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  • Category: Community Poetry
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Yellow Sticks

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I miss the fingers and the pencil taps

I miss my desk with the wood grain lap

The warmth of oak with grains that glow

The taste of an eraser in thoughtful woes


The lead melting words begin dripping down

Tapping fingers orchestrating stampede sounds

That starry gaze onto blank converted paper

The bite down teeth marks and wooden vapor


Yellow sticks once wrote so profound

Ink pens weeping, feathers and crowns

Pencils balance between lip and nose

That graphite verse with charcoal tones


Ah! but


Now I just pound down plastic keys

Clicking noises with no in-betweens

Space bar, backspace, tab to next,

Pounding letters on red spell check


Oil paintings caught fire by Van Gogh

Mass produced in restaurant rows

The scented life that smelled so sweet

Now smell like shit and stinky feet


“Sorry”, this archaic art form is almost lost

And deserves a better burial than a silent toss

It created the birth of the greatest works on earth

Then it was buried under an old plastic Hearst


Alone at night, sometimes I find a soft glowing fire light, by which to write,

My little yellow pencil, a great cedar and papyrus tasting wine, and thoughts of you

Sinking my teeth into fresh yellow wood, squeezing out precious sounds of words

A beaver chewing on a yellow stick, just a few more words should do the trick

Yes, another well done poem licked, I think I’ll call it “I’m a little homestick”

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