Quill Poems

Iron Quill

The quill flows friendly in steady hands
The ink spreads over the page like butter
Thoughts and ideas are conveyed quickly
No verbal setbacks from slur or stutter

Soon brilliance breaks free from the shadows 
Fame and accolades are on the menu
Adoring fans throw laurels at your feet
Your name up in lights atop each venue

Then a funny thing happens

Quill, Quahog?

O emptiness of space, thy harpsichords. Whole?
Panels out of place, looking-glasses smashed.
Bitter winds, thy frost. Sickness, dole, O soul.
Chaffy grain beneath the tired thresher slashed.
Turmoil, tamarisk tree. Toil? Thunderbolt.
Hated are the days of life gone dry. Why?
Reality thinned, then forgot how to fly.
Happy thoughts, lost. Cost? Harvest season molt.

Protection? None. Been and done. Sun? Hostile.
Yellow

The quill this evening is not a mere instrument, but a primordial beast

The quill this evening is not a mere instrument, but a primordial beast,
A lacquered leviathan with a tip sharp as obsidian fangs,
Its body coiled like an ouroboros, devouring its own ink in vengeance,
It struggles under my grip, a relic of extinct empires, growling glyphs older than rivers.
When I dare to drip her name on parchment,

Inked Quill

Written: February 17, 2025 for Contest by Joseph May

                        **********************

Stalking dark bloom at night 
Quick, lithe out of sight
Prowling stealth, jump right
Hushed, no sound at all
Felt lost, loped through wall
Hared wild, can't

On Devil's Night

On Devil’s Night

There once was a devil queen  on Whispering Lane
Mean and cunning her crew driven insane
For millenniums hurling malice 
Content in her palace
Casting a malevolent muse throughout her reign

The King no longer amused by sonnets that shame
Concoction’s of besmirchment  tangents that defame
He sends for his men
Calls out to them
bring me an enchanted

Sunlight On The Collectors Quill

Patience meets a quietude of Rosewood,
a quill twixt fingers, held in the left hand.
The trophy collector shares his boyhood,
as a quill fairs right assign no men's land.

A quill twixt fingers, held in the left hand.
A hallway clock grows in the midday sun,
as a quill fairs right assign no men's land.
Two men stand, no one out,

Quill

Oh ,my dear very beautiful goose quill,                               How do you come before my reading room?,          

The Brittle Quill

With brittle quill the page is torn

No longer words of passion born

The poet slowly wilts and dies

Lays down his pen and softly sighs

Like petals of an aging flower

That withers more from hour to hour

In mourning of creative death 

Eloquence draws its final breath 

 

I WRITE

if I am unwell
bring me parchment where I lie
if I do not answer
put a quill in my hand
my lines will speak for me
the ink will form the thoughts
from emotions that fill my head
I beg you decipher the strokes
that I attempt to write simply
but if the markings seem like riddles
make sense of the whole
by embracing the

The Cosmic Quill

In the beginning, there was only sound
The whispered words of God, echoing all around
A canvas of darkness, awaiting the stroke
Of creation's brush, as the universe awoke

With syllables of fire, He spoke the light
And stars were born, in all their celestial might
Gas and dust coalesced, in a swirling dance
As planets formed, in a majestic trance

In the

Whispers of the Quill

With my solution upon my parchment bright
I conjure worlds where imagination takes flight
The ink flows free, a wondrous, winding stream

As letters spin forth, fabricating words unseen
A tapestry of meaning, rich and vibrant, is gleaned
The poet's craft, a magic, all its own, is spun

Within the story, rhythm and rhyme find its time
A symphony of language, a

Quill Bleeding Ink

Never have I used
such a word as quill
in my verbose verse,
even when bleeding
ink in nightmare night,
nor when tripping light
fantastic beyond 
fair golden sunsets;
O' come sail away,
O' come sail away,
O' come sail away
with me on the good
ship Lollipop where
bon-bons play on the 
beach of Peppermint
Bay, or a night trip~
we shall dream awhile
in pure purple prose.

Writer's Quill, Whispers Still

The quill, once held by hand so strong, 
Now rests upon a dusty shelf, 
Forgotten tales, where they belong, 
No longer whispered to itself. 

Ink, once a wellspring, dark and deep, 
Has dried to flakes, a shadowed stain, 
The writer sleeps, a peaceful sleep, 

But though the hand may write no more,
The words still dance

Writer's Quill

The writer's quill, a humble thing it seems, 
A feather plucked from some forgotten fowl, 
Yet dipped in ink, it spins a world of dreams, 
Where heroes rise and empires rise and fall. 
With every stroke, a tapestry unfolds, 
Of love and loss, of battles fought and told. 

It paints the scene with whispers, soft

Titanium Quill

I am an unvoiced breeze~
a sea warrior 
    kite-surfing through 
    heinous waves, 
knitting cobalt chronicles 
    from smooth syllables~ 
tackling chaotic currents 
with chamomile magic 
unfurled from the 
   silhouette of 
   a Swarovski swan,
immune to the
   screeching nails

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