this pencil is my savior, it is my voice
this pencil sings of lost love
of lost hope
the tree of life that grows
the garden of the dark fruit
this wood; it is my paint brush that
caress’s my soul, that soothes my heart
and whittle’s away my time
this pencil, this withering branch that
I sharpen and point toward the East
point toward the past and point toward
the gates of history-
it is my mast that floats erect
on the swells of the ocean
traveling toward the shore
lightened with buoyancy
lightened with poetry
this pencil is my savior, it is
singing my tales, singing my songs
singing my voices of hope.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
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