Writer’s Tools, So Much Change!

Writer’s Tools

cropped-computer-and-pencils.jpgA Writer’s Tools have changed
There has been so much gain
But a nagging hint of nostalgia remains

Cutting reeds and shaping quillscropped-blogbackground1.jpg
Pounded pigments, rainwater, ash-filled
Stretching animal hides
Leaving in the sun to dry

parchment with red
Crackling scratches on dried parchment

One slip, the writer’s lament

Start again, know not when

The price of dripping Indigo ink

Naught drying, naught sprinkling with sand

Naught scribing, brings one to the brink

… Of insanity

parchment with inking

New files, pixels, point sizes, layout

A better system, no doubt

Save, Open, Save As, Download

Copy without a camera or a copier reload

Cut without a knife; paste with no glue

The decision to see it through

Or delete and try again

It doesn’t matter when

Save or not to save?

In a hurry, Save and and go away…try another daycropped-cropped-my-writers-nook-e142126534230111.jpg

Creativity has not changed

Only the functions of the brain

More freedom for the laymen

More chances to begin again

Then, finally, the perfect words you trust

All gobbled up by a cyber virus.

No heart to try again

Perhaps a quill, ink, or pen?

Mayhaps…

Comparisons of the old and the new, pros and cons…

 

 

 

Writing the Melodramatic…Reincarnated from a Vampire? How is This Even Possible?

My writing with the quill from the inkwell fixates my consciousness on a time of which I cannot tell...who I am or when I dwelled...
My writing with the quill from the inkwell fixates my consciousness on a time of which I cannot tell…who I am or when I dwelled…

(A stand-alone verse…continuation of “Writing the Melodramatic”)

I am most definitely a male from a time long ago

My mind play tricks as the memories ebb and flow

One moment I am a contemporary woman in 2015

Then I sink into oblivion and grasp for esteem

As master of mine own home in the mid-1600s

I am well to do with servants at my beck and call

I am very cruel and evil to them all

The peasant woman who has joined me in my drafty, cold library

Is bleeding from two punctures in her neck so precarious

She cries out to me to stop draining her life’s blood

Her dress in torn and weathered, her boots caked with mud

She must suffer and die for attempting to flee my domain

We would have become such dear friends if only she had remained.

How can I be this creature who blossoms in the night

Turning his back on humanity and forsaking the light?