Inkwells Poems | Examples

Inkwells

What stays
unwritten
silence claims
forever
— to remain unchanged

(Dreamsleep: May, 2025)

Poetry Soup Main Fixings: Words

Words that stem from the heart seldom a mind,
would update fellow captives of a world
they knew--spent or saved since, much like the word
they are ... or were. Absentia defined
the heart's favor or mayhaps realigned
for its survival. Nonetheless, the heart
becomes the key element or stalwart
of their concern for life to be designed
for that world's fruition, taste a la carte.
Spent and saved ills time, victims objective;
spotlight, be recognized, and make your claim:
--author, I live, create me ... for I'm yours.
Words from the heart spur a rare perspective
melds in inkwells, mutes parchment, voice frame
heartfelt words fused presence ... eternal years.

The Vein of the Quill

Inkwells,
vein of the Quills,
scribing upon parchments,
heavy laden with dark secrets,
blotted


Date: 23/04/23
Traditional Cinquain poetry contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet

Fill Up the Inkwells

Fill up the inkwells
  The poets are in town

    Bleeding black and blue ~
    Verbs, adjectives, nouns

Tomorrow In the Wind

Hidden deep within the trees
a whispering tomorrow
Buried in their shadows
voices fall and take new breath

The midnight wind blows silent
carrying hope into the future
Words caught up and venture forth
to seed unspoken times

New spaces wait, the inkwells full
as prophets guard the entry
The mistral gales of seasons past
new zephyrs push away

Stanzas form, the future saved
as yesterday approaches
Saplings rising, breezes felt
—new forest closing in

(Dreamsleep: June, 2022)

Tomorrow In the Wind

Hidden deep within the trees
a whispering tomorrow
Buried in their shadows
voices fall and take new breath

The midnight wind blows silent
carrying hope into the future
Words caught up and venture forth
to seed unspoken times

New spaces wait, the inkwells full
as prophets guard the entry
The mistral gales of seasons past
new zephyrs push away

Stanzas form, the future saved
as yesterday approaches
Saplings rising, breezes felt
—new forest closing in

(Dreamsleep: June, 2022)

Labor of Love

world weary of iambics and prose ~ work with inkwells write from your soul


WORK PERSPECTIVE MONOKU Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Beata Agustin 
how many syllables (17)
05/05/22

Childhood Memories

FORTIES CHILD

Freezing slides
     on sheets of ice
Balaclavsa snug
Finger mitts
     snow-balling bold,
Playtime in the cold.

Satchels,desks 
       with lift-up lids
Pen nibs 
       & inkwells
Five-stones conkers 
               in the yard
before
      the lesson bell

repost from 2007

Verse Freed To Couplet

YESTERDAYS

Inkwells in desks with lift-uplids
Tables written out with old pen nibs

Noses pressed flat on the window glass
our pockets tinkling ,full of brass

Exploring fields across the brook
studying in nature's real time book

Fishing for minnows with jar and net
oftimes slipping and getting wet

Winding brooklets filling narrow streams
into rivers of childhood dreams

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2008

Final Salute To An Alliterative Warrior

W  afting wonder world-wide
A   stonishing, astounding artistry
R   apier-like Rennaisance rhymes
R   enascent, radiant resonance
I    ndigo inkwells of incense
O   mniscient, omnipotent originality
R   evered, redoubtable Romantic 


   Fly to Heaven on poetic wings
        My friend, Our friend
            Winged Warrior

Well Penned, I Hope

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

Glimpses Into Schooldays

Can you recall being in school?
The clock, whose hands, never seemed to move!

The scent of fresh pencil shavings, m-m-m.
A box of new crayons to not only open, but to smell.

The desks we had, actually had inkwells, we used fountain
pens.
Add the beauty of a fresh notebook on which to write.
Learning to use a ruler, what glorious fun.
Some of us really learned to read the "Dick and Jane" series.

We actually had a real Christmas tree~ ah, that scent of 
childhood's sparkling magnificence.
Our wide-eyed innocence~

And yes, we could sing of Jesus and angels.
His presence was allowed to swell our souls with hope and joy.

We had no idiotic questions, such as are you a girl or a boy?
No girl ever got pregnant, there was such a thing as chastity.

Who ever heard of murdering a baby? 
Thankfully....not in my day, not me.

I give thanks for these simpler times.
I don't know how children can grow up sane anymore.
When morality is trashed and relativity is forever praised
and knocking at their childhood's door.


February 2, 2020
3pm PST

Poetless

Blank pages strewed high on my desk in pain,
For now, I heard the squelch of death again,
It had echoed from my emptied inkwells,
As dying words crept from a mind that quells,

Pilfered hands scrawl at piles for hopeful hints,
A gleam, as much as a sign to convince,
A broked stopped clock reminds that time does not,
And a muted bird still has what its got,

Rambled eyes of a place in disguises,
Shadows grow as my heart vaporizes,
My rhythmless moves just proved my resolve,
I heard the squelch of death again, evolve.


2019 September 14

Transiency

Had this weak pen those sly Phoenix's powers,
I wouldn't pester Time's much-envied eternities
With blank queries that deaf ages well eschew,
With any other of fate's multi-jigsawed parities.

I would some five hundred ugly monsters kiss,
And with each lip-touch life's bored cares miss.
I would with most fatally feared cannibals play,
And thus remiss spend longevity's primest day.

But that legendary fowl's exaggerated breath
I lack in luck's slow-fading inkwells and quills;
Her survival ruse against death's sinking ploys,
I feign no better than antique anecdoting skills. 

Bereft of mystic health plus its fabled might,
I sing and act like one with a rationed height.
Why tire the chained serf's tongue and sinew, 
To be outlived by tiniest wings that ever flew? 

So let the hour-caged minion to Maidens Nine,
Indite his poesies while life still winks her sign.

The Inkwell of Woe

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

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