As the blush of a lovely breast spreads
Harpy eagle's desire hovers over the Tigris River
Taurus rides the high tide of excitement.
The Cliff gets inundated by huge floods
Turbulent is the danger time boat-
Turning the inkpot upside down-
Principia Mathematica gets blurred
Young sailor is disoriented without a lighthouse
Falling are the rudder and mast on the waves.
Categories:
inkpot, allegory, mystery,
Form: Free verse
In middle America — a small earth tremor,
not enough to scare the cat,
the cat felt it, and it told the mice
who lived in the walls.
"It wasn’t us", they said.
A mess on my desk;
the glass inkpot has toppled,
has spilled deep blue ink
on a sheet of white paper
printing upon it a smudging form,
— moth shaped,
and in the middle
a human figure– a man-moth.
I thought of ripple effects,
how all things run to the middle
when danger threatens.
I thought of Rorschach cards
and the anatomy of meaning.
Across the mid-point of the rug
the cat has fallen asleep.
The ink-image
tries to weakly crawls away,
its wet wings drooping.
I gently nudge it back to the middle,
eventually the ink dries and stiffens.
Categories:
inkpot, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Don't ink me in words ...
O godly pen, dark inkpot and restless jotter
Battling with his merciless thoughts
He inscribed me on the desert of unruled 40 pages
Drops of ink rattled with hue of black and red stains
The blue ink stood on the deck of his lost vehement
There were no sunflowers face to greet the east
The black roses at Turkey were little lighter in shades than the dark west
The stubborn spirit and madness in love
All her said he gyve
He inked her in word by words
Readers read her from decade after decades
Later years mortal was he
But his gravestone and she remained immortal in the hearts ...
Categories:
inkpot, 12th grade, age, art,
Form: Rhyme
Would my poetry improve if I used a posh pen
A fountain or quill, as was used back when
People took pride in all that they did
Not like these days, anything for a quid
Where are the inkwells that adorned a poets table
Imagine a quill pen with a white feather if you are able
The poet or writer looked in charge of the situation
As he dipped the quill into the ink with a flourish
And wrote words of inspiration
The ink flowed freely as the poet wrote words
Hardly ever heard of or used
Words that tugged at heartstrings
To take in, ponder and muse
A fountain pen came next without the romance of the quill
It was a status symbol some people collect them still
You did not dip the pen into an inkpot
Instead, you fill the pen with ink
Sometimes it got too full and made an ink-blot
Fountain pens are not used today only by a few
It was the Americans that invented something new
Biro is the name of this pen used by everyone
They are a dime a dozen and are sold by the ton
They are very practical and convenient to use
Therefore it's not the pen that makes poetry flow
It's the imagination of the muse
Categories:
inkpot, 10th grade,
Form: Rhyme
The heritage
went for a sale. A tree
stands denuded, after
a nudie.
An orange land hides
the broken remains of terra
cota. I wanted an earthen
inkpot and a reed pen.
There was a wounded word
on the tongue. A
dragonfly leaves the voracious
appetite and skims on milk.
Pulsating cleavage
gets a prize. The salt lakes
are full. A caged bird
will not sing.
Satish Verma
Categories:
inkpot, art,
Form: ABC
Cold-blooded,
I poison my precious poem
with the tip of my quivering quill
to quench the venomous quest
of my crystal inkpot!
Burying the edited lexis from my perished poetry
in the grisly graveyard of
dusty Dictionaries and tattered Thesaurus
I nip a bud from a withered bouquet of
touch-me not blues
and preserve the petals in the perky pages
of my decaying diary…
I push my pristine poetries in the ‘tower of silence’
for the heartless hungry vultures
who will devour them briskly,
while the inedible skeletons will melt
in the holy fires of eternity…
I crumple my unpublished work
and toss them in the unfathomable depths of dust-bin
lying near the moth-eaten closet at the Editor’s dusty desk!
With my ink-stained immaculate fingers
I strangle my perennial poem to premature demise.
Lets pray for her sanctimonious salvation
And hope she attains Nirvana
and get a peerless placement in
the lexiconian library of immortality…
Amen!
Categories:
inkpot, sad,
Form: Free verse
Oh yes! Poetry is still alive and well,
And in these modern times a poet may tell
By picking up any near-by pen
To express the beauty felt with-in.
Of these often troubled times,
A quiet place to compose rhymes
Blocks out the chaos of the day,
And lets the beauty steal away.
Tranquil waves upon the shore makes silence fall
On dirty city streets where roaches crawl.
The lovely mountain mist roams unaware
Of the voggy, sultry, humid air.
The graceful movements as cotton clouds drift by
Alas, defers to ‘Time’ on a pedestal set high.
Yet moments stolen from a hectic day
Keeps poet’s hearts safe from the fray.
© 2012 Connie Marcum Wong
Categories:
inkpot, introspection, life, on writing
Form: Lyric
Wood,
she gazed across to their titanium towers
from her granite perch across the wide
fair and wandering
what's
written for her;
and her ladder rungless,
jake's steps swallowed up,
feathers pouring through
like ripe red sack
from defrocked casks as
dusk starts dining
on the day:
night's spigot --
this delirious inkpot
tipped.
Categories:
inkpot, introspection,
Form: Free verse
Runs and walks
Hoots and toots
Corners and highways
Low and behold
My inkpot is finally full
The droughts have been long and cold
But it finally rained,
All behind the sunshine
My inkpot is finally full
Sitting here
Notepad in hand
Feeling all writey writey
My inkpot is full
Categories:
inkpot, on writing and words
Form: I do not know?
I dip the tip of quill
deep in my hearts inkpot
and cross my name with blood
out the record I got.
My name will not be found
in the book of passion.
I wish I could erase
my desires madness.
But how forget the past
if remaining sadness
still painful hurts my soul?
Rainbows turn to ashen.
The open gates to dreams
tempting and forbidden
are with repentance closed.
I will keep them hidden,
ask pardon for my flaw,
fighting my dispassion.
Categories:
inkpot, introspection, loss, lost love,
Form: I do not know?