I said I couldn’t write
for I am an empty pen,
my ink wasted
on letters no one will read.
Torn, crumpled,
fed to the black hole
of a trash can.
Now I write of silence
Etching words into wood
For I have broken my vow with the papers
It isn’t determination,
nor delusion
just a moment,
a fragment that insists on staying.
And still, I write
not with ink,
but with the sharp edge
of a pen
long drained of stain.
intaglio
delicate incisions
in soft outline
I love a room that overlooks
A river or the sea,
For, on a terrace with some books,
Is where I like to be.
A sunny seat, a view with boats
And birdsong in the air,
A husband who, upon me, dotes -
Why, nothing can compare!
A mid-day ice cream, browsing stores,
A walk along the shore,
A bowl of mussels, Guinness pours -
Well, who could ask for more?
But all good things must end, they say,
So now we’re heading home
And on the way, I’ve etched the day
Into my daily poem.
Pictograph Biography
David J Walker
If asked
He might or might not
Remember the past
The old man had notched the days
By the thousands in his trek
Around the sun
Each marking its path as a
Tattooed etching by the
Laser edge of history in his skin
Of every day and every place
he had ever been
And even if he cannot
remember them
The pictographs tell the
Story of everyone who had
Touched him
Far far away there's green flash
lit chalkboard Plymouth Rock
so radical fingernail
etching screeching noise
Far away fingers hands wipe away the blood
Cleansing the board flash in green
Fingernails so radical
Etching screeching noise
8/18/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
Forgotten flesh behind cold walls,
pressing nose to steamed glass--
With weightless memories,
your ache hides within a dream
like whispers on a scream.
--playing moon games.
a black widow wraps
flies around sound.
The empty silence roared like fire,
standing in the shadows of surrender...
she etched goodbye in the mist.
Beautiful, burnished, brilliant
Yet, my ink friendly inclinations produce a chemical discrepancy
And now, you come – Artist
Scratching, on my polished mental plate
Do not blacken me with your fumigating candle
Do not soak me in your acidic bath
Yet, here you are, sketching to leave your design
Ever so lightly, you etch, carefully, penetrating
Acid soaks into your carefully drawn lines
The depth of your influence is varied
Teasing a relief by removing your blackened wax
Only to soak me in your iniquitous ink
Here, I must bring it an end. I must stop you - Artist
I must cleanse my mental plate
Chasten long and purposed for that original surface
Until a polished steel-plated revelation
Yes, there, beautiful, burnished, brilliant…perfect, if not for
Your Latin radere
The etchings of your needle
The stain of your ink in my serrations
My effort seems wasted
The vestiges of your ink tainting all that I touch
Now, everything has your art
Like wetted paper onto my mental plate
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.