Soul droops when the weather is wet,
darkened days, drizzle on windows,
Wife watching same soaps,I detest,
no one to talk, no friends, no foes!
Birds take a nap in their hideouts,
cat warming up near fire place,
some eager sports, fishing for trouts,
mystery read, close book,shut case.
Hunger features when day is dull,
seek slice of bread to get undone,
warm herbal tea to light up skull,
to wake up muse and have some fun!
Hazard an attempt with my pen,
old fashioned, paper and pen style,
but ink is dry, thoughts frozen,
wait! my verse will flow in a while!
‘When there is no inspiration’ Poetry Contest
Sponsor Silent one
3rd placement
Written 03/10/2020
Poetry tears ..
Crystalline ants march down my face
Like little soldiers they line up in formation
communicating with their feelers
words drip drip drip onto the page
Leaching out
Spreading a message…
Are you paying attention to what they say
As they splash from the puddles of my mind
They run run run
f
r
e
e
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
until the ink is dry
Poetry Fill in the Blank Contest Sponsored by Poet Destroyer A
04~30~16
My inky echoes conflate,
atop mountains of ivory versos;
Blank pages into whispers,
like the sway of moonlight tides;
Papers dappled by my ineffable,
frays of jet-black cursive swirls;
My best ideas are forever found,
somewhere amidst silent worlds;
'Tis best to search for me right before,
the feathery quill touches to the page;
Arisen from the blotter, my hand held in totter,
but before I drizzle down the tar;
Where my psyche thinks loud,
with the rhythm and the rage;
A battle-ballet of coarse cashmere haze,
only then does my heart think to open up its cage;
Still I promise to always behave like a poet,
one who is the epitome of an idyllic odist;
Solemn ink be my savior, perhaps a mind lost in time,
resonant verse between blinks, my soul in the lines--
March 15, 2016
The ride is over
The time has come
Theres no more to write
Everything has been done
The last page is full
The ink is dry
It's hard to think
It's hard to concentrate
A minute goes by
Still nothing comes to mind
But I keep going
The poem gets longer
I start to write faster
Thoughts turn into sentences
and sentences into lines
So in a way,
The page might be filled
The ink might be dry
But out there
Somewhere
A book lays open
Waiting to be filled
of love,
of hate,
of joy
of pain,
So again I say,
The book is over
The ink is dry
Theres more to come
Though even more to hide.
End
My pen is still,
The ink is dry;
The words have gone,
Have passed me by.
No poems am I to write this day;
The will to write has fled away.
But don't be too sad if I don't sing;
Another day a song I'll bring.
The words I had that spoke of love,
Will come again, and soon, by Jove!
And into my fist my pen will fly,
And I'll list the words that passed me by,
And lush words of love at last I'll say,
And I'll make up for this empty day!