Poetic Inkwells and More

 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.