Long Inkwells Poems
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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
I
Veins blue as death but they flow,
tributaries in a returning system.
They fork only when the mind
rides a lightly sleeping cycle
to a venous river
and there sinks within seeking a source
for it must be replenished, made to
travel on richer currents of air.
In such a reverie
blue threads splay, spread themselves
traveling to a nexus of stars on byways
stripped of any anatomy.
II
The girls and boys ride to school
ever faster,
a teacher fills blue inkwells
from a drip in his arm.
The children peddle swiftly along;
for on every desk
there's an apple for each of them.
In that fruit
a slow wriggling hex, a pishogue
sheds one desiccated skin after another
expanding its continuance,
but not so soon, not so fast,
not as speedily as the blue river runs
for it is the stream that feeds into itself.
III
That indigo atlas furrows a mounting gravity
through a chambered pump
for it has miles yet to cycle,
it surges and swells unhindered,
it crests and syphons
through transforming bellows,
around it pounds
unless that dark spell grows too large
and dams its onward course
then it may cease upon the morrow
or worse.
Black ink cartridge dead and empty
Once fed blank paper onion white
It was a canon while it lasted
All good copies come to an end
When it ran dry as printers do
All things die in desert lands
Of thirst and things unsaid
Find a pen that works or pencil full of lead
Were the last words of the computer
At home the pen replaced the printer
Canon products are much too costly
Find something mightier than the sword
Something cheaper for the written word
Pen or graphite for stories be be told
Mine left my pocket for the broken window
Climbed out of it though it was closed
Which was difficult without a single finger
Or toes and everyone knows pens don't have souls
It went five stories up the building wall
Intent on injury, suicide or worse
Jumped off the roof without a warning
Pens become distressed when falling down
Forget to leave a message when desperate
What is a pen without some paper on the desk
The ink bled out upon the pavement
Not red as you might well expect
More like a black and white old movie
It was a mess as you might guess
No inkwells coming to the rescue of the pen
No police around when needed either
Donuts are their friends and must be eaten
With the holes intact upon impact
When pens fall out of pockets off of roofs
Who will write the story five floors down
Of something found but not reported
Or come to some conclusions to that end
In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
A million million life forms. And silence in the library.
Dr. Who: Episode - Silence in the Library
THE SILENCE S.O.S.
the rasp of a metamorphic voice.
is boredom in chase? the stillness a shape?
does genius inhabit this dark room?
the click of cobblestone echoes in the chamber,
narrow and narrower, restriction —
is this where a poet sprouts?
the fine doctor hears the silence,
doesn’t ever remember
how the dark shoots off its words.
a-musing, the silence, the silver bell
that cock-a-doodle-doos until noon.
in Central Park, his arms around my shoulder,
the silence feeling colder than my heart,
the guitar a-beating — the plunder of a crowd,
the splash falls gently from the inkwells.
there’s a space between us,
yet we grip each other’s hands —
the planets hug
in the universal silence.
fifty years later, the thumbing
of a cell,
people disappear on silent screens.
7/24/2019
The Sound of Silence Poetry Contest
John Hamilton
Poem Title would not let me use dots between SOS
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.
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.
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
As the branches fall away
and the night has cast her spell,
as my form is disappearing
and I sink into inkwells
A campfire is burning down
cooling embers warm my mind,
and within this wordless vessel
empty hollows can’t hold rhyme
I wondered what to do
till the fire was my friend,
And then it finally hit me
that I’ll never write again
And all the wordless poems
drifting without names,
now none will ever be written
my passion lost its flame
Those silly little rages
that roared around my head,
snuffed out all my dreams
my visions now lay dead
But when I brushed the stars
as I sometimes did,
I gasped in awe and wonder
as my head was hung and hid
This magic that was shared
and seared within my veins,
will live among my memories
as burning scores to stain
I will miss your gentle missives
sent throughout the night,
I will miss the love and friendship,
that glowed within the lights
And it’s always at the last
my heart does pause in pain,
but with all my being I love you
may we meet inside the rain
Always look for a Tail
that curls around the moon,
know that its my message
and I’m spinning round the room
Adieu and goodbye
are words I cannot say,
maybe I shall save them
until my dying day
Until a magic rainbow
calls me from stalled time,
my word waits in the grotto
I’ve built within my mind…
And now I have to go
with gentleness,no pain,
knowing that I’ll see you
as Rainbows Bloom Again.