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Details | Pen Poem | |

As My Pen Danced

I waited, dressed to kill
in red,
and in love

both, of which 
I could have been coaxed out of

You have turned a pale shade of white,
my Valentine

Al Green sang to me,
as my pen danced as your substitute 
we danced all night long,
stationary, our dance floor.

As we whirled to the emotions
of words' sounds; hand in hand,
we went round and round
and round

No one else in the room
most of all, not you
as my ink turned 
from red to blue

Details | Pen Poem | |

My Pen Collection

As the waves forever kiss the shore
One shot leaves you wanting more
My heart and soul, strong and true
With all the love they hold for you
Sometimes my life leaves me bored
Like a swordsman with no sword
These are the times that I write
Memories can be hard to fight
I write out my heart and soul
Controlling my mind is my goal
Each new word released by my pen
Is another spiritual battle I win
The war rages on day by day
Through the poem prayers I pray
It's a war that I will forever win
Long as there is ink up in my pen
In prison I had quite a collection
Each one held it's own reflection
I saved them after they ran dry
Baptized with the tears I cry
I just couldn't seem to let them go
Little memories of my heart and soul
Sometimes I like to take them out
Little memories of what I'm about
What I'm about angel on my shoulder
Making this world a little less colder

Details | Pen Poem | |

The Stoned Pen - Humor

I feel privileged. I have been chosen by the Government as part of a group testing something called Edible Clinical Marijuana. Honestly I half expected it to look like a Burrito because the name sounds sort of Mexican. It actually looks more like a brownie. I’m am about to take a bite so hold on. Yum, tasty! So here is the point I am suppose to consume one half of a brownie then fill out this sheet giving them my feedback. Hold on I am going to have a few more bites. Okay, no wait, milk would go great with these babies. I’ll be back. (after a long while) OK, sew sorry I was gonna while I was staring inside my fridge\ for a while' tying to remember I think I wanted a glass of ink% aktiually I’m dinking from the bodle@ I am eating my forth brownie as I was instructured to do; Did they say four or? ate cause these. are tasty And/ aaaahhhhhhh,, tasty^ tayysstee^ hahahahahahahahaha"" a program on my compuwhatyoucallit keeps underlyning my words with read squiggles= hahahahahahahahaha but it diidn’t underline squiggle# hahahahahahahahaha wel dats stoopid squiggle isa perfect lee good underlying word* stoopid Bill Gated^ hahahahahahaha?haha sorry I ment Will Gated~ so watt was I saying ] oh yeah+ fill the sheet) hahahahahahahahaha I don wanna sheet, tha is gaross[ heeres a pen quesshun= Sex easy! ansir; yes- please) hahahahahahahahaha ?why m i bein so polite hahahahahahahahaha queshun! oh wow Blues Brothers on my TV what was I spose? to do oh yeah watch tv why am i so angry hahahahahah++ hahahahahahahahaha i mean hungary haahahahahah h u n g r y dere hungry> hey look brownies? those look good hahahahahahahahaha i con't tipe with mai mouth full dats rood/rood i'll get bak too dis later.. sew as they say hahahahahahahahaha two bee cun tit nude< hay lookk browniies Mo Rice Why Vone 144~13~20/20

Details | Pen Poem | |

L'Italia del Nonno - Drunken Pen Contest

It's addsurd! Who's going to veliebe his lies? Who's going to bote for him? Plutocracy in these times? To besmear American reputation?... with just a cl-ass... exercising its power by birtue of its wealth...and the legislators...aligators... those who considered themselves... the receive... hiccup!...from lobbies. Or is it Oligarchy? ... or Aristocracy? It's one of those "cracy." Or is it this glass of wine? The old Lady from Arizona had endorsed him. Ha! He must not ve bery happy with it. Wrinkles of xenophobia... legalized discrimimination. Excuses, lies, and negligence... Somebody has to pay for the vroken doggy perceptions without style... knocking at the door of their prejudice... trespassing upon their addsurd generalizations ... satisfying their own prommmiscuous imagination...they tend to destroy the ebbidence ... coloring just coloring, coloring, coloring. Pickpocketing their errant misconceppttions... their exiled spiritualility... their mind in poverty...guilty of  larceny, of stupididity, of biolence...On the other hand, an extended hand at traffic lights trying to get what they could ...some change...coins...rusted coins which were never thrown into a fountain... no need of wishes. Trevi fountain and Anita, Marcello, Federico...La Dolce Vita. L'Italia del nonno. Another inmigrant but in another country... Argentina, where foreigners went to work the land and were accepted with open arms. L'Italia del nonno. I need to go to visit his streets, his old towns, his Mediterranean sea, his Sicily... Rome and the Trevi Fountain...Anita, she reminds me of another woman... I thought I had forgotten her and her plunging necklines...sophistitication, style, glamor...lip balm, lip boosters, lip conditioner, lip gloss, lip liner, lip plumper, lip primer. Arden's Red Door never considered  the gag reflex for a pearl necklace. That's elegant; I should use that line. She should use the makeup remober at the morning vefore she wake up to sleep. Sleeping veauty: a porcelain...gorgeous outside - empty inside. Was it Arden or Rubinstein? or Lauder? "Pleasure"...her perfume still lingers... memories from a vuried past. She used to call me but I let her go. She knows how to cuckook. I miss her Cannelloni and Lasagna.L'Italia del nonno... The land that he had to leabe...Nero, Caligula, Machiavelli, Dante's Inferno,The Borgias, Mussolini. Hiccup!... Who's going to bote for him? Re-election never sounded so good...

Details | Pen Poem | |

The Poet is Drunk, The Pen is Not

With this napkin as my canvas
A word picture I paint
While he drowns out his sorrows
Until he finally faints

The best works he weaves
Are when unconsciously drunk
While sober and thinking
He writes only junk

While he flirts with the barmaid
Thinking about the sword in his pants
The sword in his right hand
On this napkin words plant

When he wakes with this poem
Stuck to the side of his head
He’ll read it and conclude
He’s the genius instead

Instead of getting credit
For these words that I write
It would be more correct to say written
By Jack Daniels last night

So why are the words
Not slurred or mistyped
Because while the lush was all trashed
His pen was alright

So barmaid pour another 
For this bum who holds me
And let’s pray he uses his other hand
When he has to go pee

Details | Pen Poem | |

'and another stiff one for my drunken pen'

mulberry moonshine

the world can be a rabid dog, a goD frothing backwards while Mr. Clean reads 
a sermon from the pulpit as a false prophet causing me to yell, "Shim-shum 
shimmeny-shum, up from the shadows of the Shoalin slum! Fee-fi-foe-fum, 
eye smell the blood of a fallen one!" My pen was a sword, 'twas inevitable eye 
would end up skewered upon its venomous tip as violence begets violence yet 
silence is just a distorted sort of violent indifference. Live by the s.word, die by 
the s.word, so eye buried ghosts in the sands of Kyushu, revamped my stylo 
into a drunken vomit spewing masochist churning blood and piss into another 
batch of sum county mulberry moonshine. Instead of a wu-tang sword, eye have 
me a la la la la la la la la la lush of a drunken quill spilling forth the woo to the foo 
times twenty-two thousand and dirty-three. Blame it on the pen, but wot came first,
the chicken or the egg? Who is the bad influence on whom, weaving excuses on a 
loom propped up by yet another empty bottle of the wicked county prune. Eye want 
to write lines of eloquence filled with bullfrogs and butterflies, rainbows and baby's 
breath, but this drunken pen has a mind of its own, slithering in-between the scene 
of salesmen saying it from rusted metallic mountaintops, "I have found the way, 'tis 
not YOUR way, so cut your hair son ok!" Hey hey hey! wot are you referring to? 
Elohim, miholah, bespolah, holapsfofahcahmall? ?Fofahcahmall? Theysbe suddenly 
sounding very small while this pen of mine is drinking itself into a stupour, brewing 
up another stew of vomiticus grammaticus long.windy.gusts - eye didn't intend on 
rhyming these lines, my drunken pen has once again taken over, pushing me to 
letgoletgo and pray in hopes that it drinks itself straight in order for bullfrogs,
butterflies and everything nice like sugar, lollipops and rainbows to finally begin to 
show from out of the freaky flow of this ultra triple-distilled drunken ink - slow right 
down into something quaint and normal, wash this drunken mess down the sink 
without having to fink with my dirty think, my dirty think - the first sign of the crime 
is denial - drunken pen, drunken hand? Drunken hand, drunken pen? Oh good Lord, 
here come the bends once again, yeah, here come the bends again, there's only one 
thing left to do and it's to fold this paper into a neat package eye can mail off to the 
People-In-The-Sky so they can offer me some insight into all of the reasons why

Details | Pen Poem | |

The pen versus the sword

The incorrect usage of tense
And phrases of total nonsense
Wipe out brain status
With more apparatus
Than the Department of Defense

Details | Pen Poem | |

"Two Hands,One Pen"

Two hands that can't touch

                    although the fingers hold one

                                                   a pen to create.

Dedication to Wilma & "The Mysterious Lady of Soup"
thanks to you both...

Details | Pen Poem | |

"Writing without a Pen"

I lay in my bed and glance on the floor...
There are letters and thoughts that lead
to my door...
The light shines on a few as my mind may
have a thought...
Could be a small Haiku on demons I fought...
Shall it be a write on love or a past pain?
Maybe a collaboration with a lady who 
some days keeps me sane...
This is the beauty of Poetry, to spill out lives
from behind a keyboard...
To reach across the pond for a distant hug
when the notes don't meet the chords...
A wonderful place to play when a weeks worth
of ups and downs can be put on a screen...
Or how we can color our own pictures from
another poets dream...
So I continue to be dazzled from this beautiful 
Who knows my next write could be with that
"Mysterious Lady of Soup"

Details | Pen Poem | |

Of Pen And Paper

Through doorways endless I enter your mind I touch your body and your soul I entwine With word of the spirit where beauty behold I paint the pristine mountain tops where the sound of angels unfold If in a mere moment to capture your dream or take you beyond this world of worry and grief Then surely a lonely etching of storm clouds shall rise to birth the great universe where together we fly If in a mere moment The empty page, I stare........ ____________________________________ Poet - Rick Parise Written 1-20-13

Details | Pen Poem | |


With pen in hand
How little the world seem to me
How powerful I do feel
For there’s nothing I can’t handle
Everything I tackle
Criminals I put behind bars
Minds I sharpen
With pen in hand
I am a hero

With pen in hand
I am a legend
For my words are filled with power
For my thoughts heals the nation
For I give hope to those hopeless
For I care for the elderly
And restore respect to the youths.

With pen in hand
HIV/AIDS is history
For I encourage ABCD precaution
For I preach about abstinence and faithfulness
With pen in hand
I am your love doctor
For I mend broken hearts
For my words soothes lover’s hearts

With pen in hand
I need neither gun nor knife
For there’s no battle I can’t win
With pen in hand
I will conquer the world.

Details | Pen Poem | |

With Your Pen Tonight

Paint me my dream with your pen tonight,
my special place, where everything is right.
Velvet so soft for bare feet to tread,
pillows of clouds for my weary head.
Champagne falls to swim, and bath,
my house of stars, that will never fade.
A pathway so safe, to stroll each day,
a golden moon to guide my way.
Love songs playing, in the distance so faint,
this is the dream for your pen to paint.

Details | Pen Poem | |

The Pen is Just So Much Mightier

I could never explain how I feel
On air, waves of sounds escaping what I could no longer hear
Aggravation lingers on the tongue
How it burns, perpetually, embedding anger on taste buds
I will remember the taste of defeat, eternally 
Dull, so Dull, hums this high pitched 
If I can't tell my story in the voice that I want to
I’d rather be silent 

The pen flows so easily
Blackest  inks stain my felt tip
Passion! How it twists my heart into complicated
Mazes, interlocking, crisscrossing
		Things I’ve never thought of before
The blood of contemplation runs clear as diamonds caught in eclipses  
Torrents of ecstasy, 
		Free	falling 	
    Ged rocks, waterfalls, creating Prisms
		Bam, Bam, Bam 
Relives pressures on joints that hold
Industrial hearts together, oil may no longer ease this
New age technological emotion on addictive highs
I never even knew of until I thought about it 

Two Double Oh Seven for sure

I consider myself to be something
I’m not really sure of
But I do love to imply mystery in reflections that others see
Honestly, complexity isn’t my best asset, only others believe this is what I am
As long as I believe in what I stand for
It is fine if my tongue flails but my pen soars


Details | Pen Poem | |

The pen is mightier than the sword

The pen is mightier than the sword

What is it about some people?
Have they no minds of all
To me their puppets on a string
As they follow all the rules
Whether they make sense at all
That’s all beside the point
They believe all that their leaders say
When it comes to the simple joint!

Our leaders they have called the shots
On this and all that matters
They come to us on the TV set
And I hear their foolish chatter
Our premier with pigeon mind
Was heard to say one day
That cannabis is a killer drug
Or almost any way.

Now I have smoked for forty years
And not once have I ever
Suffered from this gentle weed
These leaders might be clever
Or think they are, through their position
But to me they’re simply fools
But they give me cause to laugh out loud
They’re so damned comical.

23 July 2013 @ 1133hrs.

Details | Pen Poem | |

To Pen a Poem

                                                   To Pen a Poem

           I used to think in rhythm and rhyme
                      It plagued the very heart of me
                             I could not walk or look or sit
                                         My thoughts collected  
                                                 And to meter they would fit

                       My mind would wander in 
                   multicolored hues
           I looked at life from 
   a different view

                                    Time marched in and busyness came
                                             My time for poetry seemed to wane
                                                         Eventually the passion it did leave
                                                               But the healing power that
                                                                        I did need
                                                                            I found it
                                                                                  when I
didn’t see
    so much emotion inside of me

                               So much the gift I was given
                                               To heal a heart in rhyme and rhythm


Details | Pen Poem | |


"Are you Quill?," She asked abeam.
"Yes, of course! - mostly - when the Muselle` 
visits oft'n'r upon, as my wont!
"Well, here!, this will surely help at the Magic...

And IT, Voila!, was in hand, a thrust-unmistakable!
Blunt, bulbous & sleek, a slick Recife, 
this Turquoise and Silver stick.

Is IT "Blue?" Is IT "Black?" 
Pray, "Blue-Black!?"  Wow! - 
A Sole instrument for Playing in the Indigene,
Soul Colors of the Earth! - I nearly crack to Self.

Swirled-embedded, b'neath the haute Baekelight-Crystal
like a LavaLamp-Entemp.  IT's messages of ambidexsrait-
Threads, Mola thru splayed fingers.  O' Charitable Mage 
You have brought to Life!...   I     Write    Handcrafted!  

Details | Pen Poem | |


When white meets black
Letters are seen
When light meets dark
Secrets are seen

It’s no sin to confide in men seen
Like short memory, they too will fade
Happy are you if you thirst for the God unseen
For by Him is all things perfectly made

The dots on my “I”s spell perfection
The cross on my “t”s define completion
But my eyes have seen no all
Even teas brew so sour

Don’t trust my first thrust
Else you see your trust rust
As cold as ice’s frost
We all shall shroud in the dust

Mind neither my cap nor my fissure
For it was mould by man
But I shall decide its pressure
Delivering in you much needed pleasure;
On time, always like a delivery van


Details | Pen Poem | |

The little pen that tried to get drunk

That goofball husband of hers brought her to this joint to see her get drunk for the very first time. She actually plugged her nose trying to sip her first glass of beer. Good grief. 20 minutes and she barely finished it. She walked to the restroom and I felt her teetering just a little bit. She likes the feeling though, I can tell! I sure liked it when she started boogying to the beat of the band on her way back to the table. Too bad Mr. dingbat won’t ever dance with her. She keeps tapping her hands on the table to the rhythm of the music. That’s why I have to write so slow. . . . 
      Now  she’s   tryin ta   drink  another   beer  but   she   can   hardly stand it  an  her husband  sez come on don’t ya wanna know  how   it   fills   ta be drunk? She says   well at list I fill buzzd now. . . 

The nice buzz wore off. It’s at least an hour later. She and hubbie got this idea to go to the liquor store. First time she ever went to one. She thought maybe brandy would taste better so then she could drink something stronger and know how it felt to be drunk. Brandy sounded sweet and fruity to her. Boy was she wrong. She took a little taste and it burned going down. That stuff sucks just like the beer. . . . 

Wow she jus finisht tha hole boddle rily fast lik mebbie ten minuts ago so she kud fil drunk an she put me down ta finnish tha boddle in one shot    now she kant evin    kip her   eyez    opun    UH  ohhhhhhh

Epilogue:  The preceding narration was based on actual fact. Upon consuming an entire bottle of brandy in less than ten minutes, "she" immediately passed out, and I recall she awoke in the morning having forgotten everything that transpired once she fell asleep. Furthermore, when she went into the bathroom the next morning and saw some flecks of vomit on the walls, she was quite amazed. Why? Because she had no recollection of throwing up, and she realized her goofball husband had actually attempted to clean up a mess in their house for the first time in their young married life!!! 

By the way, Jenny, if you happen to be reading this, Shhhh. Please do not tell her other sisters. It would surely get back to you guys’ mother, and your poor upstanding church-loving mom might have a heart attack to hear of her daughter’s one transgression with the devil’s brew! Sincerely, Her Sober (albeit sometimes fanciful) Pen

Details | Pen Poem | |

My pen and my soul

My pen and I Blood, ink to my verse Spoken words of doubt taunt me Solid shades of wisdom, many to see My heart looks at me and sighs Am I truly lost, I walk with no direction Yet I find comfort in the waves Waves of many, whom too are lost as I How I didn't even notice that joy was absent in my life Has my heart truly hardened? At least I fear the world less So many point fingers, hypocrites! They judge as they too are guilty What happens next, love is rare This world used to be a loving place All ends and so does life Taking dreams and faith alike The shadow of man will remain But the faith? Where did it go The son of man died for you And yet many see it not In you Jehovah the most high god I place my spirit May my heart serve you well at your will Amen.

Details | Pen Poem | |

A Poet's Pen

“Paper lavished with verse by poetic quill” 

Write me a line or two,
like feather on a breeze.
Words with emotion true
that quietly floats with ease.

Make my lifeless heart swell
with joy that does surpass.
Like crude gushing from well
merit of royal class. 

Inform me of annals
to smile from verses light.
Woo from diverse channels
to make dull days feel bright.

Pen words of rainbow cast
lift spirits to great heights.
Leaving cold heart aghast
from what a poet writes.

Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey

Fifth Place Winner ~ "A Poem Please” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: A Rambling Poet
Sept. 20, 2011

Details | Pen Poem | |


My poor pen, spill its ink on a white sheet of paper in form of the thoughts that leak from a 
desperate mind. A mind that desperately tries to express to the sheet of paper what other 
distracted minds could not remember, what a wounded heart could not feel, and what teary 
eyes refused to see.

My poor pen, sad and distracted thinks that his ink will end just like good times do. It kills 
him that with time the written words will become too heavy for the sheet of paper to hold. 
And, little by little the words and thoughts will seep through the holes that the years and 
wise bookworms will leave behind on what will no longer be a white sheet of paper.

While the mind, desperately looks for the forgotten feelings, my pen rests in the hands of 
the poet. Bravely accepting that it is slowly losing its ink like a young old man loses his 

At time, it feels used, alone, sad, and feels as if it was nothing but a witness to the despair of 
a lonely mind that takes refuge on a piece of paper.

Details | Pen Poem | |


This pen knows my heart
So when words fail me still
The pen can express
The pain or the thrill
The important thing is
To know the truth inside
So for you my love
The pen never hides..

Date: 9-16-14

Details | Pen Poem | |

My Pen Cries

                                                 Fills pens
                                             Within the ink
                             Hurt reveals itself with every stroke

                             Exposing that which I try to conceal
                                           Each letter weeps
                                               with sorrow
                                                  My pen

Details | Pen Poem | |

Drunken Pen --- Pete's place could they notice, with so many half opened bottles laying around, so who the heck cares or gives a rip?, b'sides who would remember which ones were almost full?..ahh.., jus a little left in this over there look at Jack Daniel sittin' there smug, like it's somethun alive,  taunting me, leaving a big wet stain on these beat-up ol' steps, how long have I been sittin' here, I wonder... ah well, was going to paint this old tired porch one of these days, look here, if I pick at the paint, it peels off in a big long strip..and  look at the old swing danglin from its rusty chain, sitting empty, all these years, googlin' it's freakin eyes at me,...squeeking like that parrot that I owned when I was a kid, what was his name, oh yeah.. Mr. Jiggs,.. same name as the guy that told me so long ago, that I should check my engine more often, I hadn't been good about changing the oil in the old Chevy that Pete fixed up and painted two tone yellow and, haven't thought about that Chevy in a long time, lookin' like a taxi, what was Pete thinkin with that bright yellow lower half and white top, almost looked like a peeled banana, but I loved that ride!  remember how all the girls would cram in the banana, during lunch, we'd head down to Ricky's drive-in for a lime freeze, then be back to school too late for chemistry, and poor old Mr. Simon would shug his shoulders and not even give us a bad time, I think he kind of liked the girls better so made allowances, but the boys hated his guts, but maybe not as bad as...what was his name? oh yeah, Old Man Keller, with the dandruff....only we called him Mr. Killjoy...gosh, that reminds me of that Killroy was here, that stupid cartooooon dude that kind of looked like Howdy Doody peeking over a fence or somethun...what was that all about? I never exactly knew how that started, except that my brother had those lame comic books or something called "Mad magazine"..with that freckled face always looking over a fence at you, like some peeping Tom or pervert. 
Hey!! quit lookin at me, you old antiquated piece of rubbish, swinging there back and forth like you still mean something to somebody, you got a ghost sittin in there or somethun? heck, wouldn't surprise me if ol' Pete, came back to haunt the place....and noticed me sittin here drinking his rum...okay, where was I? oh yeah, was going to write about old Pete...about that first time, we met, ..who would've dreamed he'd leave the old place to me?  

Details | Pen Poem | |

My Blue Pen and Me

Just me and my pen
In our little den 
We fly 
We soar
There's more...
Our eyes saw bliss with scenes we invented
Our souls were kissed 
Just me and my pen 
We built our own heaven

We believe
We hold
We fill our own mould
We meet on blank spaces
To filll empty spaces

Plausible perfection
Pure pleasures of places
so rich and
So fair

We go there...

We're bold
We're free

My blue pen and me