Angele Toomey Poetry

An old pen, a cold morning, a drawer full of unsaid things. This is what stays with me when I think about what we keep — and what we don’t.

Difficult
The old pen looked great
A fancy click-click action
And four colours of ink
To make a grand impression.

The old pen felt balances
A nice fit with my hand
And high expectations
That we’d write something grand.

The old pen was stubborn
On cold mornings it refused
To release the ink I needed
To flow as I mused.

The old pen was hard work
It would bite into the paper
Tearing at ideas, that are
Hard to reform later.

The old pen is now banished
To the junk drawer
Hoarding its ink
Like the secrets we store.