Poem By Ernestine Northover
The pen is gripped between my fingers.
The tension grows, an idea lingers,
And yet somehow it’s stuck.
I’m thinking, ‘just my luck’!
The pen is starting to want to play,
Upon the paper, and have its say.
And yet there’s no feedback.
I’m thinking, ‘I’m off track’!
The pen is tapping away frustrated,
The owner’s now infuriated.
And yet one shall still strive.
I’m thinking, ‘it must arrive’!
The pen is gyrating all about,
There’s something definite coming out.
And yet, a nervous time.
I’m thinking, ‘will it rhyme? ’,
The pen is slowing, and it will stop.
It’s done its writing and needs to flop.
And yet, this work of art,
I’m thinking, ‘is from the heart’!
The pen has finished its job and rests.
It has done well, its achieved its best.
And yet, it will do more,
I’m thinking. ‘That’s for sure’!
The pen - has run out of ink.