I am a dozen pens
A dozen pens
An array of bright colored features
Their tears creatively spilled love
Danced with strength and fear
Spoke a dozen happiness
Slashed the tranquility of peace
Healed the woundedness of grace.
A dozen pens
An array of dark stained beings
Their blood shed enlightenment
Crossed the hollowness of mortals
Conveyed a dozen cynicism
Paralyzed the greatness of valiance
Filled the emptiness of faith.
A dozen pens
An array of encapsulated truth
Their pride ridiculed humility
Laughed over the cries of oppression
Wrote a dozen prejudice
Silenced the whimpering of justice
Resurrected the crippledness of honor.
A dozen pens
An array of estranged creatures
Their poignance crumbled holied esteems
Chose between beauty and wisdom
Mimicked a dozen insecurities
Gagged the shouts of confidence
Pulsated nothing but I.
I am a dozen pens
I can be an array of bright colored features
I can be an array of dark stained beings
I can be an array of encapsulated truth
I can be an array of estranged creatures
Whatever that I am… is my choice.
I am a dozen pens
My tears can creatively spill love
My blood can shed forth enlightenment
My pride can ridicule the humble
My poignance can crumble the esteem of others
Whatever that I can… is my choice.
I am a dozen pens
I dance with strength and fear
I cross the hollowness of mortals
I laugh over the cries of the oppressed
I choose between beauty and wisdom
Whatever that I do… is my choice.
I am a dozen pens
I speak of happiness
I convey cynicism
I write about prejudice
I mimic insecurities of the world and I
Whatever that I impart… is my choice.
I am a dozen pens
I slash the tranquility of peace
I paralyze the greatness of valiance
I silence the whimpering of justice
I gag the shouts of confidence
Whatever that I execute… is my choice.
I am a dozen pens
I heal the woundedness of grace
I fill the emptiness of faith
I resurrect the crippledness of honor
I pulsate nothing but myself
I … is my choice.
I am a dozen pens
My thoughts can be an enemy or a friend
My words can be a dagger or a rose
My actions can be a curse or a blessing
I can hurt or heal.
I am a dozen pens
I am.
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Well done. The repetition in
Well done. The repetition in stanza five works nicely as does the extended metaphor throughout. Once more I get the feeling that the ghost of Whitman is looking over your shoulder as you write. Your style is different than his, but it has the same feel (to me at least.) Godspeed.
Speechless...
that I am. I still have a long way to go to have the smoothness of thought in my poetry like Mr. Whitman's. But thank you for your comments. They are very encouraging. To be compared to The Whitman is very flattering and pride-boosting. It makes me want to write some more.
Words really do have power.
Words really do have power. I like this poem because it points that out. Too many jaded academic poets have lost sight of that. You'd think as poets they would know better, but strangely enough they don't (or worse, they don't care.) Hopefully we'll never have that problem. On a side note -- Stephen King wrote a book called "On Writing." While I'm not a huge fan of his stuff (I like some), this particular book stands out, and in it he asks the fundamental question "what is writing?" In my mind he gave the perfect answer: "Telepathy, of course." At first I thought he was just being funny, but on reflection I realized that it was quite profound. It's a lesson the entire Internet could stand to learn.
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
A Fool might once himself alone expose,
Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.
-- Alexander Pope