Mabh Savage
Words and the world passing by; how it sings to me; how I clamour back.
Pens on the Table
There are pens on my table
I just can’t explain
When every refrain
Is tapped out on the lap top
Or vigorously thumbed
Into iPhone note pad apps
Between bites of baps
And inevitable wine
Lubricating the rhyme
There are pens on my table
I can’t tell you why
When my reach for the sky
Is mainly through wifi
No paper to scratch
Only ideas to hatch
There are pens on my table
I don’t know where from
When my notebooks were stolen
And lost in the bomb
Of my four year old artist’s
Creative monsoon
There are pens on the table;
He must have put them there.
Mabh Savage 