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This Bereft Poet

I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls, from my conscience as it spoke contemptible remarks aimed at me. What shame those words delivered. "Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver, mimicking trembling lips of a child in fear? You dare call yourself a poet, but you're nothing more than a joke." Guilt, the culprit that tunnels my mind as my passion flower shrivels on its vine. An empty heart has stripped my soul of its craving need to write. It's my own foolish notion that causes me to shiver. I weep over my planted seedlings, their mournful cries I hear. Abandoned by their mother who begot them, and for this I'm filled with remorseful regret. That mockery invaded my aching breast, when it ridiculed me as a fool; "A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task, should put down the quill and live in disgrace." There is no saving grace for me. No nourishment for my verses to thrive. My heart is broken and lost in memories. Without the will to live, how will it survive? It only beats to keep me alive. Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered dying of thirst, drying up in a field of grief, and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit as time elapses and I watch them expire. I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines and must retire. I've watered the seeds of my self doubt with salted sweat from my furrowed brow; over fertilized them with tears of frustration. I do not seek salvation or redemption. Damnation will out. My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek. I have not a drop to quench their thirst no morning dew, nor afternoon shower to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief. I've tried to save them all, but half-hearted attempts were all in vain. Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain and suffering loss. All hope is gone. My fear is that I cannot express myself in what was once an emotional voice. No wonder my pages remain barren and blank, except for the blotches of spilled ink. My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay. I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine, setting it free and pray that it may be forgiven for my folly, for I've given it no choice. I've only myself, this bereft poet, to thank. Written January 24th, 2021 Judged N/A 2/22/21 Contest Open Poetry !

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021




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Date: 1/24/2021 6:42:00 PM
A fantastic poem full of a poet’s most intense feeling. A superb poem Jenna.
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Jenna Logan
Date: 1/26/2021 4:10:00 PM
Thank you for your kind comments, Caren.
Date: 1/24/2021 1:00:00 PM
A poem with sound ideas. Great imagery with lovely poetry. ~~
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Jenna Logan
Date: 1/26/2021 4:10:00 PM
Thanks so very much, Victor.
Date: 1/24/2021 12:24:00 PM
I don't know who in the mind is telling you those things...but the ink is in pain...Love the imagery you've conveyed.
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Jenna Logan
Date: 1/26/2021 4:09:00 PM
lol No one is, Arturo, but thanks for your vote of confidence.
Date: 1/24/2021 11:22:00 AM
I have been bereft about my poetry Jenna and i know I am no bard lol, I know this is a fictional write because your poetry skills are exceptional, write on young lady:-) hugs jan xx
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Jenna Logan
Date: 1/26/2021 4:09:00 PM
Thanks so much, Jan. You should never feel bereft over anything you write.
Date: 1/24/2021 8:18:00 AM
I dare say you ae an incredible poet Jenna Logan, and this is yet another incredible poem from your pen. Your writing blows me away. Hugs, John
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Jenna Logan
Date: 1/24/2021 8:30:00 AM
Your words always honor my poetry, John. I'm humbled by your bountiful thoughts and value them greatly. Thank you.
Date: 1/24/2021 8:12:00 AM
In the immortal words of Shakespeare's mentor...."JUST SHUT UP AND WRITE!" ONLY KIDDIN" Jenna......great write and I think some of this is based on those doubts that assail all poets. Love the multiple metaphors
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Jenna Logan
Date: 1/24/2021 8:28:00 AM
I LOVE that quote, John! I am more apt to verbally shut up than I'd ever be able to throw away my pen or keyboard. Thank you for such fantastic remarks.
Date: 1/24/2021 7:48:00 AM
A cry from the heart Jenna of a bereft poet, of course anyone that reads your poetry knows its a fictional write. Well written. Tom
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Jenna Logan
Date: 1/24/2021 8:26:00 AM
Thank you for your many gifts of complimentary comments, Tom. It is fiction, and was started as a short write, based on a simple verse, but my pen was having none of that...the end result was this rather long expose' of a poet who seems to have lost her desire to write, based on lost love. Never the case for me. The more tragic my love life, the more words filled my pages.

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