Best Pen And Ink Poems
Wondrous poems are melodies
Emancipated from live trees
Freed at last from trunk and limb
Freed at last to sing their hymn
Transplanted in the hearts they've torn
Transplanted by the poets they've borne
Echo in our hearts as rhyme
Echo through the sands of time
Written down with pen and ink
That all,
That would,
Might stop and think
How wondrous a poem can be
That's written deep within a tree
A tribute to young daffodils
may grace the poet's page:
new grass, full streams, or nesting larks,
as Spring takes center stage.
To write of faith feels natural
when pondering creation -
to render praise in poetry
with words of exaltation.
When wisdom is attained in life
not cheap or lightly earned,
and life throws shadows on our path,
we share what we have learned.
A little romance warms the heart
to reminisce of youth,
though tales we weave of loves long past
might quaintly stretch the truth.
A word or two of elegy
while contemplating death,
lamenting those we've dearly loved
who've drawn their final breath.
From time to time one must admit
it does the heart some good
to set one's sense of humor free
to lighten up the mood.
Yet other times a sharp protest
upholds the poet's creed
to fight injustice, hatred, war,
or poverty or greed.
The common thread that drives a soul
to take up pen and ink -
is being human to the core:
to love, to feel, to think.
written 29 April 2023
The Gift And Majesty Of Poetry
Once from deep pen and ink a poet born
sewing together life once sadly torn
from soft Heart, dearest Love and fragrant Breeze
within those spells cast among fairy trees
Imagining those chasms wide and deep
words of rainbow hues, great treasures to keep!
Once he that rhymes true, cast a magic spell
consulting a muse that gems did so tell
as earth spun about and its old soul wept
for all the wondrous beauty Nature kept
Writing as midnight, its toll did so strike
each closing verse became a golden spike!
Once willing spirit dared to give its all
singing forth from word kitchens down the hall
of brilliant rose gardens of pure delight
those so well hidden and those in plain sight
Seeking much more, based on poetry's art
its kind blessings sacrifices impart!
Once from deep pen and ink a poet born
sewing together life once sadly torn
from soft Heart, dearest Love and fragrant Breeze
within those spells cast among fairy trees
Imagining those chasms wide and deep
words of rainbow hues, great treasures to keep!
Robert J. Lindley, 7-19-2019
Rhyme, ( Why Poetry Blesses Us Mortals So )
Note: Written as a tribute to every poet that ever
splashed ink from pen and gifted us wonderfully
woven verses. That gave joy, delight, love, heart's
truth and fruits of a vivid intellect, kind soul and
gentle true-born spirit..
I had found solace in my quill
Because therein could be expressed
That tragedy which gave me chills.
The pen and ink gave me some rest—
Because therein could be expressed
The cold emotion that I felt.
The pen and ink gave me some rest
From my own soul's distress and welts.
The cold emotion that I felt,
Discoloring my mind's debris
From my own soul's distress and welts—
For only sadness could I see.
Discoloring my mind's debris,
The ocean tossed and turned on me.
For only sadness could I see
And then I found you set me free.
The ocean tossed and turned on me
Yet you had taken me to land
And then I found you set me free;
We played like children in the sand.
Yet you had taken me to land;
You rescued me from sure demise.
We played like children in the sand;
You showed me that you were so wise.
You rescued me from sure demise—
That tragedy which gave me chills.
You showed me that you were so wise;
I had found solace in my quill.
A morn's sun raised the blinds
As sunlight pinked the clouds
Its colors fell across
My lap, tinting my words
Sublime, pen and ink tried
To contain sentiment
As they spilled blue
The blinds dissipate
As words release truth
High the sun rises
Its light controls pen
Slower the pen
Then pauses, waits
As the day wears
Colors painted
Artist tool
A palette
As sun sets
Blinds close
Darkness
Shades
Inspired by a stanza written by Robert Frost:
The Death Of The Hired Man
"Part of a moon was falling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light pored softly in her lap. She saw it
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand"
Just part of it ...What struck me was "moon was falling down the west"
I love to sketch with a pen and ink;
to feel the flow of the lines that I think;
as they pour their way down my arm to my hand
and softly on the parchment land.
I love to sketch the shadows deep,
as from hand to pen point they creep.
The joy of all the special nibs;
My pen will use; the page to fill.
Oh how Muse does love the ride,
as down my arm and pen she slides;
her words of wisdom, gushing forth,
like rain drops spatter on my porch.
The rhythm of the curvatures;
the notes that play, they will ensure,
A lovely drawing, revealed to me
I’ll dive into its reverie.
2-1-19
For: "Hobbies Poetry Contest"
sponsored by Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
When dawn's light is drawn from the moon
And morning dew arrives in the afternoon
When willows rejoice instead of weeping
And promises are no longer worth keeping
When artists paint only in dull shades of gray
And stars abandon the realm of the Milky Way
When a pen and ink no longer can I find
When love is a word that can be defined
That will be the moment when I stop loving you
And my heart forever dwell in a world of blue
Not for the contest
No more do I despair
writing for contests with an off the wall theme
Those that want me to create a nightmare
from what was once a beautiful dream.
No more do I care
about Marvel characters who fight and kill
I'd rather spend my time writing silly limericks
for fun and honing a particular poetry skill
than worrying about meter and syllable tricks.
No more do I write
for contests where a sponsor forbids me to choose
how many spaces I indent each middle line
by someone who thinks they're a bard. No, I refuse
to write for a yobo whose rules constrict and confine.
No more contests
do I enter for judges who hold grudges and spite
or who offer friendship placements with a wink.
It's not fair to good poets who get N/A'd as a backbite
I've no more interest in participation with pen and ink
No longer care
to write for judges who give novel length instruction
Yes, rules should be followed, but not to such extreme.
It negates poetic license, serving as a poetic obstruction
making that contest sponsor, head of his or her regime.
No more writing
for those who prohibit adjectives and adverbs be used
or if the sponsor has never written in the specified form.
The power that some feel as a judge can be abused
while preaching about dos and don'ts from a platform.
Oh, spare me
from those who don't know the use of literary devices,
metaphors, proper grammar, and over doing alliteration.
To anyone who wants to enter contests, my advice is...
"Don't take a crown seriously. It will lead to abdication."
No more issues
to deal with sponsors who change their minds midway
through contests because no entries for the theme... bizarre,
and decide, without warning they have the right to say,
"I can do what I want." Who made them the contest czar?"
No blight is this
on judges who sincerely host, giving up their leisure time
to make PS a place where everyone can take an active part.
Those who appreciate good fun in free verse or with rhyme.
I applaud the fair-minded sponsors who have a good heart.
A few weeks ago, I decided to not enter PS contests any longer.
Why must I speak, fair one?
For I must only be here
and near you to know your color.
Let me trace only my eyes.
I’m figuring your splendor.
And when the key clicks,
will thee know thine secrets?
I keep them behind my lips
and I swallow them down,
only to gaze for and ever.
I sing these words now
with pen and ink and leaf.
I write and string my song for you.
It is the loudest quiet—
I am the book and you the keeper.
Whilst the atmosphere hums violently,
my irises engraved with a spell,
I am unable to look away from thee;
an aura I cannot escape.
Even now, my mind, a prisoner.
But when I must speak, fair one,
for it is you who must be my undoer.
Figure me, if you must.
Break my gaze, remind my soul,
so that you may know thine color.
Every time he picks up
his pen and ink
He is writing just for
me I like to think
This white paper is
our own satin sheet
His purpose is evident a
certain challenging feat
Each word elegantly
swirls with intent
Sentences coming together
being all heaven sent
Ink flows over my bare
flesh and each curve
Leaving me breathless
losing control and reserve
As his pen scrapes the
paper it sends such chills
Every period and question
mark ends new thrills
More passionately he writes
the deeper each pens stroke
Raising the excitement in
me teasingly provokes
Faster his pen artfully
brings on a reaction
When his pen releases its ink
in flesh tingling satisfaction
1st place
Strand Special 11 contest
Sponsor; Brian strand
long and rigid
in hand
strokes command
plunging in
fluid spills
creation begins
*inspired
("Honeybee on Apple Blossom", 2020, original pen and ink)
Nourishing Soul
Like a bee to the flower
Holding pollen and nectar
What is it we seek at play in the fields of the Lord
If not nourishment of the soul?
All the basics (food, water, sex and shelter)
Being just that,
The basis for what the soul actually incarnates for;
Knowledge, wisdom, truth, beauty, love and music!
And so the eternal Way
Continually arises as a forking path
Between true and false, good and evil, love and fear
Each step a test of our discernment and resolution.
The soul by nature is just and true
And yet, like a clear mountain spring
Subject to contamination as the influences of this life,
This world, leave a mark; in short the karmic debts we accrue.
And so comes the practical necessity of purifying,
Nipping the inevitable distortion and perversion in the bud,
The stains – pure and impure - that remain,
From each choice and challenge met.
The king of purifiers of course being forgiveness
Based in simple gratitude for the simple fact of simply being
Alive and able to learn, grow and forgive anew
Traveling the open path in confidence with an open mind.
Thus we gain the keys to the High-way, hidden in our pocket all along,
The kingdom, ever-present Here and Now,
To walk alert, head up, eyes and heart wide open - to it all,
Knowing with resolution and discernment we’ll be just fine.
(12/26/25)
captures her beauty in short strokes,
pen and ink frolic.
the exposure of vigor to the shoulders,
lace pirouetting, around her
budding flowers and hips.
§
her poised dalliance, relaxed.
her back to the admirer.
the weightlessness
characterized in charcoal skirt,
twining with a bare-orchid backdrop.
§
her frontal drop-dead gorgeousness
shrouded, but
for the tease of a slender hand
and ribbon dangling
down her nape.
§
the silver fox ballerina
aroused
by the artist brush
10/30/2019
Silence As Paper Absorbs Ink To Battle Rage
The clink, clink of hammer and anvil kissing hard
hot flames from fiery furnace belching molten steel
famous blades born from a fallen meteorite shard
gifts bloody deep cuts a fallen warrior feels.
Deadly romance of man, fire and metal forged true
tiresome toil that births deadly weapon made to kill
can opposition, pen and ink give such foe its due
when world spins faster to create deadlier thrills.
The clink, clink of hammer and anvil kissing hard
hot flames from fiery furnace belching molten steel
famous blades born from a fallen meteorite shard
gifts bloody deep cuts a fallen warrior feels.
Silence as paper absorbs ink to battle rage
long past late midnight hours, and quivering of hand
as poet consults epitaph of an ancient sage
to venture deeper into mists in darker lands.
The clink, clink of hammer and anvil kissing hard
hot flames from fiery furnace belching molten steel
famous blades born from a fallen meteorite shard
gifts bloody deep cuts a fallen warrior feels.
War from Man, can opposing factions separate
BLOODY PAWS FROM GOLD, ON A BROKEN DINNER PLATE
War from Man, can opposing factions separate
BLOODY PAWS FROM GOLD, ON A BROKEN DINNER PLATE.
R.J. Lindley
Nov. 12th 1984
Rhyme, ( War, Man, This World, As Opposed By Poetic Pen )
loose, lacy, white - a flowing blouse
the muse left clues in green-gray eyes
an outlier near the lighthouse-ocean
the seabreeze salty and windswept
foreshadowing of quill and paper
before she knew what to say
before the euphoria of surf
leapt up and touched her fingertips
before she learned to grasp
shadows and shapes, beyond the pale
moon and muted sun
dandelion seeds and towering
sunflowers kissed the blue sky
she’s a mere child, shy and unseen
seeded by the realm of poets
that came before her
the unknowns with journals
antique paper with vanishing ink
the poets with landscapes
that look out of their lighthouses
and see potential
perspicuity, peculiarity
themselves as a child
and open the window
let the little girl get a taste
of ebb and flow, pen and ink