Best Ink Is Dry Poems
(The Fallen Poet)
Shadows, fall from the east
Winter show, white meadows,
Compelling words lost, in a silent world
Beautiful, Bloomingdale is how it goes
Apocalypto-- my very own limbo
Alone in a field of corpses-
A field of men, women and broken pens,
Images of angels fallen to their knees
A piece of space, of solitude
The sun a wasted disease
The more I prayed the worse I felt,
Lord, I came before - broken and alone
Heaven sees the secret inside
Lost I may be, yet you see
Offended me, I no longer sing
I wait till all is asleep
My ink is dry, a broken poet, with nowhere to go
Lost in the shadows of snow, frozen like ice
A sheet of paper, with no meaning, no words
My friends, my comrades, how easily one forgets
Like a game of chess, I panicked
Made all the right and wrong moves
I lost my way, staggered across
Love comes and love goes
My heart weaker than, weak
I don't know how I survived before,
After turning the other cheek
I was no longer whole, forsaken myself endlessly
I was lost, could not even count on myself
Guidance, I ignored no one believed what's become of me
Alone, I stood in old footsteps after falling down
At times end, I found nothing could put me back where I belong
It's time to get back on offense,
Walk through the new, refreshing old footprints
~*~
My inky echoes conflate,
atop mountains of ivory versos;
Blank pages into whispers,
like the sway of moonlight tides;
Papers dappled by my ineffable,
frays of jet-black cursive swirls;
My best ideas are forever found,
somewhere amidst silent worlds;
'Tis best to search for me right before,
the feathery quill touches to the page;
Arisen from the blotter, my hand held in totter,
but before I drizzle down the tar;
Where my psyche thinks loud,
with the rhythm and the rage;
A battle-ballet of coarse cashmere haze,
only then does my heart think to open up its cage;
Still I promise to always behave like a poet,
one who is the epitome of an idyllic odist;
Solemn ink be my savior, perhaps a mind lost in time,
resonant verse between blinks, my soul in the lines--
March 15, 2016
Poetry tears ..
Crystalline ants march down my face
Like little soldiers they line up in formation
communicating with their feelers
words drip drip drip onto the page
Leaching out
Spreading a message…
Are you paying attention to what they say
As they splash from the puddles of my mind
They run run run
f
r
e
e
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
until the ink is dry
Poetry Fill in the Blank Contest Sponsored by Poet Destroyer A
04~30~16
There is no poetry without you
Softly flows the sunset colors
painted on tired skies with fire
Igniting a wafting cloud in orchid tints,
the fresh scent of pine lingering within its escape
Drowsy horizons boast their claim
along seaside waverings in salted mist
Romance swims on shorelines engulfed
with all of the pageantry a white cap stanza can bring
And I whistle as I walk along,
taking in this wonder that has followed me home
Resting on a porch swing, feet off the ground
as morning glories sleep beyond white painted balustrades
Satin fingers intertwine with mine,
milk pudding lips bring their flavor to me
Luscious frosting in a whipped frenzy
coating my mouth in sugary mass
I point to the sky, the stars they beckon,
heart shaped constellations for two
Twinkling in your twilight eyes
as I reach for my pen and pad
Only to realize that this indeed is my imagination,
lounging on a worn out sofa, tattered cushions,
empty beer cans acting like so many ashtrays
leaving wet rings on a table, but who cares
There was a time when poetry flowed
from these nicotine stained fingers
in paisley emotions and violet scentings
climbing the arbor of love
But since you left,
leaving behind the shadows which claim my eyes
my ink is dry and my paper tossed, tiny balls in random patterns
on a floor that begs carpeting, but only bares soiled footprints
As I struggle to my feet, to the front window
desperately waiting for the grass to grow and butterflies…
I stab the wooden sill with my pen, I need it no more, for…
there is no poetry without you…and never will be again
The reason I feel this poem is trophy worthy is it is exactly how I was feeling at the time I wrote it, it came from a very deep place in my heart. It covers the wonderful happiness I felt and the sad loneliness that came afterward which for a time did take the pen out of my hands.
The ride is over
The time has come
Theres no more to write
Everything has been done
The last page is full
The ink is dry
It's hard to think
It's hard to concentrate
A minute goes by
Still nothing comes to mind
But I keep going
The poem gets longer
I start to write faster
Thoughts turn into sentences
and sentences into lines
So in a way,
The page might be filled
The ink might be dry
But out there
Somewhere
A book lays open
Waiting to be filled
of love,
of hate,
of joy
of pain,
So again I say,
The book is over
The ink is dry
Theres more to come
Though even more to hide.
End
My pen is still,
The ink is dry;
The words have gone,
Have passed me by.
No poems am I to write this day;
The will to write has fled away.
But don't be too sad if I don't sing;
Another day a song I'll bring.
The words I had that spoke of love,
Will come again, and soon, by Jove!
And into my fist my pen will fly,
And I'll list the words that passed me by,
And lush words of love at last I'll say,
And I'll make up for this empty day!
Soul droops when the weather is wet,
darkened days, drizzle on windows,
Wife watching same soaps,I detest,
no one to talk, no friends, no foes!
Birds take a nap in their hideouts,
cat warming up near fire place,
some eager sports, fishing for trouts,
mystery read, close book,shut case.
Hunger features when day is dull,
seek slice of bread to get undone,
warm herbal tea to light up skull,
to wake up muse and have some fun!
Hazard an attempt with my pen,
old fashioned, paper and pen style,
but ink is dry, thoughts frozen,
wait! my verse will flow in a while!
‘When there is no inspiration’ Poetry Contest
Sponsor Silent one
3rd placement
Written 03/10/2020