An Ode to the Writer's Creative Hand 

Strophe

The quill is dipped and tapped, 

Words scratched across the parchment, 

beneath candlelight, sunlit windows, 

beside the fire, across the page. 

Nature, animals, the murmur of conversation; 

bursts of inspiration travel 

from the senses 

to the writer's waiting hand. 

The quill is dipped once more. 

Each word and line is made carefully, 

knowing it may be a while 

before more ink or paper can be had.

Happiness, sorrow, anger, & mirth 

gather where the fingers move. 

O writer’s hand, 

creativity pours from the soul through you. 

Antistrophe

The pencil is sharpened, the pen is clicked; 

words written on paper, on any flat surface, 

beneath light bulbs, sunlit windows, 

beside the fire, across the page. 

Nature, animals, the murmur of conversation; 

bursts of inspiration travel 

from the senses 

to the writer's waiting hand. 

The pencil is sharpened once more, 

the pen is easily replaced, 

with little fear of cost 

or the burden of waste. 

Happiness, sorrow, anger, and mirth 

gather where the fingers move. 

O writer's hand, 

creativity pours from the soul through you. 

Epode

The device is powered, the app is opened; 

words drafted and typed, sent far and wide, 

or, beneath light bulbs, sunlit windows, 

beside the fire, by hand across the page. 

Nature, animals, the murmur of conversation; 

bursts of inspiration travel 

from the senses 

to the writer's waiting hand. 

With a simple click, imagination suffocates. 

Telling stories trained on writers who 

labored with quill, pencil, and pen. 

An unregulated thief that replaces souls; 

O writer's creative hand, you must always be the one to take control. 

Happiness, sorrow, anger, and mirth 

gather where the fingers move. 

O writer's hand, 

creativity pours from the soul through you.