Paper
April 22, 2014 § 1 Comment
There’s something magical
about paper, crisp and new
unmarked and full
of possibility
and there’s nothing
quite so simple but grand
as a brand new pen
with just enough point
with just enough ink
and the artful flick of a wrist
the turn of a finger, a stain emerges
the paper, imperfect, but full
of something personal
full of a meaning
that makes imperfection
into something beautiful
Beginnings
April 17, 2014 § 2 Comments
I opened up the spiral book,
pages filled with words,
etched carefully on paper, purple pen
a fervent scrawl, filled with meaning
from nine years past.
I wrote with conviction
as strong as the coffee that still stains
the pages and spreads ink
and distorts the words penned
from a familiar place that rushed
to fill the pages of a nearby notebook
with notes of beginnings and of ends.
It’s a story I once knew
so well, that now sounds like a fiction
from a distant place,
from another’s hand.
My Paper
March 8, 2014 § Leave a comment
A white sea, blank
an open ocean, filled
of possibility
crisp corners, edges
sharp, surface smooth
with prospects
of magnificence
yearning to be
filled with color
a canvas of
opportunity beneath
a single pen
waiting in apprehension
for what it will become
rosepoems 