Poetic Inkwells and More

 The Poet's Ear                  by Clara Mitchell Words flood into the poet's ear. If such rapids continue too long, I will soon go deaf. This tide pulls me to my desk. Divine inkwells awaken this moment. Pure words capture my insight. Scripts drip with fresh ink. I hear the verse form One by one-- The verses recite a new poem. The Holy Oracles of God Like a flood, Have left eternal marks  In the poet's inner ear. The inner ear is a sanctum-- Call it my temple, or dwelling Place for my inner man. The words are gone. Inspire me again. The water lines are proof-- These ears will hear again and again. The poet must finish the poem. The poet's ear creates like a musician-- Who can play by ear. The poet's words are an arrangement Composed by the Holy Spirit. The hidden directing force  Behind all the curtains of life.

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.

  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. ...