Swallows soaring in cerulean skies
Butterflies flitting hither thither
Glorious, invigorating summer sun

Christmases white with carpets of snow
The ensconsing warmth of the hearth
Snowflakes wafting slowly down

Majestic thunderstorms, multihued arcs Continue reading →


What is this pen I hold in my hands
Is it a mere instrument of metal

Or a fine thread that tethers my thoughts to paper
Gives them life ere they disappear

An incandescent ray that expresses my feelings
And illuminates the blank sheet of paper on which it writes

A reservoir of fluid ink and emotion
The fount from which emanate words with the power to move

Perhaps a wordsmith’s wand of wizardry
Which, with a flourish, can cast a spell on the reader

A catalyst that draws forth scintillating inspiration
From the deepest recesses to transcribe, nay craft, into the luminiscence of poetry

And profound insights from the very soul
To imprint them on a page forever

This pen, it is a quintessence, a manifestation of who I am at the moment