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

  Inspiration at Work        by Clara Mitchell A time for nature, me and my poetry. Which of the three do I fancy the most? Poetry takes me out of the norm. I drink of this art every chance I can get. Poetry can be a release of sudden inspiration. Its purpose is timely for nature and me. In nature, I walk and talk with God. I want to let him know we are collaborating. Nature opens up a theme park to me. The themes reveal secrets about life. Discoveries are found in nature walks. Inspiration uncovers new places and  Meaning that was lost in prior walks. When I begin to connect with nature, The appearances of poetry are surrounding me. God shows up then a bird captures my eye. At once-- I am not alone with my thoughts. The verses are erupting into poetry. Nature hears my familiar steps. Nature calls me to walk off the path. I find that when I leave the walking path, I leave time behind. I embrace the grace of God. The grace that calls the words that Demand to open scenery. Unearthing tho

  Content Creators The writers and poets, Creators of content and more, Face every morning as if A new idea will appear out of nowhere. Wishful thinking my friend. Ideas are content makers. My content calendar is spotty. I have a morning routine. After my routine, I am fast at work creating A new poem for my calendar. The creation process is in stages An inkwell hides from the pen. The writer or poet mistakes the spotty calendars as empty days. What often appears blank or invisible Is necessary to complete the thought process. The ideas all come together. Each idea embeds like a player Inside my mind until all the ideas orchestrate a symphony of sounds. The sounds of each creation Plays out until the time Comes for more calendar content. My calendar is like a talent scout. Needs summon talent. Who needs my talent? What ideas and inkwells are still hiding? The writers are content creators. I see my poetic pen move by God's Spirit.