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”
