Best Inkwells Poems
W afting wonder world-wide
A stonishing, astounding artistry
R apier-like Rennaisance rhymes
R enascent, radiant resonance
I ndigo inkwells of incense
O mniscient, omnipotent originality
R evered, redoubtable Romantic
Fly to Heaven on poetic wings
My friend, Our friend
Winged Warrior
Categories:
inkwells, heaven, i miss you,
Form:
Acrostic
The era of catatonic self-destruction has risen yet again from boulder-blocked caves,
Whose cavernous stalactite incisors drip with the blood of thorny crowns,
Worn in punitive irony for the subversion of fertile inferiority,
Which, like rabbits, duplicates and hops about in trouncing contentment.
Yet despite the grin stretched beneath empty eyes,
Which are eclipsed by dilation of cimmerian shades poured from tipped inkwells,
Darkness ripened by age has inflated its penumbral grasp upon the solar plexus.
Hearts beat now to the false circadian rhythm of telemetry.
Screens fueled by waves polluting the air scramble for attention;
Screaming as if the spotlight has slithered away from their thespian heads.
But even so we watch as if waiting for a nothingness we know.
Petulant performances pretending to perfect the perception of reality persevere,
Despite their lack of empirical validity.
Our bodies and the space around they occupy have become irrelevant.
Experience and physical stimulation have been replaced by mirror neurons,
Firing incessantly at the sight of electromagnetic facsimiles,
Which are vomited in projected disproportion into our unwitting faces,
From nauseating mouths of those whose disease has spread to lower echelons.
And so we sit and stare upon the square on walls and in our hands,
As the prefrontal cortex and its dehydrated lobes succumb to the reptilians.
Another era of lack of mind borne from the fruitlessness of parasitic seeds,
Planted by the pretenders who swim in the wealth of our applause.
Clap away, we will, until we collapse in the arthritic solidification of redundant repetition.
Welcome to the show; a televised apocalypse of thought.
Where worlds were once created in cognition,
They're now created in the lenses of cameras.
When worlds were once refracted light coruscating from the eye,
They're now flickered in slides reflected from the television.
Categories:
inkwells, addiction, social, society,
Form:
Free verse
Inkwells in desks with lift-uplids
Tables written out with old pen nibs
Noses pressed flat on the window glass
our pockets tinkling ,full of brass
Exploring fields across the brook
studying in nature's real time book
Fishing for minnows with jar and net
oftimes slipping and getting wet
Winding brooklets filling narrow streams
into rivers of childhood dreams
Categories:
inkwells, childhood, history, nostalgia
Form:
Crystalline
In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
A million million life forms. And silence in the library.
Dr. Who: Episode - Silence in the Library
THE SILENCE S.O.S.
the rasp of a metamorphic voice.
is boredom in chase? the stillness a shape?
does genius inhabit this dark room?
the click of cobblestone echoes in the chamber,
narrow and narrower, restriction —
is this where a poet sprouts?
the fine doctor hears the silence,
doesn’t ever remember
how the dark shoots off its words.
a-musing, the silence, the silver bell
that cock-a-doodle-doos until noon.
in Central Park, his arms around my shoulder,
the silence feeling colder than my heart,
the guitar a-beating — the plunder of a crowd,
the splash falls gently from the inkwells.
there’s a space between us,
yet we grip each other’s hands —
the planets hug
in the universal silence.
fifty years later, the thumbing
of a cell,
people disappear on silent screens.
7/24/2019
The Sound of Silence Poetry Contest
John Hamilton
Poem Title would not let me use dots between SOS
Categories:
inkwells, silence,
Form:
Free verse
Can you recall being in school?
The clock, whose hands, never seemed to move!
The scent of fresh pencil shavings, m-m-m.
A box of new crayons to not only open, but to smell.
The desks we had, actually had inkwells, we used fountain
pens.
Add the beauty of a fresh notebook on which to write.
Learning to use a ruler, what glorious fun.
Some of us really learned to read the "Dick and Jane" series.
We actually had a real Christmas tree~ ah, that scent of
childhood's sparkling magnificence.
Our wide-eyed innocence~
And yes, we could sing of Jesus and angels.
His presence was allowed to swell our souls with hope and joy.
We had no idiotic questions, such as are you a girl or a boy?
No girl ever got pregnant, there was such a thing as chastity.
Who ever heard of murdering a baby?
Thankfully....not in my day, not me.
I give thanks for these simpler times.
I don't know how children can grow up sane anymore.
When morality is trashed and relativity is forever praised
and knocking at their childhood's door.
February 2, 2020
3pm PST
Categories:
inkwells, childhood, memory, school,
Form:
Free verse
YESTERDAYS
Inkwells in desks with lift-uplids
Tables written out with old pen nibs
Noses pressed flat on the window glass
our pockets tinkling ,full of brass
Exploring fields across the brook
studying in nature's real time book
Fishing for minnows with jar and net
oftimes slipping and getting wet
Winding brooklets filling narrow streams
into rivers of childhood dreams
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2008
Categories:
inkwells, nostalgia, word play,
Form:
Couplet
Blank pages strewed high on my desk in pain,
For now, I heard the squelch of death again,
It had echoed from my emptied inkwells,
As dying words crept from a mind that quells,
Pilfered hands scrawl at piles for hopeful hints,
A gleam, as much as a sign to convince,
A broked stopped clock reminds that time does not,
And a muted bird still has what its got,
Rambled eyes of a place in disguises,
Shadows grow as my heart vaporizes,
My rhythmless moves just proved my resolve,
I heard the squelch of death again, evolve.
2019 September 14
Categories:
inkwells, allegory, analogy, fate, lost,
Form:
Rhyme
I
Veins blue as death but they flow,
tributaries in a returning system.
They fork only when the mind
rides a lightly sleeping cycle
to a venous river
and there sinks within seeking a source
for it must be replenished, made to
travel on richer currents of air.
In such a reverie
blue threads splay, spread themselves
traveling to a nexus of stars on byways
stripped of any anatomy.
II
The girls and boys ride to school
ever faster,
a teacher fills blue inkwells
from a drip in his arm.
The children peddle swiftly along;
for on every desk
there's an apple for each of them.
In that fruit
a slow wriggling hex, a pishogue
sheds one desiccated skin after another
expanding its continuance,
but not so soon, not so fast,
not as speedily as the blue river runs
for it is the stream that feeds into itself.
III
That indigo atlas furrows a mounting gravity
through a chambered pump
for it has miles yet to cycle,
it surges and swells unhindered,
it crests and syphons
through transforming bellows,
around it pounds
unless that dark spell grows too large
and dams its onward course
then it may cease upon the morrow
or worse.
Categories:
inkwells, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
The poet writes from
heart not head, and
from his nib
poised words are
bled upon spun papyrus.
Drawn deep from inkwells in
his soul, both veracity and chimera
flow into word wonderment. From poet’s
veins there flows a stream, vernacular eddies,
profound, extreme, give way to eloquence. On
hardened pulp, at his bequest, wounds once found
beneath his flesh have now been given voice.
Categories:
inkwells, on writing and words,
Form:
Shape
It gathered them,
the dust in the wind,
to a one-room building
filled with laughter and friends.
A time for Johnny
to pull Sally's pig tails.
Boys hiding frogs
in girl's lunch pails.
Inkwells for writing,
catalogs for reading.
Not much else
farm kids needing.
It gathered the children
of Sally and Johnny,
and before them,
their Daddy and Mommy.
In a dark store room,
no longer a must,
the old school bell
gathers a different dust.
0/03/15
Contest: Gathering Dust
Sponsor: John Lawless
Categories:
inkwells, change, children, school,
Form:
Rhyme
“ You know; you look like someone else ”
Was the first thing she said
I never did ask, just who, I reminded her of
Say romance fornicated in the guttering of a candle
And its flame lay in all the rivulets of melted wax
We were the twin coupling of paper straws
As we sipped the sweet nectar
And our tongues lay heavy laden with its sugar
So we basked in the reflection
Of each others mirror
It still troubles me
How in one another’s puppetry
We were just so much the condensation of syrup
Clinging cold to the cardboard cup
And even though our fingers
Could have shamed the bonfires we built
We were nothing more than a mirage
On the horizons of love
Promise me your soul in forever wants
Between the sheets of passion and someone else
All wept in falsehoods with the petals of lilies
And heavy laden tongue now lay split in iron railings
“ You know, you remind me of someone ”
It troubles me still
How we sank with such poetic and tragic quills
Deep to the depths of our own dark inkwells
Never having breached onto a naked shore
Never having ever really, truly, held each other
We were a spasm, a searching for
Alluding to a succinct intonation of meaning
Written playful, colourful on headlines and posters
Fast food prerequisites
To fill the emptiness
Momentarily in some desperation of sincerity
We shared each other’s
Slush Puppy
Categories:
inkwells, loveme, me,
Form:
Free verse
Swirling vistas of such sweetness found floating through the auspian air ~
Pen to pad calibre idioms beyond the verbs measuring these tidewater inkwells aside
Beauties, evergreen genetives in red, white and pinks, pronounced; Camelots dreams....
Testimonials of daybreak amid the pacific keynotes?!
Her ambient adverb treasures, gently washing upon the shore inside, my thirsting soul ~
These syntax reasonings postulating now their exotic gatherings; stencils
Moonstruck truths at contemporaries point break; subverting the translucent waves
Amplified currents in forms approaching this high tides, ecliptic heart....
Shadows once shimmering their syllables of review; now, a nouns verse!?
Swirling my spirit deep inside this melding aqua paragraphs, seaside melodies; rhymes
In literatures pacific daybreak keynotes ~
Postulating Moonstruck testimonials; syntax reasons floating through the air of this, loves
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...."Comtemporary Romance Novel?!"
Categories:
inkwells, faith, life, love, passion
Form:
Fill up the inkwells
The poets are in town
Bleeding black and blue ~
Verbs, adjectives, nouns
Categories:
inkwells, blue, cheer up, poets,
Form:
Light Verse
Inkwells,
vein of the Quills,
scribing upon parchments,
heavy laden with dark secrets,
blotted
Date: 23/04/23
Traditional Cinquain poetry contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
Categories:
inkwells, mystery, writing,
Form:
Cinquain
U F O is a W d o p u y t r e s a d f g h k l k m n b v c xz q?
Feeling ill cam be understood to be akin to laying down upside down on a constantly rotating piece of grass that moves so rapidly that ground cannot really fathom a place to stand still. But stillness is not stagnation nor is it syllables stalling for stillness is often likened to a giant hexagonal bee swarm rotating royally signalling to jester fish that the top of a yogurt reads the same as the top line of a paragraph but minus the full stop. Equations equipped equatorial effluent efflorescent elephant. And a stripey square ball rolled away in a hexagonal formation before jumping into the swimming pool. Bowl then. But only wearing a bowler hat. Great. Now that is done the items can be imagined to be interested in inkwells'. Fantastical news for ten z frames, a beeswax curdle, a shrinkable curry, a curriculum carriage, and a force ten thousand gale singing a pleasant hymn. Loudly. While practising gymnastics with a fork lift truck and a lorry in a leotard. Z organizationally Z at forty one knots knitting ro eighteen balls of wool lugging loaded leaf loaves. X
Categories:
inkwells, adventure, assonance,
Form: