Who Paint With The Pen

We artists,

Who paint with the pen,

Are a dying bunch

At Van Gogh's fingertips;

We flock together

As the north wind blows,

Blows us away,

And the tides' waves cover us;

We are the ones

Who will be found on the sand

And reborn of the trees

In a million years' time;

Neither century's bite,

Nor the eye of death,

Can silence our shouts

As they pour from our hands,

Stand tall on the ridge

Of white nothingness,

Yet be spread, too,

From word-of-mouth,

And be recognised,

As we were,

In the dear glances of lovers,

And the stark black of the night;

So commence with the art,

Go and poie* with your soul,

Let all the world see

That your flower has bloomed,

Pluck your mind

From the ground,

Sing the words into form,

We can prove, ultimately,

We who design with our mouth,

That our lives

Are not wasted;

Our lives see the ages of time,

See the change of the seasons,

And we flow with the power,

That the artisan can bring us.


*the Greek imperative for do!, make!, or create!, and, hence, where the word ‘poet’ comes from.

The End

104 comments about this poem Feed