A mood. . .
a need . . .
a purpose felt,
thoughts and emotions
let to flow–
some out may bleed.

A pen that scratches,
or drags upon the toothy paper
a squishy colored squeak,

a jotted word,
a note,
a pithy sound bite anecdote,
a much loved tale,
a fresh pressed novel,
a lofty tome, that, in the reading,
takes a week.

A blend of breath
and fervent wild
or silent, mild
stretch of heartbeat,
silver dreams
and dry gray thought,
a script writ down
in quite few words,
which, for its size,
says quite a lot,

and which travels deftly
and apace
on sun’s bright beams
on snow’s cold flakes
or rain’s bulging noisy-falling drops
or curly, swirly puffs of wind
that corkscrew kites,
or tickle or threaten
toes or fingers,
and/or nearly all the rest
of everything,
you’ve got. . .

a thing,
that, while it might
in the end, seem
flighty, short,
perks up your ears,
raises skin bumps,
with neighboring translucent hairs,

and makes you listen past its end,
having made you feel
you’ve heard one great big. whole wide world
somehow condensed and danced
onto a spot
upon the head
of one small pin.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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