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
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.
Dancing with delusions, sparks of hellfire
Course through my lugubrious quill pen.
Distorted words igniting fear,
Anxiety fills crevices,
Encircling, silencing,
Asphyxiating.
Walls closing in,
Compressing.
Hope fades,
Doom.
Dread
Runs cold.
Veins poisoned,
Sanity slips
Unmercifully.
The angels are mimicked.
Light dimming, darkness descends
As demons mingle with the dead.
Apocalyptic skies crack open
To wash away all that you held sacred.
Graceful elegance
fashion - to aircraft design
Colorful plumage
Author's hyphen with quill pen -
the wind is beneath her wings
God said nothing, wrote nothing,
this is how the mystery works;
the soul of mankind is a radio,
a quill, pen, a stylus, or tablet.
The eyes of the mind are a TV
through which God speaks and appears
as You.
Once though He did use a tablet,
a stone one.
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 quill pen
That dazzled the world
As myth and mystery
Of war, terror and hatred
Instead my poetry asked
My inner eyes
To touch the world
Peeping through the open window
Of its eyes – mingling with the glow of dawn.
From this moment stolen by my poetry
My unfortunate poet refrained himself
in creating poetry –
Quite amazing this moment
For the poetry created the poet.
*
All alone
By the side of the
Creek
Dreaming and
Even
Feeling the
Gusts of wind
Have
Interfered with my
Joyful repose
Keeping
Little
Musings
Notes to myself
On a
Parchment, inked by my
Quill pen
Resting
Smiling as Sundown
Takes light from the sky
Until darkness blankets the creek
Very slowly a storm approaches
Waiting until St. Francis
Xavier sends a
Young owl to guide me home where
ZZZs of sleep fill the night
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
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 charge;
Parry and thrust with slashing words.
Never surrender to sorrow
Lest I might doubt and toss words off
As Doc McCrae in crumpled note
His aide saved so poppies still blow
Among the crosses row on row.
Infuse my pen with worthy points,
That endure like Frost and Villon;
Yet if my words can touch but one;
None for myself but only thee.
It can soothe or it can kill because nothing is as powerful as the quill.
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!
Warmth of your splendor touched me today
something in my mind said ‘Feel My Way’
My heart smiled - together we are now one
He said, ‘Eternal Life Promise from the Son’
My voice spoke to an expressive quill pen
reminds one of my coming know not when
Until that moment, follow holy laws
to keep your soul pure leave whatever was
What I promise will fill your heartfelt needs
this is what the bible to me forever reads
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 I go now
And say I pleaded and cajoled
But you would not listen
To my humble plea?
Must you go now
And shut close the door
When with new quill pen I write
Poem for you to read?
You may go
If you decide to
But must it just be now
Before you read my letter?
Will you still go
Darling will you
Now that you know
I only need your love?
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 tire.
My wooden heart consumed over
So give me quill pen to draw pictures
Of this passionate desire that
Sets ablaze the oak of my heart.
Wooden ashtray holds a glimmer
Leaving my heart on fire.
Turned into so hot red embers
Is a sacred marple heart ablaze
Hot cruise under waters so vast.
Oak burning hot in the inward
Where fire cracks in silent whispers
Turning hardwood into charcoal so black
That will ever and over start a new fire.
So doused is the heart of timber
In petrol and set on fire!!!
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
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