Long Quill pen Poems

A few poems written by Chan Hurst, (Just That Archaic Poet)

I hope that we can find some comfort in them at this sad time.


"A Rational Explanation"

What must I do to see this through-
Unlock the world...

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OH BE THIS POEM AS SACRED AS HER NAME

Often I am compelled to hover over her shoulder
Each letter formed, each thought defined
For she has poetry on a leash
And walks it, pray I, at least three...

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P.S. the trick KEY to reading my style poetry is
normal voice / Mild Voice \ LOUD VOICE
a tap'in Clap'in SNAP"IN neat Beat my Treat
Hip Hop pop'in off VOODOO Poetry the other White MEET

  
As...

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The crimson  sun still up
as she woefully walks
in an abandoned rustic railways;
Her feet ~ as heavy as the stale steel rails
almost buried in forgotten soil;
Her hands as cold as tombstone plate
whilst holding a gun...

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I sit and think of
	programs that
assign values to
	words that are wrote

love and hate and in envy are
	words that of passion may be
but value nothing to
	the values of the machine

angles slopes and rectangles
	roaring sounds growing louder
winds...

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Would my poetry improve if I used a posh pen
A fountain or quill, as was used back when
People took pride in all that they did
Not like these days, anything for a quid
Where are the inkwells...

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Sweet Home


From the tense of turbulence you profer comfort,
from the tests of time you offer abode,
Will all the fortresses of home refer incline?
Will all the fortitudes of hope adversity sublime?
The ocean of pleasure thou are;...

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Words reflect the man, 
yet it reveals not the true 
nature of the beast. 

What you read is a 
verbal mask, a secret self, 
in an ink disguise. 

One may write humor, 
then be revealed...

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Time moves along with change of scenes,
Strange is not strong yet alters din.


Space cannot wait with empty air,
Change breaks the gate with gushing flair.


Move with the times or change will rip,
No broken chimes can forge...

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My own piece of heaven, a quiet little nook,
With only the finest parchment in a leather book,
A feather quill pen and an ocean of ink,
My thoughts would never stop to think,
Every single line I write...

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A sacred heart of timber;
With embers in ashes set apart;
So consumed in words torn apart
And burning into red embers.
Though big boys shed no tears
So in mine own eyes look never,
With words of fervor I'll never...

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Must you go now
And cross the bridge
When the river is flooded
With your own tears?


Must you leave now
And walk away
Shamefully with tears
Rolling down your face?


Must you think now
Of walking away
When handkerchief I hold
To wipe your tears?


Must...

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Yesterday, I took out my new quill pen and 
a bottle of ink.

I sat down at an antique table, 
lit a half-burned candle and dipped my quill; 
I wrote on a yellowed pad of calligraphic...

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Poetry just budding to child
In the embryo of my soul
To step down the earth
Depressed with my accustomed efforts
Of creating poetry –
Declined to emerge as usual
In the coarse paper
To get printed
In same ink of rainbow
By same...

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Words my mouth cannot find to speak
Flow from my pen with grace and ease.
Fated to the page, give me ink
To fight and battle with the quill.

With banners of beauty and truth
Facing, fearless, each hill I...

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