ODE TO MY PEN

            1

My pen moves, its trail
A flow of energy,
Its loops and stems
A living, growing vine.

Life streams,
My penpoint dances,
Mimicing and mirroring
All Being in its ballet.

Its nib's wise, protean flow
Traces lovers' longings,  
A pilgrim's search for God,
A pigeon strutting near a bench,
The endless journeys of the heart.

Oh, pen,
You are so supple!
Diverse the energies
That move, the pictures
That you paint 
Through language, 
That miracle.

You 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
On your sliding ball,
Even shares his dreams with all.

Yes, pen, you're a great instrument, 
Enabling the world to read my mind!

I'll never doubt again
Your sledding 'cross white pages,
A toboggan on the snow.

You magician--
Thoughts, invisible,
You let be seen!

You ferryman--
You bring them 
From their nesting place
In grey folds of my brain
To white boats of  pages
That float downstream
Into the world-mind.

          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,
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.