Hubris

“But where is the pen?”

broke out of the dry red
lips, as the poet woke
from restrained phrases that
ended in an ellipsis…

“But the pen, the pen”

rose the chorus in his
mind again, and swelled
to applaud the autumnal
reprise of his spring-time
refrain, as the lights blew
out in his study, yet he chose
to remain.

“But what about the pen?”

the question crawled out
of the dusty corners of his
tome-filled domain, though
it was still unheard as it was
choked by the pressure applied
to the throat by each simple,
short word.

Words, Words, Words, W o r d s…

Each asserts some sights that
peeked through the curtains
of his curls;
each enters the stage
in a pace that flutters and twirls
to presume it was safe to assume
some certainty from the page;
each enters the room to circumvent
the sincere intent seen in the eyes
of Yorick’s heirloom.

Yet, the pen still looms
by the streetlights of
the night that concluded
our August afternoons.
I remark, I counted with my
fingers. Two lights had lost
their spark, one had collapsed,
and yet the light still lingers.

“Can the pen begin to strike
the page like the bow
that attacks the
broken string
of a down-tuned violin?”

QUIET NOW, PETTY POET!

I stopped by the bridge that night,
and dearly required some
pretty prophet to sigh out a sign,
that would be more than the
sore words the pen pierced and stirred.

And the still canal replied
through a written
mermaid’s call.

My legs gave in and
I crawled away.

What can written
words do but
appal?

By JPV

Copyright October 2006