My Steam-driven Pen

My Steam-driven Pen

I get no pleasure from an esteem-driven pen,
one so steeped in self-love
so consumed by the fellow within.

Let it not be such,
better it be steam or the wind.

Let it be the movement of the branch,
the tips clawing at the window,
anything –

the etchings left by a snake in the sand,
shifting shavings left there askew
mixed with the droppings of a rat,

the ravings of a madman –
my steam-driven pen.

©Aug 27, 2012 by UT2

IT WAS THE BEST DAY

IT WAS THE BEST DAY

It was the best day,
it was the worst day:

ascend the ladder,
descend the ladder,

sandal drops,
miss the step,

bang my shin,
pain rises;

shaken, then,
I resume pruning:

dead leaves,
dead deeds,

words. . .I even penned my best poem. . . !
I am delusional.

I get a good laugh and I even look up the word “balderdash.”
Even read an old poem by Billy Collins.

It was the worst day.
It was the best day.

©Aug 19, 2013 by UT2