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The patterned colour(s) it leaves behind is magic
You'll read and may get nothing to grasp
Instead, you'll see then come to learn what's penned
Writings need attention
Jason Mar 8
Downy pen, as light as day

Well, it is...

On the one side anyway
© 03/08/21 Jason R. Michie All Rights Reserved
the poet's quill wrote about
the merit of free
expression  
never would it become
a prisoner of
repression  

the poet's quill being enduring
of its staunch
belief
that to stymie liberty's voice could
cause but
grief

the poet's quill did
not shy
away
its purpose was intent on conveying
in an unfettered
way
I cast the muse into the sea
to wake her from a peaceful sleep.
This poet’s quill is void of ink;
it needs her words to strike the page.

She’ll fight the waves Poseidon sends
til Sirens drive her back to shore
to sip an oleander brew
and hoist the cup of Socrates.

Bring wolfsbane and a death morel!
Bring nightshade and curare too!
We’ll fatten her with woe and pain!
We’ll ready her for war and hate!

She’ll writhe and quiver, seethe and foam
until she spews her putrid verse
upon the blackened sands of time
from which men’s darkest dreams are built.

And when the gods are satisfied,
when Ares’ sword has slashed and burned,
this poisoned pen will rest at last.
Calliope shall sleep once more.
Norman Crane Sep 2020
My writing desk
My chair
A slap to the face
Fingers running through my hair
I will words
Which refuse to appear
I will
That which I will always fear
That only the quill knows how to be sincere
Unbuttoned shirt
A battered sternum
Under the hurt
The heart
Blooms the poisonous laburnum
Beating like a drum
I insert the quill
Holding in
Until it's had its fill of yellow ink
I do not think but write
Numbed but the words appear alright
I repeat until the flowers pass their bloom
And blackened fill the room
My throat is dry
My writing desk is wet
By my laburnum blood and sweat
Time to rest
To sew up my open chest
To sleep and in the morning feel again
Anatomical garden
Quill pen
Isabella Jun 2020
My hand trembles with the weight of the quill pressed between my fingers,
Each stroke an ever so remarkable miracle.
For my strength falls weak as I strive to write even more.
Though the ink has long since dried up, and all I am left with are scratches on a blank page.
Perhaps the fault does not lie within the weary pen itself,
But instead with the unstable hand that holds it.
I'm sure it's easy to dip my quill back into the ink, to watch the words flow beautifully again. But I'm afraid such motivation is not as simple as it sounds.
annh Apr 2020
Spin,
Mister
Fisherman,
Throw me a line;
A fluttering lure of burnished vowel chimes

Bait, braid and bailor - snap, swivel and fly;
Dub well your quill,
Hook me low,
Run me
High

‘The reality, however, is that fishing is about the closest you can get to physically experiencing poetry. It is a pursuit based on contemplation and solitude that involves an appreciation of the elements; it is a game of chance, hope, escapism; a step into the murky waters of the unknown. There is little difference between the angler setting forth on a misty dawn and the poet staring at the blank page. Both are hoping for greatness, but will settle for a brief silvery flash of the transcendental brilliance that lies beneath the surface.‘
- Ben Myers

Fishing parlance is a language as complex and arcane as the sport itself. What a happy coincidence to discover that a ‘quill’ in angler-speak refers to a float (or bobber). How ‘bout that? ;)
Isabella Mar 2020
Just a lone girl, wandering the woods.
All she has is a book and her quill.
She can write, but doesn't know if she should.
And you'll just have to see if she will.
Chiara Jan 2020
When my quill touches the paper
My soul mixes with ink,
It forms letters and writes poems,
About the feelings that I feel.
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