#quill
"So the pen is mightier? who'da'thunk'it."
He said to the bleeding man tied down
to a messed, stained, bed.
The bound man figured,
even though he just got
to an LA plagued
by criminals, killers, and copy-cats,
that he wasn't getting out of here whole,
finally.
Holding a pen knife,
red-faced and sweating,
was his captor.
It had been a struggle
to awake and realize
who stood before him:
Quill.
The exact killer he'd been looking for.
He had heard about him in the Halo Herald,
An LA pun, it's not very popular,
but he liked the funny section.
"Are you just going to stand there?"
The bound man says, eagerly,
"Hey bud, you're the hanged man,
I'll do the talking."
"It's about time!"
"huh?"
"I'd been waiting.
heard you'd be at that
open mic. Knew you liked
the mealy type."
"Shuddup or I'll write you off."
Quill runs his pen knife over the bound man's right cheek.
"Stings a little.
Usually, I start with a rufie
and emotional damage.
But it looks like you
want to cut to the chase.
I'm a man of a similar mind.
spirit.
problem."
"Nobody's like me dude."
The bound man locks eyes with Quill.
"What're your trophies? huh?
I read you like to drain your victims,
cook'em dry.
don't you use their blood and powdered remains as ink?
Short stories or something?"
"Oh, an avid reader?! it's your lucky day:
you get to be part of the collection!"
The lamp nearby tumbles
to the floor as Quill lunges,
ready to ****
"Wait! Don't you want to know who I am!"
"Not really."
"I'm a ser-"
The sentence is finished by
nothing but the sound of blood
and air
gurgling
into places it was never meant to be
as Quill's blade passes through flesh.
"Pfft, what, you think you're special?"
Quill saunters over to the sink.
"I'd hate to waste ink.
but there'll be more.
there's always more.
isn't that right, Celine."
he says to no one
and stands there with a smirk
as if listening to her.
Oct 15, 2022
Oct 15, 2022 at 2:22 AM UTC
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
May 1, 2021
May 1, 2021 at 5:20 PM UTC
Downy pen, as light as day
Well, it is...
On the one side anyway
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 4:20 AM UTC
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
Jan 21, 2021
Jan 21, 2021 at 6:23 AM UTC
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.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:23 PM UTC
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
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 2:43 PM UTC
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.
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 7:59 PM UTC
_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_
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 1:34 AM UTC
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.
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC
When my quill touches the paper
My soul mixes with ink,
It forms letters and writes poems,
About the storm inside of me.
Jan 11, 2020
Jan 11, 2020 at 3:17 PM UTC
My quill is, simply put, – a magic tool:
It plays on winds and rhymes, on evening-mornings,
On sonnets and sonatas, never boringly;
The summer-winters, sunny moons fulfill its orders,
This verse – a pass to stars and heavens, too…
A pass to feel the spirit of adventure;
Into the theatre of storms and passions, dreams –
Where you’re the playwright and the actor, you’re free
To breathe the air of rhymes and beauty, reel
And hear a voice so young, enthralling, ancient…
My quill knows no choice, except to win –
It’s blessed by Shakespeare, Puskhin, many others;
And long ago, in ancient Greece, or maybe farther –
Apollo told me: “We are destined yet to father
A magic tome of futures, so whimsical…
And so we cooked the nectar: chords of lyre,
And Aphrodite’s smiling, thrilling eyes,
Some truthful flattery and magic in disguise –
It had no equal – healthy! – no lies.
The stars fell down for luck, the drink – so clear.
Each master and each maestro came to see –
From all the centuries and lands, and all the nations.
The wizard Merlin worked his fanciful equations,
And Cicero would speak – to melt the glaciers.
Became my palette – Earth, and skies, and seas…
Each poet, philosopher, composer, pretty muse
All nymphs and heroes, and grandmasters who came,
Inspired the drink with their talents, skills and aims,
So rose art to heights of starry fame,
And Mr. Orpheus and Lennon sang their music.
My quill has no choice, except to win:
It holds the kiss and smile of every beauty,
It lives those dreams of other artists – futile
And never made to be by their music;
To carry forth and make them true was their will.
What is this nectar? – All the legends, all the whims
And genius of masters through the ages.
We dipped my soul and quill – I dare wager
That after drinking such a mead, there’s no danger:
My pages will withstand the harshest winds.
And so they kissed the poet and the quill
To bid me luck through all the future ventures –
These charming dames of all the legends, ages;
My heart was calm but quick; serene, but raging
Before creating Universes-quilts…
My quill, it shines with festive lights and stars,
It writes and rhymes with spirit – joyful, ringing.
So what if someone angers, spouts, cringes?
So? – Winter rages when the spring is springing.
I am afraid we’re in the future – speed of flight.
So, drink the rhymes and verses, breathe the scent.
The planet spins anew, without the mires;
The violets will bloom, to be admired,
And tales are true – of mermaids, love and fire.
So go on and read, my message sent!
Now Earth will spin a little quicker, calmer,
Our world will turn a legend, true and rhyming,
Where bombs will hardly soar – only gryphons,
Where marriages and fruit will ever ripen
And never rot, where dreams are bound to come.
My quill has no choice, except to win.
It’s young and old, instant and eternal,
It’s flippant, ethical, and magical, and ornery.
Remember? – Blessed by every artist’s orders.
It’s meant to father worlds, and so will…
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 6:52 AM UTC
*
*
~
I hold the quill,
I have the ink and yet,
nothing seems to flow.
My mind, a blank canvas.
My heart, a startled bird.
My soul, a dying furnace.
No words to share
I am lost.
~
*
*
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
My quill I rise in vertical stance,
letting it flow with Divine orchestration.
Its feather posture drifts as if still on birds wing,
spiraling in graceful form.
Words turn into sentences.
Sentences phases
as vellum explodes with visions.
My quill instrument vibrates
in scripted form dancing
to make waves cross ocean-like sheet.
Moments melt away.
Words become lines that
carry bubbles of thoughts
meant to float into other minds.
Sentences become bench posts
that corrals a perspective
as images collide on page.
My quill remains vertical in mind
at all times
as writer merges with moment.
As day evolves with more fuel
to push pen.
As page glistens from sun of heart.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
***
***
Each line, each word, each though is
ink floods with passion, pressure,
praise and pain
***
***
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC
the sky was lilac and
blurred with the
pale obfuscations of
clouds;
opaque and formless, you sharpened
the horizon
and i thought of remembering.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 2:06 AM UTC
*I write,
not with a keyboard or
even an old-fashioned typewriter;
but with a quill
dipped in my blood.
What a lovely shade crimson is,
against rice-white paper.*
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 7:00 AM UTC
pain is with him
they never drifted apart
not even once
the sun knows the truth
and so does the moon
yet everyone knows not
because every time he bleeds
all he bleeds is ink
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 4:30 AM UTC
Last Night I Deleted a Handful Of Poems
Now Where Are They?
Gone Forever?
Discarded Quill and Feather?
No...
They're In My Head..
It Fills Me With Dread...
No Matter How Hard I Try...
Deleted Words
Don't Delete From The Mind...
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
Silly sullen sentences
strut in my brain
boiling baffling batches
of cluttered dust-bunnies
creating a babel tower of
lost love lullabies
slowly
decaying, dying, drifting
Wet your quill
with the ink of now
write new lulls
swaying your pendulum
between your now's
and what's yet to come
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 5:38 AM UTC
A beautiful quill
Freely dancing with the breeze
Landed on a branch
A bird picked it up quickly
And flew in the open sky
©sim
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 4:05 AM UTC
The sun sinks lower in the west where it has set the sea afire
Standing on the beach we, with baited breath to see the glorious green flash
The phantom phenomenon lives for one magical moment
Why is it that we, all of us, want to see that which will inspire?
Dipping feather quill shed from a seagull in ink I make my slash
Furiously writing and dipping until my pensive mood is spent
Sitting in darkness, pensivity gives way to discontent
Ghostly presence or absence of you. I'm haunted by your urn of ash
I wouldn't need a summer day one last dance is all I dare require
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC