Ode To My Pen

My pen moves, its trail A flow of energy. Its loops and stems Remind me of A living, growing vine. Life streams. My penpoint dances, Mimicing and mirroring All Being in its ballet. Its nib's wise, protean flow Traces two lovers' longings Or a pilgrim's love for God— A pigeon strutting by a bench— Far journeys of the mind. Oh, pen, You are so supple! Diverse the energies You move, the pictures That you paint Through language, That Miracle. You can contain the blazing sun Or a description of Minute atomic particles In your amazing point. Your stream flows on and on. It lubricates all life, As the writer at his table Rides across Creation Upon your sliding ball, And even shares His dreams with all. Yes, pen, you're a great Instrument, enabling the whole World to read my mind! I'll never doubt again Your sled of ink Sliding 'cross white pages Like a toboggan on the snow. A thought—invisible— You let be seen! And, ferryman, you also Bring it from its nesting place In grey folds of my brain To the white boat of a page, Where millions may receive it. 2 Will you ever empty My mind of thoughts That grow like hairs, No sooner harvested Than springing up again? What, pen? That's not Your job, You say? You're disappointing me. I thought that you Knew everything! What's that? You're just a tool, A puppet? When I lay you on the table, You become an inert thing? You only know What you receive From me? Well, pen: Who, then, Am I? I know What you Are going To say! I am His instrument, His puppet, The same way That you're mine! Without Him, I too am A piece Of inert stuff. It's He Who writes The poem of my life With His own Hand. When I write well, He uses me The same way I use you! And you, too, Pen, are Blessed then— By His thoughts Coursing through your Doubly-borrowed life. (1999)