Long Quill pen Poems
Long Quill pen Poems. Below are the most popular long Quill pen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quill pen poems by poem length and keyword.
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 parchment.
Swiftly jettisoned into the past as,
the room began to change;
the table appearing to be brand new,
sported different legs.
The candle sat burning in a silver holder
instead of a cheap aluminum one.
This had happened before;
this visit to the past and
I had found an ancestor there.
This time, I found myself;
a writer in a past life;
penning olde English…
imagine that!
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 would rhyme,
My poetry would be beautiful and sublime,
I'd be entertained daily, by Dr. Seuss,
And, put to sleep nightly, by Mother Goose,
Lessons from Byron, Shelley, Coleridge and Poe,
Teaching me every single thing that they know.
My own piece of heaven, will have to wait,
Until one day, when I must meet my fate,
So, for now I will have to be content,
With my own words that may be heaven sent,
Inspiration from my idols is all I need,
Writing poetry in a notebook from Mead,
With this cheap, plastic Bic pen,
And a dream to be, just like them.
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 that blow and clothes that flutter
things of value they may see
flowing curves of tender flesh
rising above clean white lines
bright blue eyes sparkling bright
flesh being speared by burning light
hearts that beat with beating flutter
longing felt some how deep inside
burning passion consuming flesh
of these computers feel nothing
as I sit the words I write
on screen of black and white
speaking words into a mic
parchment not nor quill pen
oceans roar on screen back
waves crash upon the rocks
clouds above of reds and grays
lit dimly by setting sun
no man-made things of lines and squares
shining chrome painted black
backwards turning of the wheels
and guitar not played
arrows fletched in ribbons long
words in blood wrote upon
shot into the shining sun
traveling through the coming time
writing words for computers to read
caring not what people may see
dreams soar not upon the lines
no passions burned with the thoughts
what to write and what to be
what is the purpose that I see
will my words count for ever more
or be lost and never seen
writing poems on Friday morn
wondering what I may be
known of none or maybe more
lost through all eternity
I Van Gough,
love my paints and canvas.
My brush is dancing with dark blue,
as it covers the white canvas.
I see yellow as a luminous moon in my work,
like the bright sun outside my window.
A little white for depth,
white is all colors as one.
Black is needed to make this night dark,
because my night sky is filled with swirling stars,
with a village and cypress trees looking mysterious.
I create with paints and canvas,
my writer friend creates with ink,
a quill pen on paper.
My work comes alive with paint,
my friend comes alive with words.
Now almost finished,
I want it to be about a heavenly night,
I see a "Starry Night,"
this should be your name.
"Starry Night,"
Painted By Vincent Van Gogh in 1889.
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 new grip.
Count your blessings with heart and mind,
Love prompts living with what you find.
Live bold and brave with ample nerves,
Thus you now save yourself with verve.
That old quill pen can write with ink,
You know you can style a new link.
Tell your own tale with mystic grooves,
Dare sparkle sale as gut funds moves.
Too soon the end comes quick and brisk,
Around the bend the end of risk.
Be that sure soul who wonders best,
Attend pure whole in your life quest.
Leon Enriquez
13 March 2016
Singapore
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 that adorned a poets table
Imagine a quill pen with a white feather if you are able
The poet or writer looked in charge of the situation
As he dipped the quill into the ink with a flourish
And wrote words of inspiration
The ink flowed freely as the poet wrote words
Hardly ever heard of or used
Words that tugged at heartstrings
To take in, ponder and muse
A fountain pen came next without the romance of the quill
It was a status symbol some people collect them still
You did not dip the pen into an inkpot
Instead, you fill the pen with ink
Sometimes it got too full and made an ink-blot
Fountain pens are not used today only by a few
It was the Americans that invented something new
Biro is the name of this pen used by everyone
They are a dime a dozen and are sold by the ton
They are very practical and convenient to use
Therefore it's not the pen that makes poetry flow
It's the imagination of the muse
Let us roll together on the cobbled floors of
Europe and pick up, in our greedy search,
Every fallen crisp and old blade of ancient grass.
Good old restless fleas must not peck at them
Or resume haunting the spectres that follow
Them season after season.
And it must be on a Sunday —post
Sunday school—after the church bell has rung twice;
After the spell of the visiting thaumaturge on the village
Has followed the blight of the late rains of a
Second-rate April.
The scent of the market is heavy with spinning films,
Thus rolling the eyes from streets to canals,
Increasingly stunning the breaths of tipplers
Breathing with the rage of manhattans.
A scalding winter shrouds the open intimacy between fogs
And brumes, made sweet with a hootenanny.
The music is loud but soft, and weakens the restiveness of
A new week bound for ceaseless waves of inked drama.
I hasten to the old secretaire I had descried from the
Buried haunt of writers and scribes — men of quill pen.
Its blend of age, the aroma of cellared wines, and the
Blessedness of regal oak has made my day. . .
Oh, sorry, my Sunday.
“Happy Sunday to one and all!” I cry,
Reaching out to the grandmother pouch of time-bleached leather
Around my dancing waist.
And I shall proceed to buy it with European farthings and African
Cowrie shells, and manillas adorned with loud-campaigning verdigris.
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 on her left hand~
She grips a quill pen
to write the obscure death
of the man in blue suit~
and the deaths of twelve passengers
still unsolved...
She was here some decades ago~
aboard in an old steam train
The memory of that macabre ride
haunted her for thousand days and nights.
She writes in scarlet ink
on a bloodstained scroll
that says like this:
" To all the victims who died here,
I lay my hands before this forgotten railway
and the weeping willows as my witness;
I never thought too much love would kill.
I killed my beloved man in blue suit,
the driver of that tortuous train journey...
Yes I killed him to save the three million people
dwelling on the final station;
Using the twelve infected people,
He was sent to spread that virus
that he thought would change the world.
I didn't understand till now~
Yes, I killed him with a silencer
and unlocked that explosive weapon
before it reached its final destination.
But I was spared~
not the twelve people;
Now, with this gun I’ll give justice
to all people who died here
by killing the undersigned murderer.
Till death,
Anonymous ”.
The gun silently flicks
pointing her head~
Darks clouds hide the day
as her blood flows
on the thirsty ground.
1 May 2021
Modified for “ Guns Poetry Contest”
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
11th place