Pond Tales Poem by Leslie Neiwert

My pen dances across my pages as it kisses the words and sentences that I write. With thought coming from the pen’s own cap; no one can tell me that I thought of that. Some days it seems as if I could write, always and forever. Never stopping, never slowing down; allowing my pen to swim in the lines of ink and paper. Holding onto every last moment as the pens sing their song to me: “Write, write; oh journalist, write. Let me tell of your glory.”
There is not a same song like it anywhere, not even in the typing and clicking, clacking and smacking as the keyboard chatter their own words up onto the computer screen. Words mixing endlessly in the rivers and waterfalls of sentences flowed down the valleys of pages and slowly flooding onto the teacher’s desk. Where the rest for days or weeks until, finally, they are picked up and read out loud once more.