Poetic Inkwells and More

  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 lat...

  Music Takes its Place                       by Clara Mitchell 3/30/2024 As I look back on my life, I am without the music. My poetry sits without music. My life is without music. My poetry is like a blank score sheet. Music visits me now. I continue to write poetry. Hoping for the words To find their place in this stanza. Being out of place Is sometimes starting too early. An octet composition can later find room in eight instruments or voices. The blank score sheets begin to fill up. The outcome is in the scores and sheets of music. Forever written Until we become the music. We play the sounds Now my poetry is playing in my mind against the backdrop of notes. The octaves rise and fall When the notes appear. The piece is set into Sheets of music Only to play in Times of need. It's angelic sounds Console me.

  Poetic Time Release       by Clara Mitchell   1/5/2024 A poet at the inkwell. I come here every day for inspiration. I go deeper to draw from this well. My pen dips into the inkwell as if to test the temperature. Tepid will not do for this hour. Hot words that blaze like fire Releasing a heat to stir the coldest heart. My pen is the hot iron The Lord is now speaking. He wants us hot for him. Hot for His Word. Hot in love for His presence. A poet is often mistaken for a prophet. Yes, I hear and see as the Lord leads. I write and refill the inkwell as inspiration Removes ink upon ink. My pen starts and stops Then finds its place again. When writing our life story, We are all poets. Sometimes we are out of place. Out of sync. No time for missteps. The end is near. Be ready, repent, and on fire!