page with woe,
my heart cradled in dark
as another wave of nausea
interrupts a pleasant dusk time.

The pen rests but itches to scrawl.
The words are counted there,
the order somewhat confused.
And slowly, slowly, cautious,
they flow with random airs.
The darkness of day's end
seeping into every phrase
without prejudice.

The number 2 in relief
inscribed upon a brass disc
reflects the dullness of evening,
styled like a swan
in a maudlin funeral pose.
The day scurries away,
grey clouds tumble above,
another quiet night beckons.
I taper light a candle
welcoming the flame as company.
The pen still lays silent,
abandoned.
The itch to scrawl spent,
dreaming.
Dreaming in the mist.

Horns call from the ether
floating through the mind,
as a quill dips ink
ready to be born and flourish
in a better world.
As the first word
is inscribed across the page,
the rest tumble race
to be arranged in neat rows,
to entice the eyes of readers.
The continue to flow
with increasing agony
in a far-seeing mind-scape.
The memories of time rise up,
breaking the fragile surface,
and over-run the quill pen.
Words fighting to get out
and be immortalised
upon a crisp white leaf page.
The fine strokes go on
until the thread ends.
But instantly picks up the next
and starts to weave and sew,
stitching another stream of words.
The tapestry starts to form,
an image for a story.
But the mist returns and coils
and the pen sleeps on.
Its dreams just wisps of smoke,
a candle snubbed and extinguished.

I stare at the redundant pen,
a white feather waiting.
I think of another story,
a white feather waiting.
A call to tickle the pages,
a white feather waiting.
But there is a spectre also,
the black ink of nightmare.

The pen dreams of eloquence,
I dream in the dark.
The pen wishes for permanence,
I wish for the spark.
Ignite me! Ignite me!
Don't try to fight me.
Ignite me! Ignite me!
Take words and write me.

Scribe my name across your heart and read,
words my pen writes and my mind bleeds.


© Pagan Paul (28/03/20)

I the pen chucked in a can
Lay here in anguish the best I can
Usually kept by a business man
I ran dry of ink when snapped in the hand