Saturday, January 25, 2020

Nom-de-plume

Nom-de-plume                                                                     

I am the ribbon in the typewriter
(near as to anything else), the lead in the pencil,

ink in the pen, scattered pixels on the screen.
You write these poems.  You ask the questions,

provide the answers, make comments and observations.
The boundary between us then is vague,

shallow and negligible, only apparent
as I write it down, sit and wonder

where I’m being led, what will be asked
and said in a verse ironically tagged

with the nom-de-plume of my ignorance.  O Beloved! 
How You shake me up!  Rattle my bones!

O child of God, to write these poems is a breathless dip
into the depthless pool of His mystery.


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