Wave and other poems

My Pen

To my old English teacher who had us plan and revise our poems.

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I pick up my pen

(Or pencil more like)

And set it on the page,

Crisp, clean, and white.

What happens next is magic,

The magic of the mind.

I search for an idea,

A spark that lights the fire.

The words they just flow out,

From the pencil to the paper.

My hand just can't go fast enough

To write it down in time.

That's it, that's all, that's all there is.

There never can be more.

No planning or preparing ever can do more.