Pearls On Parchment
Although I've never kept fanciful fountain pens close at hand,
I have found no need for flamboyant quills to dip into a well,
for poetic lines never heed my beck and call or my command.
Sometimes I'm a barren poet, thirsting for words in a dry spell.
I have found no need for flamboyant quills to dip into a well.
My ink spills are splatters that mingle with my lifeblood.
Sometimes I'm a barren poet, thirsting for words in a dry spell,
waiting for them to flow like rain begets spring flowers to bud.
My ink spills are splatters that mingle with my lifeblood,
until poetic thoughts invade the effusive chambers of my heart,
waiting for them to flow like rain begets spring flowers to bud.
But when verses rhyme, my poems are expressive works of art.
Until poetic thoughts invade the effusive chambers of my heart,
no laureate wreath am I fit to wear if I view my poetry as jaded.
But when verses rhyme, my poems are expressive works of art.
I must write pearls on parchment, jewels sewn on silk, brocaded.
No laureate wreath am I fit to wear if I view my poetry as jaded,
for poetic lines never heed my beck and call or my command.
I must write pearls on parchment, jewels sewn on silk, brocaded,
although I've never kept fanciful fountain pens close at hand.
November 27, 2022 ~ Pantoum on Writing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by L Milton Hankins
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