My pen writhes in hand,
like it has movement built in
It shapes and shifts my scratches to script
Tying letters into screed
some with meaning; some without
My need to write is a passion, a drive
a certain perambulation of thoughts
needing lines on paper to measure
heights and depths
My ink is indigo – the most vibrant of blues
Like her eyes, like my thoughts
On day thirty-seven
My house is big,
but my home grows smaller
as time moves forward
I grow smaller too,
a fact of age
a dimension of sloth
Maybe Shaeffer and indigo will help me
regain my command of space
In the before world
life often felt limited
but never delimited
Confinement, Containment
Commitment, Cohabitation
Renewing family
removing friends
Writing with fountain pen
Is a path of zen
Too fast it splatters
Too slow it drools
Find your pace so there is flow
If you can match your flow of thoughts
You are Buddha without boundary
Lao Tzu commanding seventeen syllables
In the before world
it signed stuff
It took meeting notes
It wrote thank you missives
and condolences
Now it scrawls feelings
despair and happiness
memories of the lost
joys of the discoveries
It connects
It cogitates
It collaborates
It caresses her face, her form
my dreams, my life
And gives it all to you
On day thirty-seven or
whenever it touches your fancy.
A fountain pen is my vehicle
on avenues of chaotic traffic
un-calmed by pandemic
like today in the world
leading from my heart to yours