Short Stylus Poems

mauve petals tumble

    framing eve's littered canvas--
        stylus of autumn




8/4/2019
One Haiku Contest of Rick Parise...

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Long has it been maintained,
writing sprang from economic drive and need,
seeing as the cuneiform tablets
were soon interpreted with worldly eyes.

But economics is a stylus scratching lies on clay,
a social science to varnish human selfishness away....

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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....

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I've been working on it.
If I were a nib or stylus I'd be worn away.
Sometimes,
there's too much space to fill with words,
or there's not enough.
I'm digging my way out
of A Marriam-Webster dictionary.
when I surface,
I might be light-headed,
but a lot sharper....

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I've been working on it.
If I were a nib or stylus I'd be worn away.
Sometimes there's
too much space to fill with words,
sometimes there's not enough.
I'm digging my way out
of A Marriam-Webster dictionary.
I hope when I surface
I'll be empty-handed
but a lot sharper....

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The quail dashed from the bushes 
Like abrupt thoughts from the brain
And the afternoon with an age of hours
Was suddenly old with years

I tried to expel a song I don't like 
But the damned thing wouldn't come out
Deep in the vinyl of the sky's gramophone 
The stylus was blocked 
And knocked and knocked and knocked......

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Above my head, a ray
where I sit on a mossy ledge, 
stylus in my hand drips words 
like acid upon thin papyrus sheets--
of myths and cultures perishing,
never to be repeated in splendour 
and tragedy-- their brilliance borne 
through swollen rivers' lore.


A Brian Strand Contest NO 18
Oct 10, 2016...

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the yuletide came
in the voice of crooners
Please Come Home-
I’ll Be Home-
Santa Claus, Santa Claus-
which placed me directly
in front of a speaker
the RCA Victor phonograph
with the stylus needle
that every year kept joyously
repeating itself
 
and like herald angels
from the kitchen
butter infused cakes and pies
carol our nanna's psalm
taste good raw 
taste good cooked
demanding we lick the spoons...

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That soft graphite core
Clasped in fragrant cedar wood :
Pencil – nothing more,

Notions now bestirred,
Flow softly on the paper,
Gently ease the words.

My poetic muse,
Soft and black from Borrowdale,
Dark as Sunday shoes,

Guide my hand to write -
Black hieroglyphs, clear, concise 
Creep across the white.

My favoured stylus
Breach the chasm of my words
And inspire me thus.

Familiar feeling –
Poised comfortably in my hand,
My artistic friend....

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