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Vladimir Dec 2018
My quill is, simply put, – a magic tool:
It plays on winds and rhymes, on evening-mornings,
On sonnets and sonatas, never boringly;
The summer-winters, sunny moons fulfill its orders,
This verse – a pass to stars and heavens, too…

A pass to feel the spirit of adventure;
Into the theatre of storms and passions, dreams –
Where you’re the playwright and the actor, you’re free
To breathe the air of rhymes and beauty, reel
And hear a voice so young, enthralling, ancient…

My quill knows no choice, except to win –
It’s blessed by Shakespeare, Puskhin, many others;
And long ago, in ancient Greece, or maybe farther –
Apollo told me: “We are destined yet to father
A magic tome of futures, so whimsical…

And so we cooked the nectar: chords of lyre,
And Aphrodite’s smiling, thrilling eyes,
Some truthful flattery and magic in disguise –
It had no equal – healthy! – no lies.
The stars fell down for luck, the drink – so clear.

Each master and each maestro came to see –
From all the centuries and lands, and all the nations.
The wizard Merlin worked his fanciful equations,
And Cicero would speak – to melt the glaciers.
Became my palette – Earth, and skies, and seas…

Each poet, philosopher, composer, pretty muse
All nymphs and heroes, and grandmasters who came,
Inspired the drink with their talents, skills and aims,
So rose art to heights of starry fame,
And Mr. Orpheus and Lennon sang their music.

My quill has no choice, except to win:
It holds the kiss and smile of every beauty,
It lives those dreams of other artists – futile
And never made to be by their music;
To carry forth and make them true was their will.

What is this nectar? – All the legends, all the whims
And genius of masters through the ages.
We dipped my soul and quill – I dare wager
That after drinking such a mead, there’s no danger:
My pages will withstand the harshest winds.

And so they kissed the poet and the quill
To bid me luck through all the future ventures –
These charming dames of all the legends, ages;
My heart was calm but quick; serene, but raging
Before creating Universes-quilts…

My quill, it shines with festive lights and stars,
It writes and rhymes with spirit – joyful, ringing.
So what if someone angers, spouts, cringes?
So? – Winter rages when the spring is springing.
I am afraid we’re in the future – speed of flight.

So, drink the rhymes and verses, breathe the scent.
The planet spins anew, without the mires;
The violets will bloom, to be admired,
And tales are true – of mermaids, love and fire.
So go on and read, my message sent!

Now Earth will spin a little quicker, calmer,
Our world will turn a legend, true and rhyming,
Where bombs will hardly soar – only gryphons,
Where marriages and fruit will ever ripen
And never rot, where dreams are bound to come.

My quill has no choice, except to win.
It’s young and old, instant and eternal,
It’s flippant, ethical, and magical, and ornery.
Remember? – Blessed by every artist’s orders.
It’s meant to father worlds, and so will…
A monument I've raised not built with hands,
And common folk shall keep the path well trodden
To where it unsubdued and towering stands
Higher than Alexander's Column.

Alexander Pushkin
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018

I hold the quill,
I have the ink and yet,
nothing seems to flow.
My mind, a blank canvas.
My heart, a startled bird.
My soul, a dying furnace.
No words to share
I am lost.

Feeling so stressed. Haven't written anything in a few days!
I don't like it when this happens...
Lyn ***
Star BG Sep 2018
My quill I rise in vertical stance,
letting it flow with Divine orchestration.
Its feather posture drifts as if still on birds wing,
spiraling in graceful form.
Words turn into sentences.
Sentences phases
as vellum explodes with visions.

My quill instrument vibrates
in scripted form dancing
to make waves cross ocean-like sheet.
Moments melt away.
Words become lines that
carry bubbles of thoughts
meant to float into other minds.
Sentences become bench posts
that corrals a perspective
as images collide on page.

My quill remains vertical in mind
at all times
as writer merges with moment.
As day evolves with more fuel
to push pen.
As page glistens from sun of heart.
Inspired by Pagan Paul Thank you so much for being you.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018

Each line, each word, each though is
ink floods with passion, pressure,
praise and pain

Rohan Press Feb 2018
the sky was lilac and
blurred with the
pale obfuscations of

opaque and formless, you sharpened
the horizon
and i thought of remembering.
Rebecca H Dec 2017
I write,

not with a keyboard or
even an old-fashioned typewriter;
but with a quill
dipped in my blood.

What a lovely shade crimson is,
against rice-white paper.
- every word is written with my blood -
AnxiousOcean Nov 2017
pain is with him
they never drifted apart
not even once
the sun knows the truth
and so does the moon
yet everyone knows not
because every time he bleeds
all he bleeds is ink
I'm sorry if I did not give my poem any justification, but all that I want to say is, everytime I feel pain, I write a poem instead of telling them directly that I am in pain. Because I am so sensitive. and I feel so sorry for being sensitive. God Bless
Cloak Oct 2017
Last Night I Deleted a Handful Of Poems
Now Where Are They?
Gone Forever?
Discarded Quill and Feather?
They're In My Head..
It Fills Me With Dread...
No Matter How Hard I Try...
Deleted Words
Don't Delete From The Mind...
I went on to destroy my journal of work... Burned it because all it was is a journal full or memories and torment..
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