Stretched

The cold metal edge of a calligraphy pen

slides smoothly across my skin,

down my spine,

and each line slices deep in my mind.

Weather drawings by lovers lost deserted in desk drawers.

My figure is faded on the yellowed pages

but in the flesh the lines are fresh and young.

I bite my tongue-

the cool pen both tickles and burns.

Pen in ink, ink onto skin-

a new pattern emerges

and it all sinks right in,

into blood, veins to heart...

I'm no longer the muse, I'm no longer the art.

Just something to use.

Simply canvas.

On Sonnets

On Sonnets

It is a wonder that we all can speak
in pure iambs without much force or thought,
yet with the quill and ink we must be taught
to pen a poem with no trochaic leak.
And so again I tried for some technique;
with noble Petrarch’s form and rhyme I fought
to pen a poem: the only goal I sought.
yet unlike Petrarch’s mine is not unique,
the language rules asphyxiate my voice.
no star-crossed lovers here tonight will meet
no Paramus and Thisbe here to die.
this content was my own reluctant choice
compared to love, to write of words is neat.
and so, if nothing else, at least I try