Born

Born (18-144B)

As I wander
my mind ponders
On this Spring morn
where poems are born

Country life is grand
connection to land
As chicken scratches
ink's idea catches

Two bays, one grey
lazily mow today
In the yard graze
birds singing praise

Dog vigilantly guards
barking at trespassers in yard
Cool breeze blows
lilac's aroma into nose

Fountain Pen From Which Soul Flows

       Fountain Pen From Which Soul Flows

Ink flows from my pen,
Fountain of words drawn to the page,
Something changed with this pen,
Way it writes drawing ink to paper.

All the others stay in my pocket,
Always choosing fountain pen over all others,
This lusty relationship feels obscene,
Seducingly spilling poems upon journal page.

About the Author:  Brian Bucks lives on a small horse ranch in Western Nebraska and is a husband, father, electrical engineer, and poet.