Short Ballpoint Poems

Martial Artist
draws ballpoint pen
weapon...

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P-owerful writer
E-xcellently expresses
N-othing but the mind.

Form: Haikustic...

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The pen
is a sword
that slays

in skilled hands
it is a scalpel
that dissects

my own
however
is a blunt instrument

and it beats  the truth out of me...

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This fish,
it bleeds unwillingly a river of black
through its one free eye,
gives a trail not taken back.
Though this fish bears no scales,
nor gills of its own,
swim it does,
as a tool of the author, Unknown....

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Battling the page,
Writers block at the brink.
Assassinated words,
Hemorrhage colored ink.

Rivers of ink flow,
From a massacre of words.
Stanzas of pain, grace the page,
Like of flock of olden birds.

Ballpoint swords strike:
In written catastrophe.
A stained battlefield resides,
With bloody poetry....

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Ballpoint pens or sharpened pencils,
Scads of pads of virgin papers,
These are the tools,
The base utensils,
This poet needs for his mental capers.
Thesaurus and dictionary close at hand,
A steaming mug on the chairside stand.
Prepared, I wait with anticipation…
What's keeping that muse
With the inspiration?
...

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Ballpoint Bully ~ How I write.
Navel Gazing ~ How I think.
Hot Grey Matter ~ What turns me on.
UFO ~ What I believe.
Life Insurance ~ How I live.
Cut To The Wick ~ How I try.
Baby Birds ~ Why I cry.
Doll ~ I pulled a thread and let my stuffing out in this one.
Normally my mind's a meadow ~ My scariest poem to post. 
Chimney Swift ~ Just how much I love birds....

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You could say spring was in the air
When his ballpoint pen flew apart
Arthur took charge of it's repair
So that made it a work of art!

Declaring that, he felt compelled
To write something down with it
Frowning his brow, with said pen held
He channeled his humor and wit

When she looked over his shoulder
Every thought he had petered out
She seemed surprised when he told her
Peter problems is what it's about!...

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like a night fairy
you invaded
my side of the room
stealing my coffee
hot handed
like the money
with which it was procured
selling poetry
composed with heart
and sore fingers
holding ballpoint pen
put together 
the old fashioned way 
carrying the books
everywhere I go 
asking anyone interested
to buy a copy
now thanks to you
I have to purchase more
of this daily necessity
with what is left
in my wallet...

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To twirl like a dancer upon paper,
And execute the swirling pirouettes,
One needs to keep a balance of the pen;
So step by step the stage is swept in strokes. 

Now left, now right, and two and four, the beat
Pulses, pulls the body up to the brink,
Draws back, recedes. Silent is the hall. Now, 

The ballpoint tip toeing the lines of ink,
Building momentum, movement towards

Climax — the bliss of literature achieved!...

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The horse gave way to the car
  The boat gave way to the plane
The quill gave way to the ballpoint pen
  from Oklahoma to Ohio to Maine

Radio gave way to TV
  TV to the Internet Sreen
Yet radio's making a comeback now
  A pleasant surprise unforeseen

About one thing I'm sure, however
  There's no going back to cloth diapers and pins
Like today, tomorrow belongs to disposables
  ~ So as to get rid of manure-eating grins...

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He really should use
a ballpoint pen
ink blots are hard to remove,
and they can mask our reality.
The blots form mysteriously
shaped smears and smudges
that conceal rather than reveal.

We who avidly read His works
are apt to badly misinterpret.
He should have learned to type,
or at least used a computer,
but no

and now all we have are
these mysterious word-puzzles
many of which
are half-hidden between
speculation and conjecture....

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October,

Time when jellyfish
Wash ashore
Cover beaches in 
Rotted goo.

Count the numbers
In blue ballpoint
Mark the map
in red.

Right, left
Booted squelch
Sand and guts
Dropped the clipboard.

Running ink,
Sticky slime
Wunderbar wrapper
Clings to the page.

Telephone the department
Need another day
To get the numbers
Info lost in kidney juice.

“Got to do it now”
Before gulls,
Tide comes in, already
harmonica squawks echo....

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My escape
similar to heroin 
or sharp whiskey.
Almost like the stinging kiss of a razor blade.
different though,
in the manner of
it isn't going to hurt me
in the way those other things would.
I will not have scars from my escape.
No needle marks on the pale skin on my arms, 
no headache from the Wild Turkey,
and no flaking scabs on my thighs.
When I escape, 
I fly.
And when I land,
there's dry ink on my pinky,
and the air smells of ballpoint pen....

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Divided devotion, like once parted ocean
A labyrinth of mere blinded emotion
Beating but bloated, ready to burst
Urgent ache to be free from this curse
Carve out our names, bound by a heart
Together forever engraved on bark
Destined desires, fulfillment somehow
Fortuitous craving must be filled now
Pronounce what I’m feeling on this old tree
Love oozes from ballpoint, but too far from me
My heartfelt gift can’t wait till later
When in death the oak transforms into paper...

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