Written by: Cyndi MacMillan

My pen wanders without my permission,
pokes through arches, peers into glass
for it has its own will and so it has its own way.

I worry sometimes what the dark ink will say
and the riddles that hazy lines evoke,
the laced frissons of reason that crackle 
inside a long buried doubt.

Paper, the damned paper, bleeds its skeleton keys,
under its thin façade plays a charade of clout,
odd blunders, for I seek to hold myself in 
all while I turn myself inside out.

Sharing too much, fazed by first drafts,
the nib jots its freak show parade,  
but fiddles with curlicues and hack rhyme
while it plots its spaces, slants hazardously. 

I’m faced with forms which I carefully touch
then embrace, enamored by their timeless craft,
reading the maps, all those ancient, lovely maps
that exploration, stumbling steps, can not deface 
and no wading words can ever chaff. 

Behind my eyes, below my pulse
are words that hammer 

why not why not why not

I let them go
confident. joyful, free,
trusting the true course of poetry.

*Love sent, hopefully received