Poetic Inkwells and More

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.

  The Pen in Hand          by Clara Mitchell My pain is a blessing as I hold tight to my pen. The pen in hand Creates from my genius. The genius is like a genie. Rub the pen and paper Let the ink of genius soak deep into the paper. Soaking up its power and like the anointing, I move into another place. It is the secret place where the genius And poet's inkwells meet up with God. It is a paradise of revelation. A holy time and a time to see Visions from God and hold the new Ideas as tight as I hold my pen. My poetry is like a movie premiere. I must go through many takes before The director-- in this case, God-- Is ready to finish the process. A new art is now ready To attach to the womb Of the minds eager for new life From the hand of God's poets. God's poets, the genius Will extend the themes to time, And time will carry the lineage Into new generations to enjoy. Oh, the lifetime of poetry Is eternal when God is the producer. The

  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.

  by Clara Mitchell   To be or not to be? Hamlet's question is still and remains very interesting. What if God had asked the same question at the start of creation? Instead of Light be, what if He had asked Light be or not to be? God was teaching us as our creator from the get go. Words can create what we cannot see. Words when spoken create an energy around us. The energy takes shape to form our world. Our faith in God's Word is activated as we decree it. Faith builds on scriptures and it is a substance. In today's language it is a controlled substance. Faith is in God's control and we wait for His Word to activate. God aligns us to His will for His glory. His plan is always higher than our own. Seeking God requires anyone one of us to believe. Without faith, we cannot please God. But with faith many rewards are given by God To those who diligently seek him. (Hebrews 11:6)