Short Inkless Poems

I'd much rather be
Writing these words with my lips
I tremble and wait

21 May 2023...

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So many words
lost in my soul.
Yearning to bleed,
but the ink is shy.

It does not want
to make you cry....

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fingered
weathered
feathered 
dying
you are but a fingered thought, weathered
through the flow of feathered pen, dying



not a traditional tyburn but my first attempt and i loved the way it turned out!...

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 So many words
lost in my soul.
Yearning to bleed,
but the ink is shy.

It does not want
to make you cry.

No more words,
as soul is found.
No temptations
when ink is brave.

All it wants is
to make you smile....

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Inkless pen
on a sheet of glass
waves meet
electrons flow
ones and zeros dance
iron spins
crystal changes
light leaps through
and lines form
rocks think
studies lines
checks its notes
sent on its thoughts
words form
that I wrote
without ink
nor paper...

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Inkless pen
on a sheet of glass
waves meet
electrons flow
ones and zeros dance
iron spins
crystal changes
light leaps through
and lines form
rocks think 
studies lines
checks its notes
sent on its thoughts
words form
that I wrote
without ink
nor paper...

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heathered
weathered
feathered
tethered
you are but a heathered thought, weathered
through the flow of feathered pen, tethered 



August 6, 2019
Tyburn Contest
Sponsored by Charles Messina



Thank you Gershon and Line for the discussions about the tyburn and your thoughts... much appreciated!...

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I'm the lion-hearted fragrance of basil stars, 
breathing blames like the Goddess of Hurricanes, 
but, was this twilight throne, ever mine to tame?
I'll forever bleed upon the chess of lies and life, 
for, my plea is an inkless riot of ruby stains ~
evermore, kissed by the flames of funeral Luna. 

...

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Solid lines of no solidarity;
scribbling at paper with an inkless pen.
Brain-check, 
flash-back; 
to a time when rhyme meant decent lines
in due time.
And now I’m stuck with this darn inkless pen;
scribbling for weeks on a blank sheet of paper.
Scribbling for weeks and the end-product is this;
at least an end-product exists!
Touché...

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A foolish poet

One day i was wandering with empty mind
I smell literature from thousands of mile away
So i am running with no legs 
I want storm to reach
I am deaf
I want thunder to hear
I am blind
I want those oceans of star to see
I am dumb
I want those thousands of Indian languages to speak

O God !
I am brainless scholar
I am inkless writer 
I am a poet ....
A  foolish poet  
i don’t know
why i’m writing.........

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Not everyone a poet be
It takes more than a show of words
Or feigned esteemed ability.
These attributes are so absurd!
Like inkless pens expect to write
A single word of poesy.
A poet lives to dream each night
Ideas wrought subconsciously;
And when the golden sun has gleamed
Its steady subdued morning glow
The poet wakes from fondest dreams
Imbued by schemes the night bestowed
Into a measured rhyming gem:
Conjured dreams become a poem....

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Full blooded they appear
Speaking with my voice, the words I’d say
Those dreams, the dreams of the dead
Seem so satisfying, until they talk.
We, the phantoms of our fantasies
Drift like jet trails; scarring skies
Words etched by inkless pens
Waiting, always awaiting.
The Poet adores that void
Where they frame their thoughts by the stars
And recreate Byzantium
But behind that void
Awaiting, always waiting
There are echoes
Who’ll only answer us, as us....

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