This is me talking to/about a couple of my pencils, as per comment/ suggestion left on my last post. I should probably explain, I have pencils at all points of the compass, so it was no easy task deciding which I should engage in conversation. I eventually opted to concentrate on the one which had produced the Enigma poem, the most recent of my efforts - until today, that is.
To be totally contrary, though, both of the following were tapped out on the keyboard; no back of envelope (traditional) or pencil (optional) played any part in their composition.
Ode To An Old, Wooden Pencil
Oh, Pencil! How your black and red
draws words and pictures from my head.
The painted stripes are dented, scratched,
but still your black lead stays intact.
You once belonged unto another,
who chewed your end. It made me shudder.
But when I found you, sad, forlorn,
I docked your tail. You were reborn.
Now, detrimental teeth marks gone,
and pristine eraser placed upon
your nether regions, you're renewed -
one cannot tell you had been chewed!
Blue Clutch Wonder
Nought point seven millimetre,
Pentel two oh seven;
a wonder of the modern age,
a pencil straight from heaven.
Turquoise barrel, silver clip,
twelve leads inside his shell;
consistency of breadth is his,
he always serves me well.
His point is ever crisp and sharp,
yet soft and freely flowing,
with leads advancing one by one;
spare refills keep him going.
No sharpener need spoil his head,
and splinter pointed dome,
for on this marvel of design,
his headgear's made of chrome.
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