KLECKSOGRAPHY*
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A poet was trying to think
When her cat tipped over the ink
As she tried to blot
Each puddle and dot
She discovered the missing link
She was born with many dreams In a colorful world
Which was darkly screwed
She was growing with all hers desires
To enjoy the childhood with friends And to study with heart in school of dream
But her life seemed to be moving in some other direction
She thought of wearing school uniform
But was made ready in a bridal dress
She was still unclear with thoughts
Was just following according to the elders with fantasy
She never knew what's happening with her life
And just happened to be like wind that moves over the sea,
She was a delicate bud which was still left to be bloomed
She thought of sharing food with her friends
But she was made to cook for everyone
She thought of soaring up in the sky high
But she was constrained to live inside a fence She was just a little girl
Who was still left to ripe
She was knotted with someone Who was a stranger for her
She was just made to leave her home For the so called rituals
She was to be sleeping in lap of her mother
But was forced to be a mother herself
She was still a child of full of fantasies
But was doomed and made living dead body by her loved one's.
The mind indeed is a wondrous thing
it has so much fully retained within
therefrom schooling years to old age
but no matter what it's tainted with sin
Only God can deal with such a state
His judgement alone will have its day
to escape this plight requires a sacrifice
only Jesus can be this perfect offering today
Ink that flows so sweetly has no blot
learn well with your pen a voice
speak with real insight and right
guide your pen so make a correct choice
Remember your tongue flows from your mind
enabling the pen to purposefully write
all that's in your own little grey cells
use it so others may know some new light
The pen is the tongue of the mind
speaking with your ink not a blot
let it flow like a long Mississippi
words to encapture your fire on the spot!
(Quote:
"The pen is the tongue of the mind")
Miguel de Cervantes ( 1547-1616)
His ribcage rushed to fill a new birthed space.
The night had been a barrel of dark dreams,
yet despite this other demanding cosmos of himself,
the daylight brought hope.
Riding unhindered by personal perspective
he relaxed as the bus took him
to a world where lovers
wrote themselves into a fantasy
that bloomed into existence once imagined.
Marveling as one silent, yet singing page
turned another, marveling at the land
that flowered with the voices of a redrawn past,
(for all days now were turning perfectly). Almost…
for he now noticed a blot, a small imperfect blot
in the far corner of a blue sky.
At that instant all the riders,
all the watchers, and all the watched
noticed the blemish.
The bus screeched to a halt.
People hurried to get off the vehicle
as if terrified of staying,
and yet terrified of leaving.
His heart thudded deeply.
His ribcage began to shrink
as he found himself rolling
over and over again inside the ribcage
of a dreaming whale.
Blot out my Transgressions and Iniquities a
Song of David Prophet Nathan appeals to King David~
From Anthology "SENT UP"
To Blot one's Copybook
A phrase that is now outdated
Then people used pen and ink to scribe
So words could be translated
In bygone days work was performed
With care and deliberation
To blot one's copybook
Was cause for consternation
It took your pride away
When you took a worried look
All you saw was the blot
That jumped out of the page
The longer you stared at it
The stronger your rage
You thought the page was ruined
And something pure had died
You had failed to notice
The perfection around the sides
bitterly flattered soul cut and pasted
12.26.2019
For Bobby May's
A Thief Who Steals Your Thoughts Poetry Contest
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!
example poem inspired by eckho scott's poem in the high critique forum which may be read here: https://www.poetrysoup.com/poetry/forum/topic7487-critique-please.aspx?MessageID=14459#post14459
She leaned into the mirror
cleaning her mascara.
Thick red lipstick, she painted her lips
practicing
and repracticing the smile
that hid the pain.
Careful,
she cleaned the red from her teeth,
so no one could see her rage.
She blotted
everything bleeding
into the tissue,
a stain thrown into the bin with his key.
Wandering dreamer,
saintly sinner,
intoxicating lover.
Take me the shore
push me beneath the waves,
baptize me
resurrect me
with sadistic pleasure.
Bring me closer
with your left hand
While I beg you to,
bless me the right.
But that hand;
remains forever still.
Blasphemous pastor,
drunken teacher,
righteous thief,
nephilim wordsmith.
weight me to the earth
with your dark gospel,
singing your sermon to the
flock of wolves;
as the rapture fills the sky,
with a billion living lights.
And in your twisted
book of life;
eternal ink blots,
Will replace our
names
The ink blot can BLINK
Hurrah! TODAY I think
Now a SPLOTCH is in the sink
With water I did not drink
If I spot this BLOTCH I'll scream
Bringing a crowd to this scene
Calming them all with CREAM
BUT this shock may never be
If I can wash it away with
Aqueous fluid indeed it will
Spill into the drain and glide
Onto infinite PARALLEL PLAINS
THE BLOTCH of SPLOTCH never
To be seen AGAIN. HURRAH!
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.