I know I have already posted this morning but this poem of mine has been plaguing my mind all morning so I thought I would share it without you all. It’s about my struggle with writing and my responsibility as a writer. I hope enjoy and please feel to comment.

 

“The Giver”

Empty pages only I can write on

Given by the giver with no instructions

Yet with full responsibility to write

I choose why, when, how, and what to write

 

For my convenience I named the pages

Names that reflect my heroes and life

Soon after a page was in my hands

Neither the Giver nor the pages helped me

 

They came at intervals one after another

To be cherished, nourished and nurtured

For each to be known and attached to me

And to write on each and all of them

 

The pen to write with was not given

It occurred to me that my life was a pen

And the dink I use would have lasting imprint

The imprint would reflect my choice of ink

 

My ink, would it be love or hatred?

Would it be self sacrifice or selfishness?

Would it be contentment or whining?

What would I choose for the ink with lasting imprint?

 

Would the Giver give it on his pages?

Would I tell him that others also wrote on the pages?

And that I had no choice for the ink they used?

Why would he trust me so much with his property?

 

Writing on the pages is a hard noble vocation

I write on a page but sometimes nothing seems written

Or what’s written disappears after a while

Yet I must write. Not writing is writing of a kind

 

The writing starts with the first page, never to end

No holidays, no sick leave, no vacation

Writing on the pages cannot be left to chance

It cannot be left to others or to man made writers

 

Sometimes I question the Givers choice of the writer

Is the writer qualified to leave imprint on his pages?

How can he be? This is his first time with each page

Writing on the pages is an on the job training

 

I write, re-write, and write more for not writing is writing

My pages, Joseph, Miguel, and Ilaria

Need my writing and rewriting, for not writing is writing

Will God want what I write in their minds and hearts?

 

He who gives a book gives more than cloth, paper and ink.

He gives more than leather, parchment and words.

He reveals a foreword of this thoughts,

A dedication of his friendship, a page of his presence,

A chapter of himself, an index of his love.

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