Best Nib Poems
If I was to write of love, then from my
nib your heart would flow. Dreams
would be the parchment on which I
scribe, and your fragrance the sentence
formed. A desire and passion would
flood my page, with intermittent kisses
instead of punctuation. Chapters of
grace would fill your eyes, the contents
feelings spill your soul. The ink from
deep and pulsing veins, would secrete
the validity of my emotions. I see and
do not see, for with your absence my
page is blank, yet in your thought reams
I write. Let this page be a blanket on
which those eyes could sleep, and
realize my love is not a dream, but
reality in reaching words.
Categories:
nib, love
Form:
Free verse
Bloody rude drunken pen has enjoyed a nib of ink or two, reminiscing on a few
Bad and ugly times, we both admit at times things were, a bit of a mess,
All kinds of intertwined, confused but along the way making some progress
On the grand masterpiece of all masterpieces – writing bliss
At first polite, we take in turns, to interject with collaborative words,
Until the air hits us hard, take a breath, where’s your etiquette, manners and respect,
My turn pen, I command, continue on to write, scribbling like an erratic bird’s nest.
Pen resists and spits its ink, a dirty blob from its nib…how rude
All smudged and slurred is a dribbling rambling of everything crude
Across the page leaking its ink, clearly from excessive drink
Dancing on thin ice, my drunken pen decides to try and entice
Inviting me to envelope, his muscular body with smooth fingers
Such fraternisation you drunken sleaze, how do you expect to please
The love of your life, giving you permission to write and express your ink with ease
Drunken pen is at a loss as reflects on his drunken state, its very late
Blubbering relaxed words across the page, deep within and obscure
Then I realise that my drunken pen is sometimes a little insecure
He has a way of making me melt when I think of his 50 shades of blue
Each drink of ink that fills his nib, that prints our words, that stains my skin
Is in every way the partnership of creative bliss and my perfect hue
2nd October 2012
Written for Drunken Pen - Part 2 Contest
Categories:
nib, imagination, me,
Form:
Free verse
It was not my intention to ever post in PS again
but through an open window I've caught a glimpse
and smell of what's been dumped into the soup.
No pleasure to poets will cruel deception bring
through mendacious words with a venomous sting
Clumsy are the fingers thrusting a poisoned dart
Villany flows from the arteries of a wicked heart
What keeps one hidden in fear behind a mask
lurking in shadows whilst imbibing from a flask
It's a path encrusted with derision and pretense
One a fool walks when guilt becomes immense
What price for a soul that's died too many deaths
or a life once more restored with sinister breaths
How many graves dug when loose threads unravel
Move on before the judge wields his mighty gavel
Only the naive and gullible would dare to believe
such repugnant lines written and meant to deceive
A weed in a garden, secreted among stalks of wheat
soon to wither and wilt. Such is the fate of a cheat
Vinegar in ink from a pen's nib has been interlaced
Woe to a deplorable life when it has been disgraced
Jagged, the rusted edge honed by a dour personality
In darkness looms the lonely; a hallmark of depravity
Categories:
nib, introspection,
Form:
Rhyme
Gatherings from my heart
fervid thoughts as they seep
from its depths they are churning
my love runs fathoms deep
Flowing from pointed nib of pen
evocative words alight
I envision you reading them
in your dreams tonight
Do I fulfill your masculine cravings
your most erotic desires
Have I kindled flames of passion
until they are blazing fires
I've tasted your moistened lips
as they whispered low moans in plea
and felt your body tremble
with its alluring need of me
Are you engulfed by tumultuous waves
of yearning when I draw near
Do you ache, needing my touch
when my voice you hear
If you are impatient for the eclipse
of our joining as sun and moon
Then I'll know you feel as I do
and love is equally in attune
Categories:
nib, longing,
Form:
Rhyme
"Although I'm familiar with the art of poetry,
no one has inspired my muse
to inscribe my own journal. -
so I placed my soul in her hands." Silent One
I used to be a journal,
daily dips of ink dripped
deep into my dilapidated soul.
Supporting sorrows of the one
who wrote with endeavour,
'letting go,' of the blackness,
infested within her veins.
Endless chapters of vents,
tears, fears and misery,
bleeding from ruptured arteries,
etched upon the fresh fibres
of a canvas of compassion.
In times of fantasy,
I was a field full of her
supressed wildflowers.
In reality, I was her diary
of deep, destructive desires.
Now her pen rests,
with a sharp nib pointing at me.
Like a shield, preventing
her ink to reveal the
truths behind metaphors.
I'm an anthology of her emotions,
wondering how the next chapter
will be written - is there more to confess?
But in her mute melancholy,
I can think of reasons to express,
but many more to remain inkless.
Yet no other 'ink-toxication' can fill this void -
I'LL FOREVER REMAIN WORTHLESS
as what purpose do I have
without her words perpetually
nourishing my empathic existence.
In this slumber, I collect dust,
feeling bare, but in her rejection -
hungering for her verses to soothe.
Categories:
nib, analogy,
Form:
Free verse
Who are those funny poets
Be it Jack Ellison or Jan Allison,
their witty pens invariably giggle,
Eileen's passionate words set ablaze
Dave's love lyrics urge us to dance.
While Paul's imagery leaves in awe,
Nette and Andrea trick with riddles,
Linda and Skat the souls of soup,
Carrie's creative brush paints vivid
Frederic lends throbs to emotions
Richard's positivity puts to dance,
Hats off to romantic Tim and Olive
Constance dips her nib in ink of heart.
Judy places at number one to shimmer
Silent one and rob bestow fortunes,
Missed are Carolyn's wise words
and Dr Ram Mehta's brilliant fun writes.
Written Dec 12th, 2015
For contest "Who are those funny poets" by Judy
1st place win
Categories:
nib, beauty, fun,
Form:
Verse
I’m a young boy
A single mother’s son
I’m a young beach beaten by a tsunami
Sent by an undersea earthquake delivering ripples of death
Carrying my mother and hers out to sea
Ravaged sands asking the sunset to reveal the secrets of the sunrise
I’m a father to a wonderful child
A beautiful wife’s husband
I’m the love in each rain drop of a gentle rain
Nurturing arid hearts with the moisture of my words
Watering seeds of the future with hope
The catalyst for the magic of spring
I’m a teacher
A Painter
I’m the strike of a snake
My fang: a pen’s nib full of black venom
Poisoning compressed cellulose pulp;
The anti-venom: beautiful words
Administered through the ink gracing the surface
A student of verse
~ I am a poet ~
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I was tagged by raul to write a poem that ends with
"I am a poet"
now I'm tagging Elaine George
Categories:
nib, introspectionbeautiful, beautiful,
Form:
Free verse
A fallacy, that every 'once upon a time'
is a beautiful fantasy, for some hold lies
Fairytales have a hero, but also a villain
masked in sheep's clothing as a disguise
Red Riding Hood defeated the Big Bad Wolf
Billy Goat Gruff butted a troll to the stream
Simba overthrew Scar, vile imposter king
People are not always what they seem
A fancy dressed pirate was Captain Hook
Voldemart was He Who Must Not Be Named
Shere Khan, a snake slithering in the grass
Cold-hearted scoundrels should be blamed
Crows cluster to feast upon weak and dying
Sharks speed to feed in frenzied gathering
Wicked queens and witches jostle for power
boasting in gibberish while foolishly blathering
With evil intentions, dark minds contemplate
lurking in shadows while stalking their prey
for vengeance and spite, they congregate
water holes are dangerous on any given day
A real hero has no need to don a serape
Doesn't wield a sword with sharpened blade
A person with courage can dip a nib in ink
Dress in pink ruffles, wear her hair in a braid
Never tempt fate by entering a dragon's lair
Do not willfully step into the nest of a viper
or praise a chamaleon for its deceitful charade
while he plays the luring tune of a Pied Piper
Think carefully before you fork your tongue
or write words that can easily be misconstrued
Throw off the sinister attitude of a blackguard
unless you take delight in being labeled "crude"
Categories:
nib, evil, people,
Form:
Rhyme
Somewhere in the pretty petty imaginary illusion of delusion
There lies a truth an edifice of search between obtuse confusion
Windows like brick walls and concrete blocks birthing the light
Nails to be nailed screws to be screwed with monumental sight
A life a building fortress sand castle beach hut nutter’s dream
Maybe a prison with towers barbed wire fences mindful scream
Some multi storied paradise no choke on apple’s stem or core
No passion fruit in torture chambers shackles behind and to the fore
No hidden attic and no cellar no stellar fantasy no quick descent
For now simply one dimension deserted plain hopes to ferment
Scraping no skies a cave hovel card board box a bombed out grave
Nothing to hold onto no graces left spent and ravished naught to save
Is it magic thought provoked delusion of illusion alluded distortion
Who knows does it matter I suppose it does in incomplete reapportion
Some are born in a manger on the fields of labour some with a silver spoon
Surely some would rather have foundations a ceiling not some lonely moon
Get me not wrong as singing the praises of romantic poverty and dearth
Icy cold and freezing bones do not bear up to sound safe privilege in birth
Yet from the scraping nib and luxury of pen in hand and philosophic mind
Not wishing to lack compassion nor cementing over cracks so misaligned
We are the builders of our lives to some extent despite the vagaries so vast
Can we find a staircase upwards some sliding pole to reach out for the past
In such compassion regardless of painful structures and abandoned need
Is some notion some motion of change and nourishment star dust to feed
In God we trust nihilism architecture Karma fate Nirvana hard core grind?
No valid answers but questions loving search for quiet mindfulness in kind
Categories:
nib, home, hope,
Form:
Rhyme
My soul rides the pen.
Flowing through the nib,
my thoughts are revealed;
flowing onto the page
in dark, liquid waves.
As a vessel, I pour;
all within me, spews forth.
Naked rivers of ink
Reveal muse’s secrets.
Muse wields her sword,
sliced opinions, fall away
upon journal pages.
Pen-to-paper, scratching letters and
words that betray us both.
She talks too much and insists that,
there are others who dream and believe, as we do.
Why do I feel like I must keep silent and
Let her do all of the talking?
With Pen, she speaks;
with sword, she conquers.
I am her vessel and I must let her pour.
Categories:
nib, imagination, introspection, muse, writing,
Form:
Prose
The mind has a fullness of thoughts
that brings some words to one's mind
this needs engagement of these two
so merging a marriage of a loving kind
One's mind is an awesome thing
there come our thoughts to bank upon
using these notions to fill your ink
stroking your nib before it's dawn
Using one's inner strength for good
projecting the mind for expression
learn well to practise words to use
holding firm any engrained tension
Use well the wisdom one has
to draw lines positively to rhyme
as well as other poetic types
whatever it takes tp poetically climb
Spreading your words way on high
it's within you to forge out your way
so that others spot your undoubted gift
provide support by your pen today!
Categories:
nib, poetry, spoken word, words,
Form:
Rhyme
There are parts of a whole and time undivided
A poet is more than an inkwell lost in half essence
Opposites contradictions and strife for harmony
An abundance of minutes and a scribe just the same
The nib scratches the surface and yet the fountain
Emerges from the bottomless depth of the well
When blotches and smudges refused to emerge from the pot
He utilizes festering wounds and heart blood
Treasures of hope joy and exuberant passion
Links dot to dot on canvass of words never lost
Fragments remain but he rearranged schedules
Measures rhythm rhyme and meters connections
Some call him a part time ‘unemployed’ poet
‘It’s just a hobby and foolish distraction’
Others reminded him that muse and artistic endeavour
Would not feed his body but he stomachs the pain
‘Irresponsible and insane’ yet one more accusation
A dreamer reckless idealist refusing to grow up and get real
A scriptorium can never be a half-way house and Tim is
A full slate writer whatever the say to diminish his craft
29th June 2019
Categories:
nib, freedom,
Form:
Free verse
Antique fountain pens, I love;
magic wands of the finest make.
I love to collect and repair these
treasures, for my own creative
fantasies...
For my poetry, oh, how they bleed;
my sketch books are filled with
expressive zest;
essence of my imagination,
dreamscapes conjured during
REM moments.
Not all of my little dots and blots,
are contained in sketchbooks and journals;
sadly, some have escaped.
One day as I sat sketching,
a paper-fiber snagged my nib.
It spat out ink, just a blot
but, imagine how I felt when,
suddenly, like Tinkerbell,
it flew away!
Categories:
nib, appreciation, art, imagery, imagination,
Form:
Prose
Metaphors and similes flow freely from my pen
when I am scripting and scribing in poetic verse.
Across the width of pale parchment pages
the nib of my feathered pen continues to traverse.
Ink courses fathoms deep within me like life blood,
rushing through the eddied channels of my veins.
I struggle to ignore the cramping in my fingers.
There's no hesitation when writing echoing refrains
when I imprison myself in poetry.
Each stanza I carefully arrange in proper sequence
as if it's a bairn born for the creation of my story.
Sometimes my gypsy muse joins me in the dance
when I write with abandonment in wild allegory.
I never try to rein her in when we're both focused
and driven to complete a poem, oblivious of time.
With vivid imagination, romantic sonnets are birthed
as I sit penning line after line in consummate rhyme,
incarcerated at my desk until I've written the last line.
My thoughts tumble like flurries of pristine snowflakes.
With a single spark of romance my passion ignites
as each completed verse falls perfectly into place, it lifts
my need to write compositions of love to greater heights.
Day and night, I find myself a wanderer, lost in reveries
where I journey in a private kingdom of verbose amplitude.
Around each curve in the road is a new challenge to be met,
and yet, none thwart me when trysting in romantic interlude.
Rude would be the one who would disturb me
when I'm handcuffed to a work in progress.
I try to indite with some semblance, dare I call it skill or talent?
By no means am I an accomplished laureate by my admission.
As a mere poet, I do not strive to compose a magnum opus,
but a meaningful collection of verses as a worthy composition.
If by chance, my poetry is interpreted and appreciated by some
who view my emotional imagery with soulful eyes of admiration,
I will credit my gypsy muse with her conspiratorial whispers
and amorous experiences as the impetus for my inspiration.
I hold the key to unlock my self-inflicted prison door,
and used when at last my pen has been laid to rest.
Categories:
nib, muse,
Form:
Rhyme
A droplet of ink formed at nib of pen
I flung it swiftly, seeing it as waste.
Then theorized what it might have been
Had I not acted in such great haste.
An aborted word, or merely a smudge
That in my haste I'd neglected to blot.
Time elapsed, but my mind wouldn't budge
From that small unassuming black spot.
Categories:
nib, confusion,
Form:
Lyric