Sensibility 3/4/03
In this poem I am xylem and phloem,
The transportation tissues in plants.
On this paper I am lentils and capers,
And all things that make taste buds dance.
With this pen again and again I am
Bridging the gap between idea and fact.
In this hand, I am driving a manned
Tank blasting words onto wood without tact.
In this mind I am sure you will find
Some sort of wheel with a rodent inside.
But in this heart, I am struggling to part
With the old man in me who long ago died.
So in these lines I am giving some signs,
Of my struggles, my triumphs and strife.
Onto this paper will come a swift vapor
That opens the door to my life.
I hope through the flow of this pen it will ope
And all will feel free to go in
But holding this ballpoint, with tendon and joint
My hand starts to reap what’s sown.
My mind starts to wander, over this way and yonder,
To tame it seems not possible.
But my heart is set, and it’s going to get
My hand to take the pen to its goal.
These paragraphs will bring some great laughs
While watching the creation process.
The heart tries to tame the hand of its game
Of running its own way to get where it gets.
The pen has no choice, and like the Rolls-Royce
Goes where the driver commands it.
If the words don’t make sense, try to read it again,
For the logic of reason demands it.
So the hand is in command
Of the pen that again and again
Marks in places it has not been.
But what I am after isn’t the laughter
Or the joy that rides in on grammatical bliss.
One must recall that through it all
The heart of a man is in control of the hand
And that is my reason to write this.
-Matthew Harri
