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Don't think it, ink it.

quote by Mark Victor Hansen
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Pelang

Pelang! Pelang! Mon cher garçon,
I t'ink of you--t'ink of you night and day--
Don't mak' no difference, seems to me
De long long tam you're gone away.

* * * * *

De snow is deep on de Grande Montagne--
Lak tonder de rapide roar below--
De sam' kin' night, ma boy get los'
On beeg, beeg storm forty year ago.

An' I never was hear de win' blow hard,
An' de snow come sweesh on de window pane--
But ev'ryt'ing 'pear lak' it's yesterday
An' whole of ma troub' is come back again.

Ah me! I was foolish young girl den
It's only ma own plaisir I care,
An' w'en some dance or soirée come off
Dat's very sure t'ing you will see me dere.

Don't got too moche sense at all dat tam,
Run ev'ry place on de whole contree--
But I change beeg lot w'en Pelang come 'long
For I love him so well, kin' o' steady me.

An' he was de bes' boy on Coteau,
An' t'ink I am de bes' girl too for sure--
He's tole me dat, geev de ring also
Was say on de inside 'Je t'aime toujours.'

I geev heem some hair dat come off ma head,
I mak' de nice stocking for warm hees feet,
So ev'ryt'ing's feex, w'en de spring is come
For mak' mariée on de church toute suite.

'W'en de spring is come!' Ah I don't see dat,
Dough de year is pass as dey pass before,
An' de season come, an' de season go,
But our spring never was come no more.

* * * * *

It's on de fête of de jour de l'an,
An' de worl' outside is cole an' w'ite,
As I sit an' watch for mon cher Pelang
For he's promise come see me dis very night.

Bonhomme Peloquin dat is leev near us--

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry Drummond
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De Camp On De

You 'member de ole log-camp, Johnnie, up on de Cheval Gris,
W'ere we work so hard all winter, long ago you an' me?
Dere was fourteen man on de gang, den, all from our own paroisse,
An' only wan lef' dem feller is ourse'f an' Pierre Laframboise.

But Pierre can't see on de eye, Johnnie, I t'ink it's no good at all!
An' it wasn't for not'ing, you're gettin' rheumateez on de leg las' fall!
I t'ink it's no use waitin', for neider can come wit' me,
So alone I mak' leetle visit dat camp on de Cheval Gris.

An' if only you see it, Johnnie, an' change dere was all aroun',
Ev'ryt'ing gone but de timber an' dat is all fallin' down;
No sign of portage by de reever w'ere man dey was place canoe,
W'y, Johnnie, I'm cry lak de bebé, an' I'm glad you don't come, mon vieux!

But strange t'ing's happen me dere, Johnnie, mebbe I go asleep,
As I lissen de song of de rapide, as pas' de Longue Soo she sweep,
Ma head she go biz-z-z lak de sawmeel, I don't know w'at's wrong wit' me,
But firs' t'ing I don't know not'ing, an' den w'at you t'ink I see?

Yourse'f an' res' of de boy, Johnnie, by light of de coal oil lamp,
An' you're singin' an' tolin' story, sittin' aroun' de camp,
We hear de win' on de chimley, an' we know it was beeg, beeg storm,
But ole box stove she is roarin', an' camp's feelin' nice an' warm.

I t'ink you're on boar' of de raf', Johnnie, near head of Riviere du Loup,
W'en LeRoy an' young Patsy Kelly get drown comin' down de Soo,
Wall! I see me dem very same feller, jus' lak you see me to-day,
Playin' dat game dey call checker, de game dey was play alway!

An' Louis Charette asleep, Johnnie, wit' hees back up agen de wall,
Makin' soche noise wit' hees nose, dat you t'ink it was moose on de fall,
I s'pose he's de mos' fattes' man dere 'cept mebbe Bateese La Rue,
But if I mak fonne on poor Louis, I know he was good boy too!

W'at you do over dere on your bunk, Johnnie, lightin' dem allumettes,
Are you shame 'cos de girl she write you, is dat de las' wan you get?
It's fonny you can't do widout it ev'ry tam you was goin' bed,
W'y readin' dat letter so offen, you mus have it all on de head!

Dat's de very sam' letter, Johnnie, was comin' t'ree mont' ago,
I t'ink I know somet'ing about it, 'cos I fin' it wan day on de snow.
An' I see on de foot dat letter, Philomene she is do lak dis: * * *
I'm not very moche on de school, me, but I t'ink dat was mean de kiss.

Wall! nobody's kickin' de row, Johnnie, an' if allumettes' fini,
Put Philomene off on your pocket, an' sing leetle song wit' me;
For don't matter de hard you be workin' toujours you're un bon garçon,
An' nobody sing lak our Johnnie, Kebeck to de Mattawa!

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry Drummond
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The Writer's Ink

I am the writer's ink,
So just write with me without any fear;
I will move more than expected,
I will write more than expected,
I am the writer's ink.
Use me slowly or even faster,
I will talk more than expected;
I do have the message to teach everyone.
Of the beauty of communication,
I am used by everyone;
I am the writer's ink,
I do make people sad or glad;
My ink makes rulers sad,
My ink makes personalities sad,
My ink makes the common man sad,
The way i am used matters.
I am the writer's ink,
I am not expensive;
Buy me and use me always.
How can a country like Ghana be poor? !
Ghana has gold, oil, cocoa and timber;
There are also diamond, bauxite and other minerals;
How then can Ghana be poor? !
The writer's ink should tell us more.
Mismanagement is the food in the country,
Ghana has really more than it needs;
This country shouldn't be poor.
What the leaders say on air is not,
What we see on the ground;
I am the talkative ready to talk.
I am the writer's ink,
I will always speak the truth!

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Ink Is My Blood

I am a poet.
There is ink in my blood.
I flow through lines
As a river meandering its course.
My blood is ink,
Ink is my blood.
I give life to the depressed
I flow to educate
I flow to enlighten
I meander to caution
I wriggle to chastise
I correct ills in the lands
I flow beyond borders
I flow through out the world.
My ink flows ceaselessly after my departure
It flows to the land I never tread
My ink is my life.
My ink may look ordinary
But it is a potent force.
My ink does not faint
My ink is my blood
So, enjoy the drops of my blood

poem by Babatunde Aremu
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Ingavar

O, the trees grow straight and the trees grow tall,
And the trees grow all around;
And the long limbs sprout the trunks about,
Where the Davlo owl is found.
And the Davlo bird is most absurd
In the early days of June;
For he sings this song the whole day long,
To a strange, fantastic tune.

'O, ink, ink, ink! I sit and think;
I brood on the Wildwood Tree;
But, near or far, on Ingavar,
No ink, no ink I see.
And late or soon the swift cartoon
Must soar to the Utmost Star.
O, ink, ink, ink! I swoon! I sink!
O, inkless, Ingavar!'

O, the trees grow long, and the trees grow strong,
And the tress grow good and green,
And the gloomy shades steal thro' the glades
Where the Halgi Tit is seen.
And the Halgi Tit he loves to sit
On the frond of a swaying fern,
And croon, and croon, to a low, loose tune
This nervous, nude Nocturn.

'Chow-white, chow-white! All night, all night,
While the moon peeps thro' the leaves,
And the sad wind soughs thro' inlaced boughs,
Where the shadows creep like thieves.
I cry, and yearn for the Nude Nocturn!
O, I seek her near and far!
Chow-white, chow-white! I croon all night,
Thro' the glades of Ingavar.'

O, the trees grow pale, and tall trees quail,
And the sacred trees whisper soft.
And the startled bush it murmurs 'Hush!'
When the Denawk swoops aloft.
And, as he swoops, he shrieks and whoops
In a ruthless, Rhythmic way;
For twixt the trees and the sobbing breeze
The Denawk seeks his prey.

'Ho, rhyme, rhyme, rhyme! All fat and prime!
I live by rhyme alone!
In bush and town I hunt it down,
And tear it flesh from bone.
With a purpose grim for the synonym

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Tale of Custard The Dragon

Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

[...] Read more

poem by Ogden Nash
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M'Sieu Smit

THE ADVENTURES OF AN ENGLISHMAN IN THE CANADIAN WOODS.

Wan morning de walkim boss say 'Damase,
I t'ink you're good man on canoe d'ecorce,
So I'll ax you go wit' your frien' Philéas
An' meet M'sieu' Smit' on Chenail W'ite Horse.

'He'll have I am sure de grosse baggage--
Mebbe some valise--mebbe six or t'ree--
But if she's too moche for de longue portage
'Poleon he will tak' 'em wit' mail buggee.'

W'en we reach Chenail, plaintee peep be dere,
An' wan frien' of me, call Placide Chretien,
'Splain all dat w'en he say man from Angleterre
Was spik heem de crowd on de 'Parisien.'

Fonny way dat Englishman he'll be dress,
Leetle pant my dear frien' jus' come on knee,
Wit' coat dat's no coat at all--only ves'
An' hat--de more stranger I never see!

Wall! dere he sit on de en' some log
An' swear heem in English purty loud
Den talk Français, w'ile hees chien boule dog
Go smellim an' smellim aroun' de crowd.

I spik im 'Bonjour, M'sieu' Smit', Bonjour,
I hope dat yourse'f and famille she's well?'
M'sieu Smit' he is also say 'Bonjour,'
An' call off hees dog dat's commence for smell.

I tell heem my name dat's Damase Labrie
I am come wit' Philéas for mak' de trip,
An' he say I'm de firs' man he never see
Spik English encore since he lef' de ship.

He is also ax it to me 'Damase,
De peep she don't seem understan' Français,
W'at's matter wit' dat?' An' I say 'Becos
You mak' too much talk on de Parisien.'

De groun she is pile wit' baggage--Sapré!
An' I see purty quick we got plaintee troub--
Two tronk, t'ree valise, four-five fusil,
An' w'at M'sieu Smit' he is call 'bat' tubbe.'

M'sieu Smit' he's tole me w'at for's dat t'ing,
An' it seem Englishman he don't feel correc'

[...] Read more

poem by William Henry Drummond
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Injected Lyrically

Black ink flows
in various vibes
and original scribes

Without words
I would cease
My soul would un-ease
my hearts beat would slow
Softer Lighter almost into Oblivion

If a pen drew breath
~n~ ink spilled til death
wouldn't missin it
burn a yearn
to want it back

This welling inside it hurts
deepened incisions
imprisoned to my wounds
there dwells a fire
a desire a burning
forever absorbing

Creativity finds comfort
within the cradle of my hand

See if I penned a sonnet
would it be perceived as weak
because I placed my heart upon it
maybe I am a fool for spilling souls blood
in inks line but I fight to stave off
the deepest pain that consumes
all that haunts my mind

I am a Poet
Who Breathes in Blue

Bleeds in black ink

Scribes in blood

Creativity Spills
Like The Thickness
of Curved Water
and Falls Heavier than
the combined water
of the worlds rain
in one spot

I am a master

[...] Read more

poem by Samantha Campbell
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From Ink to Inklings

FROM INK TO INKLINGS

From ink to inklings visions flow
to stitch life's tapestry and sow
seeds which obscurity reject
as search for light owes slight respect
to monochromes which seldom show
more than man thinks he needs to know
or throw as viewpoint to reject
the inklings others' inks project.
So when one writes on rags to glow
upon a screen ensure thoughts throw
no jealous shadow yet protect
true principles few should forget.
Concluding couplet signs a smile
to mystic storm's intense sense style.

© Jonathan Robin sonnet written 27 December 2006
robi03_1533_robi03_0000 SXX_IXX
See also:
Ink Links Inklings robi03_1831_robi03_0000 SXX_IXX 20081228
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Ink Links Inklings

Ink from inklings flows
weaving tapestry,
understanding grows,
rejecting falsity.

Monochromatic glow’s
innate harmony
kaleidoscopic shows
serendipity.

Image imago
instantaneously
enlightenment bestows,
imagination free.

Impressions’ unity
scorns ambiguity.

See also:
From Ink to Inklings 20061227
robi03_1533_robi03_0000 SXX_IXX

© Jonathan Robin sonnet written 28 December 2008

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Ink Links Inklings

INK LINKS INKLINGS

Ink from inklings flows
weaving tapestry,
understanding grows,
rejecting falsity.

Monochromatic glow’s
innate harmony
kaleidoscopic shows
serendipity.

Image imago
instantaneously
enlightenment bestows,
imagination free.

Impressions’ unity
scorns ambiguity.

See also:
From Ink to Inklings 20061227
robi03_1533_robi03_0000 SXX_IXX

© Jonathan Robin sonnet written 28 December 2008

robi03_1831_robi03_0000 SXX_IXX

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
FROM INK TO INKLINGS

From ink to inklings visions flow
to stitch life's tapestry and sow
seeds which obscurity reject
as search for light owes slight respect
to monochromes which seldom show
more than man thinks he needs to know
or throw as viewpoint to reject
the inklings others' inks project.
So when one writes on rags to glow
upon a screen ensure thoughts throw
no jealous shadow yet protect
true principles few should forget.
Concluding couplet signs a smile
to mystic storm's intense sense style.

© Jonathan Robin sonnet written 27 December 2006
robi03_1533_robi03_0000 SXX_IXX

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Call II

...details, inc, inc, inc, secreterces, ink, ink, ink, sweet quatros, dieci, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine, nine. Ocho. Ochoa, neves, neves, neves, sex sank for three, two, one, fire, fire, water, water, running away, water running forever. Hiss of piss in the trolls' bowl. Baggottfaggott, baggotfaggott. Groans of sons in the crones bones. Piper, pipe us a tune, tuneful and sweet, like herring, herring, running away. Drone, drone of the moatboat. Fire, fire everywhere, eatrat, eat and a beer. Eat, overspilling and sweet, like herring, herring, running awayawa, poob, poob. A ship, a deck, a hull, a hold, a fire, fire everywhere. Don'tsmoke, don'tsmoke. Will, wool, well, wail, Ariadne's string, string running forever, ink, ink, ink, hyebye, hyebye. Oh, oh, oh, oh, that's nothing, nothing running away forever, awayawa. Zood, zood, owns, parknap, parknap, ereh, ereh, ARTIVEL, for, three, three, two, won: fire! A lion. A roar. A shriek. A chill. WILLIE-WILLIE! i

poem by Robert Dickerson
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Paper & Ink

Touched the mirror
Broke the surface of the water
Saw my true self
All illusions shattered
Moneys only paper only ink
Well destroy ourselves if we cant agree
How the world turns
Who made the sun
Who owns the sea
The world we know will fall piece by piece
Sat down up close to the colored black hole
Like theyd always told me not to
Saw the one dimension polka dot pacifier
And all illusions shattered
Moneys only paper only ink
Well destroy ourselves if we cant agree
How the world turns
Who made the sun
Who owns the sea
The world we know will fall piece by piece
Bared myself wholly heart and body unadorned
Stripped down solely
To the evil and the good
Felt no shame
Naked to the world
And all illusions shattered
Moneys only paper only ink
Well destroy ourselves if we cant agree
How the world turns
Who made the sun
Who owns the sea
The world we know will fall piece by piece
Faced towards the sea
Looked to heaven up above
Felt the world revolve around me
No one could tell me otherwise
But the turbulent waters wont reflect this life
Only the sun the moon and sky
And all illusions shattered
Moneys only paper only ink
Well destroy ourselves if we cant agree
How the world turns
Who made the sun
Who owns the sea
The world we know will fall piece by piece
Moneys only paper only ink

song performed by Tracy Chapman
Added by Lucian Velea
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Paper And Ink

Touched the mirror
Broke the surface of the water
Saw my true self
All illusions shattered
Money's only paper only ink
We'll destroy ourselves if we can't agree
How the world turns
Who made the sun
Who owns the sea
The world we know will fall piece by piece
Sat down up close to the colored black hole
Like they'd always told me not to
Saw the one dimension polka dot pacifier
And all illusions shattered
Money's only paper only ink
We'll destroy ourselves if we can't agree
How the world turns
Who made the sun
Who owns the sea
The world we know will fall piece by piece
Bared myself wholly heart and body unadorned
Stripped down solely
To the evil and the good
Felt no shame
Naked to the world
And all illusions shattered
Money's only paper only ink
We'll destroy ourselves if we can't agree
How the world turns
Who made the sun
Who owns the sea
The world we know will fall piece by piece
Faced towards the sea
Looked to heaven up above
Felt the world revolve around me
No one could tell me otherwise
But the turbulent waters won't reflect this life
Only the sun the moon and sky
And all illusions shattered
Money's only paper only ink
We'll destroy ourselves if we can't agree
How the world turns
Who made the sun
Who owns the sea
The world we know will fall piece by piece
Money's only paper only ink

song performed by Tracy Chapman
Added by Lucian Velea
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O Mighty Beyond the Chimney Yet Under the Bed - One Address To the Lord After Berryman's 'Eleven' Astutter

for Andrew

'I don't try to reconcile anything' said the poet at eighty,
'This is a damned strange world.' - John Berryman*

I beg (as did Berryman as did
also Job) Do not give up on me
drag me (gently) pull me (tug
tenderly) gather me (dew me
softly cover) do not delay
Shepherding (O Numberless One,
Creator of the Majestic Zero
beyond all counting, that I may
be beyond 'the Ninety and the Nine'**
so) woo me (though a cold bed I
am and make, though human hand
pen/paw at Thee O Mighty beyond
the chimney yet under the bed

yet (pillow me) pillow me plead I
'that my chaff might fly'*** and my
eyes dimned be turned toward what
glimmer remains of corners dark in
recessing mind, O Lord, would have
You take (mine) mind shake the
stiffness necked naked hairs numbered
over all the fading flesh of me

Now (love even me/sand-one-grain,
let Blood stain to Purity, what once
is rendered endures, that one moment,
may, where self-will wilts, (only)
You do what You Will to in me instill

Einfall****

You (spill then to me
in torrent, rinse, fling out drear
dark (say it Elizabethan) Sin
score yet that long longing for
You wrung: Look. Shake me out.
Drained (I am, for wanting that
You (might YOU) Force me far to
me Freshest Be

What hands I have cannot grasp
or reach (draw You in)

for now my tongue must serve

[...] Read more

poem by Warren Falcon
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To Live (exist) : The love/hate relationships people share with mirrors

The first time he saw a mirror,
he was minutes old in a hospital.
Already getting used to the warmth of his blanket away from his mother,
his toothless grins and coos of his reflection meant nothing,
he didn’t know the meaning.

The 607th time he saw a mirror,
he was exactly three and dressed in best.
A mother’s gift of a round, ornate mirror; his tiny hands could not grasp it enough.
Hair parted down the middle, chin - up and to the right, is it impossible for children to take serious portraits?

The 1,501st time he saw a mirror,
He was three and two months in the place he would soon love the most - an old practice dance room.
Cheered on by mother, brother, and father’s spirit, scorned by the new fatherly figure, he learned quickly and instantly obsessed his figure in the room lined with mirrors.
In spare time, his mirror never left his hand.

The 18,409th time he saw a mirror,
he was seven, almost eight, and in advanced ballet.
Thin and lithe, different with no friends.
All he wanted to see was his reflection as he danced in the mirrored room.

The 39,743rd time he saw a mirror,
he was fourteen and devastated in a foster home.
Abuse lies in the past, but memories linger in the present and future, revisited when he looked into the mirror.
His mother gone for a decade, his brother a traitor, his abuser in jail, his shelterer overdosed in 62 medications.
His neglected reflection begging the original to return, it missed it’s friend.

The 40,026th time he saw a mirror,
he was fifteen in an empty train boxcar with unsure destinations, his brother refusing to separate, a homeless man passed out on rotting sacks.
Dressed in rags, his only possession his mother’s gift.
Who was this stranger in the grimy and smudged illusion?

The 40,328th time he saw a mirror,
he was sixteen and living in a wealthy man’s house.
Given new clothes and advice to act fashionably, he had become quite taken to the aristocrat’s daughter.
The mirror, polished and shined every hour, forgave it’s old friend, but never forgot the years of neglect, sucking up won’t pay debts.

The 43,692nd time he saw a mirror,
he was at one of the aristocrat’s luncheons.
He was given an ink bottle and told as long as he was faking status he should draw a mustache on himself and use a French accent.
The forever-changed friend in another dimension consoled him as the tears fell collected on his reflection in the gentlemen’s room.

The 45,811th time he saw a mirror,
he was seventeen and the prom date of his fancy.
Aware that her father would not approve, he wanted to run away with her.
He frantically checked his mirror every few seconds from nerves as he made himself presentable.
When she said yes, the mirror was shoved away into his trouser pocket again to be forgotten, next to the ink bottle.

The 45,812th time he saw a mirror,
he and his bride-to-be ran through the woods, hiding from search parties.

[...] Read more

poem by Kristion Robideaux
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a tribute to the Absurd

Happiness is a ballpoint pen
Happiness is irrelevant
Happiness is talk
Life is running out of ink
Life is waterfalls and irrelevance!
and Godot
Life is waiting
Life is post-modernism
Loneliness is too much
ink
is happiness it is falling water it is
irrelevant life is
unsensical but musical
abusical defensible
Someday I will write about relevance
someday someday someday
point: waterfalling ball___ pen = someday ink
someday ink is my lonely happy outness

poem by Zoe Nyght
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Paradigm Shift Pen

murmuring brain capsulated the ideas of fine ink,
where the bright ideas poise for a golden pen, yet
tremble of the angry and joy knight of the hand
that goes to the unwilling end

why have it gone to the ink, even good ideas
landed with spoiled things, what when wrong for
only the threshold pen receives the pain; published
in an awesome paper as it tell the whole world has
gone forever until when

laughter burst, as tears fall down to the ground
and the face looks like a murmuring pin in the
middle of the night and I heard a voice of cried
sings, wondering where to go as it leaves in vain

tell now of my misery, whom I kept it long
before you came on my penny, just as what you
say I pick it up in my ink, wishing all the happening
be on the way

find my wish and spray the best, the ink is ready
to say that you are willingly Free …..

poem by Antonio Liao
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The Chronicles of a Criss Crossed and Broken Heart part 3 Paper to ink, , , ink to memories... memories to...wind

...scribble... paper stained the color black
front and back
imprinting in my mind
yet none else may see, none can find
the meaning, for they cannot read
this the way i do and therefore no one takes heed
hear me out!
must i shout? !
warning....warning danger near
warning... I'm trouble my dear
danger its here!
why won't you run
its like burning for 40 hours in hot sun
dont stay
get away i dont want to hurt you i want you but get away...
please just leave me be
its better for you and me
that we never indulge in causerie
these words 'friend love' and 'friendship'
burned into my head
staying with me until i am dead always here until im dead
these thoughts of pain stick with me
in the darkness of mind and memory
o so cruelly
they eat at me
but this pain
even when life begins wain
no one can see just whats happening to me
i must try and let go, put my memories away
but i must be careful not to slip away
with them going into a state of craziness
i cnat lose myself to the wind no never not going to happen
so inviting so cool at touch so tingly at every touch
no this is not too much
i just gotta hold on as i blow away
words burning into my head
ink splatters all over my dead
body this zombie corpse, quite a scene no blood just black ink stain
i think and think writing black words
pain and wain and sustain just more stains...
farther inot the black handwriting useless myself useless too much black ink
no more ink this poem this messed up rhyme
never was..

poem by David Knox
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The Calligraphy of God

Wet ink. Dry paper.
Words in heart.
Eyes focused.
No distractions.
Quiet. Sssh....
You could hear a pin drop.
Silence!
Silent.
Creativity in play.
Ingenuity in motion.
Silent.
See nothing. See everything.
As light pierces darkness.
Focus.1,2,3.
Flame to dust
Dust to man
Man to dust.
Stop.
'It is good', a voice echoes in eternity.
Day by day, I go my way
Man from ape. I close my drape.
Ordinary man, no superman cape.
That's it! , no more rhyme.
Truth be told this life's a mess.
Been through rough, tough, hell and
back.
'What's life's essence? '
So I search.
Then I find Him.
He who sat at the beginning.
Wet ink.
Dry paper.
Loads of questions.
Loads of hate.
Tons of bitterness.
This life's been a wilderness.
'I am The Artist', a voice whispers.
You're my masterpiece
I mend broken pieces
The one who makes beauty from ashes.
The clock ticks life away.
I wake up to a brand new day.
This life's neither brand nor new.
Try screwed!
Now messed up and fessed up by pain
relationships.
All's crashing! Help!
'You need help? ', an acquaintance asks.
'With what? '
'The weight on your shoulders', she

[...] Read more

poem by Jenim Dibie
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Opportunity

GRANNY'S gone a-visitin',
Seen huh git huh shawl
W'en I was a-hidin' down
Hime de gyahden wall.
Seen huh put her bonnet on,
Seen huh tie de strings,
An' I'se gone to dreamin' now
'Bout dem cakes an' t'ings.
On de she'f behime de do' —
Mussy, what a feas'!
Soon ez she gits out o' sight,
I kin eat in peace.
I bin watchin' fu' a week
Des fu' dis hyeah chance.
Mussy, w'en I gits in daih,
I'll des sholy dance.
Lemon pie an' gingah-cake,
Let me set an' t'ink —
Vinegah an' sugah, too,
Dat 'll mek a drink;
Ef dey's one t'ing dat I loves
Mos' pu'ticlahly,
It is eatin' sweet t'ings an'
A-drinkin' Sangaree.
Lawdy, won' po' granny raih
W'en she see de she'f;
W'en I t'ink erbout huh face,
I's mos' 'shamed myse'f.
Well, she gone, an' hyeah I is,
Back behime de do' —
Look hyeah! gran' 's done 'spected me,
Dain't no sweets no mo'.
Evah sweet is hid erway,
Job des done up brown;
Pusson t'ink dat someun t'ought
Dey was t'eves erroun';
Dat des breaks my heart in two,
Oh how bad I feel!
Des to t'ink my own gramma
B'lieved dat I 'u'd steal!

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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