The ink is dry upon the vellum sheet,
Precision lines where every corner meets.
A calculated world of steel and stone,
Where logic carves a kingdom of its own.
But through the cracks, a stubborn green appears,
Defying all the measurements of years.
A tangled vine that does not know the rule,
The uninvited guest, the nature's fool.
One seeks the stillness of a sterile room,
The other thrives within a crowded loom.
How can the compass and the drifting seed
Find common ground for any mutual need?
The wall is built to keep the chaos out,
To silence every petal's quiet shout.
But roots are patient, heavy with their toll,
And structure cannot cage a lawless soul.
We stand together in this ruined space,
Two opposing truths in one embrace.
The grid is shattered by the rising thorn,
And in that wreckage, something new is born.
The censorship
Who would have guessed that X should
practice censorship, but it does
A person called Tommy Robertson has
been giving free rein to spew out his
hatred of migrants, mainly from Muslim countries
countries
In Tommy's mind, every migrant is a rapist
He hammers nonstop about the crime
they commit
One understands that the mass migration of
Poor people from Muslim countries are
a problem, caused by politicians, that
have not reduced the inflow, it is not the
migrants per se
Tommy Robertson is a vulgar agitator
who has been giving free rain on X to
to spew his hatred, to the point of defending
Israel's atrocities in Gaza and the West Bank
In Tommy's mind, a good Arab is a dead one
I have tried to be critical of him
But what I write is being censored
None of my criticisms of Tommy Robertson
Once they are published, they disappear
before the ink is dry
One has also noticed that George Galloway
are not saying anything critical, wanting
to keep his audience on X,
You've won my heart, no need to try
The tattoo's done, the ink is dry
For you, the Bluebird of my eye
I'll write your name next in the sky
A pair of jeans in faded blue
An onyx ring from you know who
Fun shoes in colors, every hue
Give me your hand and say, I do
While I in clothes that fit just right
Present myself, your shining knight
Until alone and out of sight
What happens next, just hang on tight
This doesn't mean that we won't sleep
Initially just not that deep
There's gifts to give and ones to keep
There's clothes torn off and in a heap
(Bleep)
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!
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