Wisdom penned on parchment white,
Spine of life’s path, our bonafide guide,
Quenches a voracious appetite,
Minds ensnared in a rollercoaster ride.
Like a hot spring’s embrace in an arid land,
Hollowness fades as enlightenment grips,
A healer extending a helping hand,
Nurses the seeker's shattered bits.
Tickles the sixth sense in adversity,
Reviving life in a parasite's domain,
Ignition stems from diversity,
The more the merrier, they sustain.
Soul-stirring lines enchant the beloved,
Lures a master to a disciple devoted,
Sings a baby to sleep, dreams vivid and loved,
A hobby helps one stand out, truly noted.
Mania plaguing masses vast,
Knowledge bound in covers tight,
Literacy curbing poverty at last,
A golden treasure in sight.
Categories:
inkwell, books,
Form: Rhyme
My hands are tired, so I let my brush rest,
unable to paint Autumn's loneliness.
How much I miss you can never be stressed.
August has left behind blank emptiness.
Sitting by the window in the corner,
watching the world in its colourful hues.
I search for your face among the murmur,
but all I'm left with is a muse with blues.
In simple stillness your voice echoes loud.
Each stitch I weave I see you before me.
Memories remind me of what we vowed.
Without you there would be no artistry.
My palette is dry without your pastel,
all that's left is an indigo inkwell.
Categories:
inkwell, death, loss, love,
Form: Sonnet
flowery poem
overflowing sentiment
unburdened and old-fashioned
Victorian art
Queen Anne’s lace and pink roses
she wasn’t that kind of girl
Categories:
inkwell, poems,
Form: Sedoka
It's bad enough that I am dark as night
The fact hunters want her is not right.
Ink Well is furious that it is October again.
She is hiding out underneath her twin.
She popped a red hoodie over her head.
Halloween is coming, I don’t want you dead!
I felt angry now, hot, sweaty and mean.
Never a happy cat on Halloween.
Categories:
inkwell, cat, halloween,
Form: Rhyme
Sleeping In The Inkwell
Been looking around for that strange smell,
Don’t know if it’s coming from under the sink.
I been sleeping in the inkwell,
I can only wonder what you must think.
I hear there’s been a lot of loose talk,
Some dude talking smack about my babe,
But I been sleeping in the inkwell,
I wanted no part of that charade.
My babe, she left me,
High and dry in the summer,
She say I’m a liar, written in a note from her,
But I disagree.
She never really knew me.
But life had other idears,
My face got pocked,
I died many deaths looking into mirrors,
The doors to my sad kingdom utterly locked.
Still looking around for that strange smell,
It must be coming from under the sink,
I been sleeping in the inkwell,
I can only wonder what you must think.
Categories:
inkwell, fear,
Form: Lyric
I gather up my words
vaulted in my inkwells
dictionaries of feeling
my muse advises me
to plunge my quill
today in suffering
a dictionary of woe
sadly never ending
each word a lost soul
lost through ignorance
my quill quivers in despair
then light a yellow rose
my muse said refile it
she saw my concern
it stands for peace
you've not yet learnt
how to use it yet in fact
I don't think you ever will
each chance has been abused
oh there'll come one
when self-destruction
is finally realized extinction
the human race disgraced
the yellow rose elated
set free from suffering
the yellow rose of peace
the red rose of love
it to a soul survivor
I gathered up my words
sadly my muse now writes
me now also a lost soul
a word in the inkwell of woe
Theme 'I gather up my words'
Let Your Pen Drip - Poetry Contest, sponsored by Broken Wings
05/18/18
Categories:
inkwell, words,
Form: Free verse
Lithesome lines of rapturous rhymes and torrid truths,
Written with piteous pleas and tantalized tease;
Left to others' wits to be interpretive sleuths
Of our loves, lusts, confessional musts and envies.
Rhythm ripping or cadence caressing penned words,
Weeping a caustic choice or singing a heart's rejoice;
Gathered in silken sentiments or stampeding herds
Inkwell of traipsing thoughts etched in poetic voice.
Susan Ashley
October 16, 2017
*'The Love Letter' - Painting by Samuel Luke Fildes*
Categories:
inkwell, poems, writing,
Form: Rhyme
Pray tell, my dear
How full is it?
The capacity of which it can hold?
If you would allow me to fill it
To look within it
The contains which are dry and old...
Your life's story
Must carry on
You need new ink to write
Let me, my dear
Fill your heart
And replace the ink from inside..
I'll make you new
It won't dry out
Not in this lifetime..
If you would let me
Fill your heart
And claim you as mine
Categories:
inkwell, love, old, romance,
Form: Free verse
Sadly, I have only the one shallow inkwell to enter words
About my adoring father’s incomparable life. And,
Webster’s entire dictionary is not enough to
Even describe a day of his existence. How on
This extremely small earth can it be accomplished? My
Attempts come up short every time I dip in shallow inkwells.
Maybe I can exist for a time as his apparent duplicate,
Even though, at best, I’ll portray a foggy impression.
Hurry, I better accelerate; he is fading as quickly
As the inkwell. Now, I can’t envision dad’s outline,
To imitate. Sorry it concluded in this utter letdown.
Our shallow inkwell has emptied; his immortality has expired.
Now I’ll face a fruitless eternity to accomplish comparisons.
For Con/Vow contest
Categories:
inkwell, dad, dedication, time,
Form: Free verse
The Golden Inkwell
I place a pulse inside my words
Stepping stones to the heartbeat of life
Like a canvas swiveling with colors
Dr. Rams words are better than gold
Sugarcane sweetens your tongue
Scented jasmine engulfs your space
Creations of imagery alive with light
Dr. Rams words are better than gold
As he reads with a total openness
Absorbing words that we have penned
Walking together across the page, we blend
Dr Rams words are better than gold
Accepting a writer experiencing the moment
He truthfully reveals the quality of their work
He encourages everyone to dig deeper
Dr. Rams words are better than gold
Carole Cookie Arnold
Categories:
inkwell, on writing and wordswords,
Form: Free verse
The poet writes from
heart not head, and
from his nib
poised words are
bled upon spun papyrus.
Drawn deep from inkwells in
his soul, both veracity and chimera
flow into word wonderment. From poet’s
veins there flows a stream, vernacular eddies,
profound, extreme, give way to eloquence. On
hardened pulp, at his bequest, wounds once found
beneath his flesh have now been given voice.
Categories:
inkwell, on writing and words,
Form: Shape