Where Are You Men? Where Are Your Pens?

Submitted by James on Thu, 12/10/2009 - 02:40

I stand in the midst of a thousand hands,
Each one writes a thought, drafts a poem grand,
That mournfully drifts over desert sands,
Or tells of the kings in a distant land.

Now some hands are picked for a noble cause,
To write on the gates for all eyes to see.
Now my hand is picked; for with Ben’s applause
My essays and poems with his sense agree.

The Writing at Apricotpie begins!
Hear now our thoughts; here are our pens.

Now stand twenty-eight of our working hands,
Yet now, some are stilled, finding writing bland,
And more still are caught in life’s busy strands,
With hardly an hour for a pen in hand.

Yet still I make poems, draft each line and clause
And make time to write; for I know I can.
But now, all around, what I see gives pause:
Of all who still write, I’m the only man.

I fearlessly take out my ink again:
Though but one man, here is my pen!

I stand now surrounded by wondrous strands
Of beautiful works in a glorious land,
That pierce like swords, burn like cold iron brands:
Each made by the thought of a woman’s hand.

One writes of great themes, of faith, hope, and love;
Another, a half-brother’s tale, who ran;
A third weaves an epic of stars above;
A fourth of a home in a Grandpa’s plan.

How noble, the writings I find herein!
Women they are; each wields her pen.

I stand in amazement at these great strands,
Together it’s like a symphonic band:
A beautiful chorus, yet missing the strings
An Orchestras has, which give depth to its ring.

So to this mosaic of sweet turquoise hue,
I add my own voice with its bold male blue.
I put up my poems, take my tales from the floor,
And nail all my theses and works to the door.

Look now! Midst the flowers, a man has stepped in.
Here now my voice! Here is my pen!

I write out an epic of wonderful things:
A creation, a people, the song that they sing,
And then of the fall and the sorrow it brings.
I pause; in this band I’m the one lonely string.

Where are all the fiddles, violas and cellos?
Our group’s incomplete; we’re bereft of the fellows.
Whenever one puts up her work for our view,
I’m the only man there – there’s not even a few.

Unbalanced this is, like a fish without fins.
Where are the men? Where are their pens?

Men write well, yes surely, and of such great things,
And often enough, to have something to bring.
Yet days, weeks, and months pass, and not one man brings,
A poem, a story, save me. Why this thing?

I can’t complement all these ladies myself.
They write every month! Now, please, I need some help.
Are we really a witless and dull-headed bunch?
Can't our gender together write one fourth as much?

At the gate, only my face is seen of the men’s.
Where are you men? Where are your pens?

I write now a challenge, among other things:
That one other man lend his voice: that he sing!
Pay heed to my call, though my satire has stings;
The man who steps forth has the heart of a king.

Return men, and write! The throng eagerly waits;
And hang up your posts at the apricot gates!
Bring now your brave colors, yes, bold male blue
To join with the turquoise and pink-purple hue.

Give ear to my call, as the air my voice rends!
Come all you men! Come with your pens!

Genre

Poetry

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Bridget

Thu, 12/10/2009 - 02:59

Where Are You Men? Where Are Your Pens?

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