Sheets of blank paper had yellowed with age
I wielded a pen, but no ink was spilled by my hand,
Memories were left unwritten on every page,
though as many as a beach holds grains of sand
I gave in to my Muse and scrawled line after line
thoughts drawn from my soul, buried fathoms deep
Were all of those sad recollections really mine?
They were flowing as freely as the tears I weep
Reflections of my past in sunlight and ebony night,
refusing to remain entombed, fled from their prison
Strokes from darkness were escaping their plight
Released by my pen, from their sepulcher had risen
There is battle brandishing power in the pen I wield
A weapon I've found useful in place of a silent tongue
It cannot protect me as though suit of armor or shield,
Emotions shouldn't be confined; they should be sung
"Read away and let your imagination soar." By Poet......
I love books both new and old,
did you know there is power between the pages?
A book is made up of paper and ink,
the words give power to the fiction.
As a reader one can go many places,
learning about life and living.
Reading can bring one's imagination to life,
as you turn the pages reading away.
We can place ourselves and feelings in the story,
as we become one of the characters.
Sometimes it will take our breath away,
other times it may put us to sleep.
As a writer our imagination comes alive,
when the ink hits the paper.
The power of fiction,
can take us over as we write.
The letters become words,
then the words become sentences.
Our story becomes alive for the reader to enjoy,
after all we write for our readers.
As we write happy or sad,
the reader's feelings will come out.
We hope the reader will enjoy,
our vision for the poem or book.
a drop of ink
spreads through water,
trying to color
what cannot
be changed
keys rest in their rows
each one shaped by years of use
ink ghosts linger still
waiting for the next soft strike
to wake the stories they keep
I
A shaded lamp ¦¦¦ a waving blind,
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ beat of a clock from a ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ floor:
¦¦¦ this scene ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ horned, and spined -
¦¦¦ longlegs, ¦¦¦ moth, and ¦¦¦ dumbledore;
¦¦¦¦¦ 'mid ¦¦¦ page there idly stands
A ¦¦¦¦¦¦ fly, ¦¦¦¦ rubs its hands . . .
II
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ we five, in this ¦¦¦¦¦ place,
At this ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ time, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ in space.
- ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ my new-penned ink,
¦¦¦ bang ¦¦¦ the lamp-glass, ¦¦¦¦¦¦ and sink.
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ I muse. ¦¦¦ why?
They know Earth-secrets ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ not I.
(Blackout of An August Midnight by Thomas Hardy)
I erased the sun
his fevered lips brushed in gold
to hold the secrets
of autumn's sweet sacrifice ~
as I ink the fall of leaves…
This poem serves as an example of the paradox of tolerance.
I open the book,
its pages soft with human breath;
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
The spine holds more voices than mine,
each one insisting on its own truth~
I open the book.
Every chapter welcomes difference,
every margin invites dissent;
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
Every sentence leans toward mercy,
even when mercy strains and thins~
I open the book.
But tolerance has a shadow;
some ink cuts deeper than truth~
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
I turn the last page and see:
the cost of tolerating every voice~
I open the book.
it cannot protect the hands that hold it.
Bayt al-Hikma
Ancient pages breathe.
Books outlive every throne.
Ink crossed rivers.
The library vanished.
Knowledge shapes tomorrow.
Its wisdom still walks with us.
Don't think they will stop this creative writing spree.
But they are free to keep the sunshine for themselves;
I’d rather continue being best friends with the moon.
While wading in the water
caught a wet soft-bodied squid
took it home for dinner
but the evening was a damp squib
I don't think ink but due to
an unrequited one-way conversation
neither returned nor reciprocated
on my part quite the aberration
courtship was not to be
for as a voracious marine carnivore
I could not sate her hunger
as had insufficient albacore
therefore not a keeper
what's more a pet one cannot tame
next day all things considered and quite timely
'twas returned to the sea from whence she came
[Disclaimer: No Squid Were Harmed
in the Writing of this Poem®]
I desperately need an ink transfusion
AP: 2nd place 2026
I Van Gough,
love my paints and canvas.
My brush is dancing with dark blue,
as it covers the white canvas.
I see yellow as a luminous moon in my work,
like the bright sun outside my window.
A little white for depth,
white is all colors as one.
Black is needed to make this night dark,
because my night sky is filled with swirling stars,
with a village and cypress trees looking mysterious.
I create with paints and canvas,
my writer friend creates with ink,
a quill pen on paper.
My work comes alive with paint,
my friend comes alive with words.
Now almost finished,
I want it to be about a heavenly night,
I see a "Starry Night,"
this should be your name.
"Starry Night,"
Painted By Vincent Van Gogh in 1889.
When there is a lot to handle in life,
And catastrophes going on inside my mind..
I turn inwards, seeking for a sign.
The mountain of failures piled high
Like a castle, look me dead in the eye.
Could’ve beens and should’ve beens;
Written all over them like splattered ink on walls.
I retrospect and reflect on them.
Not pushing them away,
Merely trying to hold them in place.
The failures that once intimidated me,
Tell me tales of bravery and resilience.
They narrate the story of a battle well fought;
The scars etched in my heart;
Portray the image of a warrior,
Who never surrendered.
It is on days like this;
That I bleed ink.
The veins cut open,
Like a wound waiting to heal.
The only difference is that,
They bleed ink.
I bleed ink because it is the only way I thrive.
I put up a fight with my caricature of words,
That one cannot easily survive.
I bleed ink because it makes me feel alive.
I try channeling my inner Inky
Where ideas stream like a spring
With elegance in even her pinky
To write like her a dream
She must be a passionate soul
To reach debts of such a degree
Where we’ll go you never know
Just have to keep on reading
It’s true her muse is not a prude
They’ve a great ruby relationship
Poems not slow perhaps obtuse
Hard to speak understand lips
I use words that rhyme too much
So I admire her free style forte
She can rhyme and do trust
She always has something to say
I’m in a bit of a writer’s block
So I’m looking for inspiration
Ink Empress is my first stop
A creative soul joyful celebration
from the book’s open cradle,
a rush of color lifted~
soft wings trembling
like thoughts just born,
those delicate immigrants
rising from ink into air.
they gathered in a gentle rabble,
a drifting, shimmering chorus
of saffron, coral,
and moon-washed blue~
each one carrying a quiet story
the pages could no longer hold.
upward they traveled
a migration of light
toward the turquoise sky,
where the wind waited
to welcome their wandering,
to scatter their small miracles
across the wide, listening world.
From the book’s open heart,
a rabble of butterflies rose~
saffron flickers,
cerulean shivers,
petals of pink and ember-gold
fluttering into freedom.
They drifted upward
like loosened dreams,
each wing a watercolor whisper
of places yet imagined~
delicate immigrants
carrying quiet stories
the pages could no longer contain.
Across the turquoise stillness
they traveled,
a bright migration of meaning
stitching color into the sky,
leaving the book glowing behind them
as if every word
had learned to fly.
Sub Categories
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.