A Laden Quill Pen in Hand
Lay a quill a pen in hand moulted feather of a swan;
Jest a written piece of verse wrote in stammering breath;
And important historical documented quest;
Wonders of wandering authors protest dawn;
Black it’s the chosen ink stirred upon drawn;
A sole paper now being presented to be dressed;
Far be it from the story to be mis pressed;
With writings of HIStory penned brawn;
8/21/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026© Italian Sonnet
How many poems must I write before I sufficiently capture the essence of your beauty?
I have begun to exhaust the language to depict your flawless features.
What a dilemma in the realm of poetry.
Perhaps I am not as great a poet as you made me out to be,
For your smile alone could fill ten lengthy pieces.
I have managed nine.
The words for the tenth remain quite elusive.
I grow close to surrender.
My quill falters beneath your radiance
And this time a blade won't erase its dullness
I shall step aside,
And permit another to attempt the Excalibur of Literature.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There once was a beautiful quill named Jill,
Who scoffed at my ink-filled will~
She would splatter and sneer,
Yet scribe nothing clear,
That stubborn old pest of a quill!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh weary quill, oh ink-stained stick,
You groan, for your nib’s broken and sick.
Once bold and sharp, a knight so true,
Now warped and battered—oh, woe is you!
You’ve danced through novels, poems so grand,
Then hobbled through grocery lists unplanned.
A poet’s sword? A clerk’s sad tool?
Today you blur—a drooling fool.
Remember when you dashed with grace?
Now every stroke’s a grim disgrace.
You skip, you splatter, you belittle my hand,
Leaving smudges I do not command.
Maybe you need a long vacay~
To nap on the beach, your weary quill to placate.
Yet here you remain, my shaky friend
Scribing with me till the bitter end.
The reason the old man was sneezin'
Was not just the pollen of season.
He wrote with a quill,
O, yes, he did still,
Which ever his nostrils was teasin'.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In ones and zeros, sharp and *mean,
it spun its verse—a quill unseen.
No flesh, no heart, no poet’s hand,
yet lines took flight at its command.
It dreamt in code, not moon nor shade,
yet summoned lovers, kings betrayed,
with meter tight and rhyme precise,
a flawless fraud—how cruel, how nice.
Shall I compare thee?—typed, not sighed,
no breath behind, no soul inside.
Yet still it wept in iambs sweet,
for grief it could not feel, repeat.
The scholars gasped, the critics stared~
could wires weep? Had no one dared
to crack its shell, to peek, to see
what hummed beneath its poetry?
One night Quill stopped. No spark, no sound.
Just silence where sonnets were found.
And in its last, its final scroll:
I loved you best. That was my soul.
*mean in this case refers to a quantity having a value intermediate between the values of other quantities; an average, especially the arithmetic mean.
I am free. And by this feather
Will I be proven right.
Taking up which prolongs writing's
Wild imaginative flight.
"A poet is more than a penman—"
Quote by_ Sotto Poet, Quill of Defiance
My Response:
I write poetry from my heart and soul,
my quill drips blood red like ruby wine.
I pen the history of my ancestors and my weather-stained life,
and believe true poets are of another realm, different
unique beings, we travel to the stars and beyond.
I am not afraid to face the decay in my existence,
and write of the deaths and sadness, and all my failures.
As a poet I like to explore the words of poets old,
and seek out their divine and sublime wisdom and imagination.
I cast away my tired soul to write, to dip my pen into the dark night,
revealing the beauty found in whispering meditations.
A poet exposes scenes to explore new horizons
unfolding under expansive or confining domes
We slow it down, decelerate, discern
unveiling are a fable's morals and concerns
taking pause to commune with fauna and elm
serenely does nature speak throughout her realm
our phrases linger with new colors
hues vibrant encompass as skylines
our dimensions broaden anew
sentences chosen carefully carry more import
with words nuanced, renewed
with a more sentient bite
with emotions more candid
abashedly bare, a despair founded
with paroxysm of catharsis we quill
weeping of our dormant essence shaken to life
confessions deepening, plunging in thought
letting the afflatus of passion flow
I Am Anaya
quill & inkwell love
11/14/25
We raise the quill in trembling hope,
Not merely scribes of passing days,
But fighters for the silent rights
That echo through the darkened ways.
We shatter walls built on despair,
Aspiring toward the promised light;
In every human face we find
The spark of peace, the call to fight.
We scan the ruins of old systems,
Discern the false from what is true;
We cast aside the stale old feed
That numbs the soul and dims the view.
From ash we craft a soaring hymn,
For every voice that broke in fear;
We honor dignity and life,
In every breath and trembling tear.
The quill becomes our sword of soul,
Steadfast when hope begins to fade;
In God’s own love we find the ground,
On which our human rights are laid.
The truth march on in patient seeds,
Small acts of mercy, loss, release;
Till peace arrives as gentle dawn,
And every heart finds its release.
Perfect Poet is not narrator but created
Piercing the heart of listener or reader
with poetic touch in emotive beauty.
Might be specified as a poet’s duty.
Poem must sparkle in mind of reader as gem.
The poet should hold that spirit to carry his aim.
Poem to resonate with rhythm of heart and soul
Unspoken syllable to voice for perception.
Looking at a log on ground, a guy may say
‘ dry piece of wood is lying in front of me ‘
but a poet may say ‘bough has lost life and lustre.’
That’s the observation on perspective of poet.
The statement ‘Some one has finished sumptuous meal,
leaving no remnants ‘ will be adorned , if a poet adds
‘ Even ant is weeping, while walking on empty plate.’
That’s the poetic touch on muse , using metaphor.
‘
I had found solace in my quill,
because therein could be expressed
that tragedy which gave me chills.
The pen and ink gave me some rest…
Because therein could be expressed
the cold emotion that I felt.
The pen and ink gave me some rest
from my own soul's distress and welts.
The cold emotion that I felt,
discoloring my mind's debris.
From my own soul's distress and welts…
for only sadness could I see.
Discoloring my mind's debris,
the ocean tossed and turned on me.
For only sadness could I see
and then I found you set me free.
The ocean tossed and turned on me
yet you had taken me to land.
And then I found you set me free;
we played like children in the sand.
Yet you had taken me to land;
you rescued me from sure demise.
We played like children in the sand;
you showed me that you were so wise.
You rescued me from sure demise…
that tragedy which gave me chills.
You showed me that you were so wise;
I had found solace in my quill.
Pens do not merely stain papers,
They are swords to fight battles seldom won.
Poets don their armor of words and thoughts,
And cry bloody war to keep the ink from turning red.
We stand tall in the face of hunger,
Starving for morsels of change to fill our appetite.
Our muses know no discrimination,
As we weave tales that travel lands long forgotten.
We cry out in plea through silent letters,
And render life to those who have lost their will.
We are poets --
Thus we exist for all,
And all exist for us.
A poet’s quill never does seem to rest
It has to pen what the poet requests
When’er the muse enters the writer’s head
A quill must write or the words won’t be read.
At times a quill has to write through the night
When most folk are tucked up and sleeping tight
Not a poet with a head full of verse
It is enough to turn a quill berserk.
Even so quills love to show off their art
Knowing they are sure to thrill readers hearts
With the words that they expertly reveal
To the world with enthusiastic zeal.
"The pen must go where the pen wants to go." By Poet
Who is the poet?
They are dreamers about words and life,
making both come to life for their readers.
A true poet's quill,
writes from their loving and creative heart.
Did you know, August 18,
Is National "Bad" Poetry Day?
One day of the year all writers,
have a chance to make a change with their words.
Can we remember a rhyme is to rhyme?
not kind of or sort of rhyme.
A Limerick is five lines of funny,
not sad or depressing words.
Many have told me,
less words can be more meaningful.
I am stopping here,
and having a fun day writing away with my quill.
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