the writer

Sweet are words meld into sentences

honing the ends with commas and colons
expressing music or painting Natures colors
a symphany accompanying a herald of song
and where the grasses grow green and
flowers bloom in spring

a sense of joy comes as the

finger tips move the lead of a
newly sharpened pencil over
cyprus and or papyrus sheets
leaving impressions
soon to ride upon the reveries
and dreams of those who read this

the words I write may not be the
ones you choose, they may not express
the sentiments as creatively as yours
but they are mine and somewhere
someone will appreciate me for my
unique writer’s style if not just
for the intentions of my heart

underneath this held hand pen arises

notions of prickly white rose stems, the
thrashings and clapping of ocean waves,
aster meadows swaying in swirling
and howling winds mimicking the likes
of seas and seagulls soaring in concert
to the orchestration of robins, cardinals, wrens

the sounds of fresh running stream

play between the dangling of naked toes
of two lovers sitting by the bank
and sharing their palpitating hearts
as their lives have together journeyed,
now octogenarians, they've come back
to reminisce upon this place where
their youthful bodies first met and touched

as I place the pencil onto this paper
ascribing the lifting of a sail upon a mast
to ride the swales and caps of tides
raised high trying to reach and touch
the moon and stars the clouds by day
as the ocean winds take us on a journey
gleaned in writ on page after page.
and underneath the pencil and this pen,
whilst woefully but intentionally,
I dismiss the use of a punctuation period
at the story’s end