Poetry Corner Three

The Death of the Pen

To whom it may concern,
(and it certainly concerns you).

I am writing to express my displeasure,
Though rhyme can never measure,
The depths of dispair, that nobody cares,
The pen is dying you see.

It leaves me somewhat despondent,
That the bulk of our correspondence,
Is all of the type, I'd much rather write,
The pen is dying you see.

I believe it prudent and better,
To quaintly craft a letter,
But those days are gone, and it's painfully wrong,
The pen is dying you see.

I rejoice in scribed nostalgia,
Inked words engraved with grandeur,
But no longer are stamps, replaced by email accounts,
The pen is dying you see.

Although it's departure I lament,
Without pen this poem I present,
No ink has been spilt, It's coffin I've built!
The pen is dead.

Poetry Corner Two

Time

The hands of Time sludge through the clock,
A flutter of productivity as seconds grind to a near stop,
This much rehearsed drill, all present, all in file,
We chip away Time's rough edges, no regard for reconcile.

Would you unscrew Time's sturdy wings?
Could you prelude the disorder it brings?

The hands of Time surge round the clock
A stutter of productivity, you wish it would stop.

Poetry Corner...

    A thunderous crescendo of crashing keys,
                               punched in haste, most rapidly.
    The calm click, quiet and serene
                               in thoughtful reply, for all to see...
    He sent the email and spiralled away.