The ilk of ink like silk or sword
Permits both good and ill to word
To sharpen thought or keep it dull
To make us wanton or thankful
Look, while snow swaddles winter’s hill
The pen a violet-vale may spill
Ink-grit the chink in armor seeks
It washes wishes ‘cross our cheeks
The pen, without a sound is heard
A counselor of written word
With bold and shameless clarity
It bares its soul in poetry
Love, hate; what, as the page it skims
Will my pen spill; clamor or hymns?
War, peace; what, with its minute tip
Will form thought’s feral fellowship?
To free or not to free, the pen
Obeys with phrase our yip and yen
A scalpel in the hands of we
Unschooled in rules of poetry
Don’t touch me where my heart would be
Before your words bled it from me
Darling, won’t you pick up your pen
And write it back in place again?
© Janet Martin
Wonderfully woven words which were written
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