Quiet Pen

The pen is quiet on the white paper,
my thoughts skip like stones, forever
skipping, none to land upon the blank.

My mind invaded by swift impressions
which travel with the wings of wind;
words silenced in the eye of a storm.

Turbulence from undercurrents, created
whirlpools; l can not find familiarity
in the depths of these stirred pools,
from where the pen has stopped flowing.

4 thoughts on “Quiet Pen

  1. The “depths of these stirred pools” is really what makes good poetry. We do not conjure the meaning of metaphor and the blank page until we get beyond the surface of thought, the surface of self, and stir into what is in the depths of our consciousness. I liked this poem.

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