The Pen is Mightier than the Keyboard

The Pen is Mightier

I find it hard to type, don't you?,
when my fingers freeze in thought
and fall in glissando on the keys,
when they pause for moments, minutes on end,
in spurts equal to online addresses,
splurting content just as ridiculous as the dinosaur comics I read before.
Lines go on and on and on and on and on and on,
because my mind never stops,
except,
perhaps,
possibly,
to put in some extraneous comma,
or the oft-missed period.
Lines follow length,
short ones follow short ones follow short ones follow,
long ones persevere after,
but they look so strange next to
one another.
And if I break
a line in two,
I feel like I broke my own leg to stand on.

Writing with a pen allows my mind to flow,
with no fonts or styles or colors to distract its course,
with only the edge of lined paper to throw words into the margined gutter.
Long lines persist more,
unless,
my thought ends there.
And while typing is paradoxical
–pages forever on just one page–
the pen leads me onward to pull another sheet of paper from my notebook,
leading me to find that crushed beetle under the cover,
leading me to see the ants running oblivious to me,
leading me to the towers of grass lining fantastical subjects
of future poems.
Typing–it keeps my eyes on one page,
or it surrenders me to Wikipedia syndrome,
forever clicking on chains of links,
achieving a cookie crumb from everywhere.

Typing leads me to stay awake for hours,
mistaking sleep-deprivation for immortality.
The pen leads me to sleep, to dreams, to poetry yet to come.
The pen is mightier than the keyboard.

Biographical poem

Aoremeo…
Intuitive, specific, free-minded, solitary…
who lives upon hobbit houses…
a lover of what's beyond the stars, ancient times, colors, science…
who notices the veins in leaves, the colors in black ink, the punted jokes…
who feels alone yet content, curious yet knowledgable…
who learns facts at first, mercurial subjects at last…
who dreams life were that one residing with the stars rather than with personal taste…
Megan Robertson O'Neill.
A vagabond on a road forked by life and dreams.

If you care to write your own:

line 1: Your First Name
line 2: Four nouns or adjectives that describe you
line 3: Who lives in _______________________________
line 4: A lover of…..(list 3-4 specific people, things, ideas, etc)
line 5: Who notices….(list 3-4 specific things)
line 6: Who feels….(3-4 specific listings)
line 7: Who learns_________________________________
line 8: Who hopes…or dreams…or aspires
line 9: Your full name
line 10: A person who _____________________________________

Winter’s Touch

(Jan 20, 2005)

Plains of crystal white give sight to my eyes:
it is a single sheet mirroring the clouds.
And in my ears is a Gaelic flute,
sailing twixt my thoughts,
a mere rememberance of the last songbird,
whose soul still fluttertongues in the infinite silence.
My breath is coarse with frosted words
and the taste of warmth and laughter masquerades itself
as icicles hanging in my memories.

As the earth reigned once with lively iridescence,
so shall the sky reign, bringing with her the blurred shades of my yearly portion.
The storms will come, first born in the bonds of raindrops,
slowly maturing to white clusters of bunnies and castles,
then darkening, darkening, finally falling to white rejuventation.

In this bliss, this Elysium, I sit,
watching the masses fall around me, onto trees, the ground, my palm;
each is a pearly ghost, shaped uniquely,
but all will soon fade from my warm fingertips
into the element whence they came.
Some rest together,
building and building and building
until a mist-born sea tricks my eye
with its glimmers and enticing velvet.

I trod upon it once, and now,
looking back upon it,
I wonder why I dared to tread.
My footprints are framed there,
one by one,
left and right,
leading whatever fool who should happen upon this bliss
to drag his straggling form and ruckus through.
My tracks are compromised,
my thoughts are invaded with who?s and how?s,
my ears are shattered with his screams of mercy,
my skin torn ragged and canyoned with his rampages,
my nostrils spilling over with his fear of my cyclic traipse.

If only he would give it thought,
one tiny glimpse of recognition,
and then throw my coming aside,
he would need not to fear me.
When I come, it will be in due time,
and his lively hue will darken,
blurred with others.

But he will not be lost,
for I will be there to catch him upon my fingertips,
and he may join us all in silence once again.

Ael

There she sits, the siren,
the bewitching rogue,
the half-blood sporting faded ebon
skin. Elven angles accent a smile
so seductive a you can't deny her magic,
can't escape her evil.

A controlled neutral evil
slips forth from the tantalizing siren.
Ancient words need no breath; magic
is spelt from her mute lips. A rogue
smile
and you forget the belle in ebon.

In truth, her skin is of a dusky ebon,
and her smirk truly a thieving facade's evil.
You can't miss the white smile,
the oscillating curves of the siren,
but you do let slip the errant fingertips of a rogue,
and her lovely, thrilling magic.

A novice in spells, magic
cast, she still manages an ebon
cloak about her features. Scoundrel, rogue,
and sorceress in one; evil
and misleading as the call of a siren;
so don't believe that smile.

Give her your own smile,
your own magic.
She'll raise a shout, a siren
if you dare to send her to the ebon
skeleton's life; but an evil
Lich's lesson would satisfy this rogue.

She lives for danger, dipped in rogue
profession. Wielding a fallacious smile,
the lesser of two evils,
and silently-spoken magic,
she's a dangerous belle, an ebon
villainess, a devilish siren.

Hear the siren call, feel the rogue
fingertips, the intoxicating ebon strokes, see the fox's smile,
and know you've been tricked by her magic; hear the belle of evil.

Life is Like a Box of Crayons

"Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you're really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I've got a few missing. It's ok though, because I've got some more vibrant colors like periwinkle at my disposal. I have a bit of problem though in that I can only meet the 8 color boxes. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation.. so when I meet someone who's an 8-color type.. I'm like, "hey girl, magenta!" and she's like "oh, you mean purple!" and she goes off on her purple thing, and I'm like "no- I want magenta!"
— Anonymous"
[Actually, according to http://www.factmonster.com/ipka/A0872797.html, the biggest box of Crayons holds 120 colors, so the 64-color boxes are a little short.]

But me? I like being an 8-color box if that's what I am. I'm the original, with nothing but the elements at my fingertips to play with. If you shout blue, I might give you midnight, or periwinkle if I'm in a lighter mood. To make a rainbow, you have to change crayons, but I only have to fade out of one and into the other, blending all the aspects together in harmony. Those boxes with more colors think they're better than me, with those fancy names like 'purple pizzazz' and 'granny smith apple,' but sometimes you have to guess their colors. You never have to guess mine, with names like red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, black, and brown. Simple, yet still containing all the hues you'll ever get out of a 64-color box.
– Almost Anonymous

With Only a Candle for a Light

Sitting in the dark
All alone in my cave
With only a candle for a light
Only one flame it gave.

It consumes my soul,
Burning through each and every vein.
It brings me a light
When I'm in the dark again.

A curse and a gift
I know it's too true.
Because I feel this flame flicker
Whenever I'm close to you.

You instill me with a wonder
One I'll never understand.
You instill me with a fear
One I'll never disband.
You instill me with a question
One I'll never solve.
You instill me with a theory
One I'll never evolve.
You instill me with a bunch of things
Ones I can't untangle.
You instill me with a choice
One I can't see from every angle.

My flame is flickering;
It's working rapidly now.
It's burning and churning
Against a nature that won't allow.

I can't believe you are
Until I know what I am
Else I won't feel like a person,
Instead I'll feel like a scam.

So here I sit in the dark
All alone in my cave
With a only a candle for my light
Only one flame it gave.

Train of Thought

Me, a fool?
Why that would be cool.
Words in a pool.
Words, such quirks
made in graphite quarks
or whatever works.
Works from dreams
or reality it seems
with candy and ice creams.
Ice cream rooks
set in fantasy books
with knights of good looks.
Knight or night:
a 'K' or not okay–let's fight–
or debate we might.
Debate upon troubles.
Debate upon bubbles.
Debate upon Hubbles.
The telescope, there's one only:
way up there, lost and lonely,
streaking in an orbit, zonely.
Orbit, orbis, world, earth.
Fun, laughter, giggles, mirth.
Cycle, life, death, birth.
Rebirth like zen,
live once more again.
Learn to kiss…again.
Repeat, rerun.
I've seen: one plus one–
but more than that, just for fun.
Fun, a rhyme
beat to my time.
Worth a dime.
Dime, nickel, penny.
Max, Hannah, Benny.
JubJub, Eyrie, Lenny.
Neopets, cyberspace ring.
Web forums a wonderful thing.
I can jump, write, act, sing!
Sing "Krupke," "Tonight."
"We're gonna rumble them right!"
"Mambo!" in sight.
See letters on a page
spilled by rage
or spelled by a mage.
Mage, magic in a land.
Make, magic in my hand.
Cake, piece by a band.
Rhythm, run, marathon, cause.
Clarinet, jingle, fermata pause.
Cancer, faith, doggie paws.
Ruff ruff or lick,
Frisbee or stick,
Tick tock or tock tick?
Time flies by.
Seconds, minutes, hours, oh my!
Must say goodbye.
Goodbye is too slim.
Wrote this on a whim.
Two hundred forty-five words without trim.

Empty Pout

Emotions streaming forth into minds unprepared
Emanating joy, something which I fared
Exciting a feeling from deep within the heart
Extracting the soul, piece by part
Ever always put together once more
Even in hardship–but gone, lost in lore.

Meaning all spread out upon a page
Mercy left to a writer's madness and rage
Murder the poem to kill the soul
Milk the imagery to keep it whole
My own false rhyme stands alone in its wake
Moments pass by, damning its make.

Please rescue my words from this evil fate:
Paupers in meaning, players in checkmate.
Purpose I need for a poem to become
Penned by a teen in her ultimate boredom.
Point to a place where I have been profound,
Possibly insightful, held you spellbound.

Talking to you here is no different to me
Than talking to air, something I don't see.
Tell me this: do you feel it too?
Then is my insanity also invading you?
Torn between ideas and a writer's block
Tingling in my veins, I'm in shock.

Yell at me louder for keeping you waiting.
You should be disappointed with what I'm stating.
Yellow sulfur ignited my cowardly rhyme
Yay for me if you think I succeeded this time.
Yes, in the end, this acrostic spells out
Yesterday's emotion: emptiness, and my pout.

Lapis Lazuli

Lapis lazuli,
A blue so beautifully
Translucent or opaque
in every single make
Pharoah's golden crest glistens in such
Macaw's golden breast crowned in much
Tear-shaped drop filled with all weeping
Gemstone blue in love's first keeping
Green softens into aqua, turquoise lift
Into violet-blue power, whispers sift
Through and through, a blue so true;
Misty crystal ball promotes a poem to you.

Writing Against the Tide

Crashing all around my head, constant beat
Volume increases, bass drumming hard
Waves roll and run under my feet
Despair ceases, catch me off guard.

Rhythm instilled and melody fast
Toes tapping in foam of a surfing craze
Harmony pushing and solo heard last
Take me home through this musical haze.

Sound waves run through ceiling and floor
Pumping inspiration with a blocked tickle
Invading my fingers and shutting my mind's door
Leaving a writer's creation lost, a nasty fickle.

Twenty line limit beyond reach but in sight
Favorite song shot me through the roof
Irresistible singing adds to my plight
Forget my mind's hot to stay aloof.

Last four lines sneer in pity at my end
Can't resist the fun to start anew
Against the tide of rushing notes' blend
But 'tis one of music's challenges, too true.