Poetic Inkwells and More

  Short Love Story-- Love came late for me. I had to turn a blind eye And by doing so --love passes by. Love shed a tear for me.

A Lighthearted Poem about Love:)      by Clara Mitchell 11/23/2024 I fill my inkwells as often as I water my plants. Both need my attention to live and grow. My quill rests between stanzas and words. A new thought lifts the quill to find the inkwell. The quill at one time provided hours of writing. One molted feather still in flight as words appear on the page. The black ink is bold and cold. I hope to make up for this loss with colorful words.  The ink remains a constant black that easily stands out on my paper. The dark ink cloaks my words, While the colored ink gives rise to be seen. I add several splashes of color across the page. In the end, the colors do not carry the poem. Readers embrace the words. The first stanzas words are like a melody Of words that lead us into a dance. Our hearts pound and skip a beat. Yes, we all can fall in love with words. Cupid has arrows. A poet has words. Either way, love has made a way.

 Hello everyone! I have recently built this blog with blogger.com the blog address is https://poeticinkwells.blogspot.com. It is brand new, so I am working on adding an SEO campaign soon to help introduce the new site and build traffic. All the content is free to use with my by line. I do not take donations. My desire is to share uplifting content during these chaotic times.  I had some unexpected medical problems over the summer so I will be back later.  If you wish to email me or make comments on any of the pages that is fine. My email is clara74133@gmail.com. (current pic 5/2024) Medical update: All is well. Normal results. Symptoms gone. Sending love and prayers to all who visit, Clara Mitchell My Blog is here to uplift and inspire! Not all of my poems are overly faith based but the ideas and thoughts are my creative wheels turning and I try to catch all moments of my inspiration. My poems are reflections on life as I journey on and jot down ideas as they come to me. I use differen

  Boxes          by Clara Mitchell 12-26-2023 I bought a mattress in a box. I am traveling again. The mattress purchase reminds me Of when we put God in a box. When we open the box for the mattress It unfolds to a much more alarming size! I think God wants us to think of Him Outside of the box. I know that I have stuffed gifts and talents Inside of me, I am the container, a box if you will. I tried to open the goods But needed help to do so. The helpers were busy-- I soon discover many We are living their dreams in a box. How do we open up After being contained so long? What treasures are stuffed? Now at a later stage in life, I am unpacking some boxes That I have carried for some time. God was helping me to open up. My talents began to expand like this Serta mattress. The size and fit gave me pleasant dreams. God gave me a talent to write. It has been a long time in the making. My boxes did not truly unfold until late in life. My travels have

 Giving My Gift Away   by Clara Mitchell 5/29/2024 I am giving multiple births over my lifetime. The births are not flesh and blood. The births are words inside of me. The words have my voice. My DNA is etched inside each line. The imagery is developed over time. It grows and grows till it is understood. Poetry has a lifespan-- It depends on the words. It can live on and on Or pass away by evening. Creativity is not bound by its passing. Inside every poet or writer is an inkwell. An inkwell that patiently waits to be filled up. Inspiration helps, Prayer invites our ears to hear God, I meditate on different concepts. The pen begins to use the inkwell. There are signs of life across the page. At last, another overflow of ink. Many lines appear out of nowhere. It is like a sudden shower Only to be gone in an hour. I am in the final push of birthing new poems. I have more inside. I gladly give my gift away. The timing is of the Lord. There comes an end

No One Can Replace Us         by Clara Mitchell 3/24/2024 People pick me up as soon as I am published-- Or should I say born. Poetry is like a baby. The seed sneaks in unaware for a later time. Later the narrative opens into a few lines. The lines begin to make stretch marks. The realization of a new poem touches My senses to listen. The lines speak like an audition-- Pick me, take me into your study. Sit with me and ponder my words. What did my poem do to you? Read it again. The theme is bursting through. I care less over a few stretch marks. The life of this poem must find its new home. The delivery is now done. Published and in circulation. I will leave it with the editors. Someone will adopt this work of thoughts. It is like a rush of adrenaline The contractions are closer now. Which editor will foster this newborn. How many times will I submit poems like this? Sending you off to make room for new pushy poems. They will get through no matter the wait.