With Quill in hand.

A Host of Words.

  1. C. J. Black.

As I sit here at my alter

I contemplate, on whether I will alter –

This page I am about to cover with tiny sentences –

When I awaken from this beautiful dream and come to my senses.


Will I remember word for word this poems contents?

Write it down Verbatim in a language which presents –

To those who take the time, to listen or to read

Believe, like me that what is written is what was decreed?


For once we reach for our writing implement

In our mind we should be quite content –

That whatever pours out onto this page

Was meant to mentally engage.


When we read the works of others or listen to the spoken word

We all come away with differing aspects – there is no writing which is absurd

As we write, each one of us use a different structure

Which looms large and is indeed for posterity – a piece of beautiful architecture.


Everyday a new poem arrives to add to my repertoire

One day hopefully I can write a classic, in proper poetic dialect?

Moving as it were from paragraph to paragraph

Like chess pieces, moving words until I form a proper graph.


Sentences start out like trees in winter

Bare – like the skeleton, skinless

But as writing begins to flow

Your page comes alive – begins to show

The plot come alive – begin to grow.

The plot you have tended has garnered new fruit

Presenting itself to the outside world, still – as a Van Gogh painting.


  1. C. J. Black©β

Monday, 01 June 2015



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