"inks" poems
The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing --
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history --
Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietàs?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.
36.1k
just like a shooting star across the sky
just like a sunshine peeks behind the green leaves
with its rays and bright lights all over my dull eyes
just like a warm coffee in a rainy days
just like the pigeons that fly happily on the big blue sky
my world stops when you smile at me
and the time stands still when you look at me
and i'm so over with inks
and papers
and words
because you are too beautiful to describe
and my love for you can't be contained in thousand words.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
my fault is another's
laughter.
my soul begins
to sink as my red face
inks in my
embarrassment.
the smile i've put
there is convincing,
but it's a show.
under the apathy
i'm blinking
back hot tears.
they burn, but not
as much as the
cold slap of their
laughs
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 5:51 PM UTC
He looked at her,
Her hands were caked with black inks,
Filled with words she will never utter through her mouth,
How effortlessly she twists her hair into messy bun,
How she never ever wears make-up,
Daring enough not to conceal her beautiful imperfections,
How she clung books tightly to her chest,
Like a shield defensing her,
And how she walks confidently, yet stares on the ground afraid to have any eye contact,
I can't help but get attracted more and more by her quirkiness,
Every ******* time she passes by me.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
smoke and ghosts,
utter emptiness.
the moon drifting
in a smouldering sea
of grey inks.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
winter faded like old parchment, drawn in charcoal
the trees waited for the inevitable colours of spring.
your voice coloured silence and left me standing
away from the crowd with my head inclined to yours,
listening to you, the shadows swept away and your
voice like the moonlight, the blue inks of the sea.
i watched you unwind night skies and the night stars
that burnt in the rivery realms of lost ruins and whispering
dreams, fell like dead men before your passion and there
was no reasoning with what you believed and you had
no compassion for the world. hatred fired up before
my forgiveness and you could not forgive. how many
oceans scattered their flowers and light, how many
armies fell before the burning amber of your eyes?
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
Your commitments and word
Are inks stained on cold skin
Taken without pain sacrificed,
Easily washed away in water:
Simple imitations...
That at its essence
Mock the sanctity and identity
of actual tattoos.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
she is a rendering in darker inks of lighthearted subjects
the eloquently illustrated surrealistic seduction of the heart
demure yet ravishing sexualization
the ideal of beauty offering itself up like a sacrifice
at the alter of some wanton hedonistic temple to gods of lust
she looks up at me from her practiced good girl gone naughty dream
and tells me that she wants me
wants it all to be perfect
like in the paris magazines
wants it all to be crafted in perfumed perfection
near to goddess as human can be
she is rendered in darker inks
but i am captivated by the lovely
entranced by the beautiful
enraptured by the perfection
as only darker inks can be
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
/
When you are growing as a poet
your pain is pining to born a poetry
where there are too many clouds of emotions gathering,
also a pensive mood longing
then the thunder of thoughts growing,
your paper is awaiting for the first word
as I was waiting for you, my love
when you were coming slowly
then words of rain raining,
automatically,
randomly
When the first raindrop pings on the pond
even you don't know when it will be stopped
how far it will be covered
which path it will be taken
even its density,
dignity,
or the diversity
Your first word inks on the paper
you don’t know when it will be finished
which way the words will be taken
even you don't know
its size or style,
its fashion or the scheme
Either it's a long or a short
or even a sonnet or a verse
even its rhyming
or the rhythm
You should not think about its length
of course words grow as long as
the metaphors can travel
through its thoughts of cohesion
and its feelings moving
naturally,
poetically
You should not count the words
or even you can't stop within a limit
it makes your thoughts imperfect
rather you can tell totally
about the life,
or can tell about
the love easily
or beyond the life spontaneously
The words can grow 3,5,7
lines for a haiku
or even it goes for a mile for an epitaph
or more for an epic
Poetry executes through words
words come from thoughts
thoughts come from the emotions
and ends with the wisdom
/
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Doodling doodling
You keep on doodling
Why aren't you working?
Remember, you're not the king
Stealing minutes
Spreading inks
Overflowing wits
Can't lose this habit
~Unfinished~
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
i.
her dress laced with
icicles, winter streams,
on her head she
wore a bluebell hat.
her hair wild roses,
her little hands gathered love like
wild roses, until her
cheeks melted like wild
roses, and everything of
her was the rose wild wind and
the silvery song of the moon.
ii.
winter wove it's dull aches,
it's rose powder rains, its
clouds of dream around
her, but she refused to believe
in the scrolled iron gates of winter
where nothing would open into
the garden of her dreams and
she was left a wood sprite,
magical as freezing midnight
cloud-like in her roses and
blanched cheeks, a snow-rose,
deeply beautiful.
iii.
pale as a midnight cloud,
the flowerbeds soft stars
of february, moments of
ice, tears, tears of a doll
in the frost.
iv.
love, surreal and ceramic,
pink blossom kisses on your
cheeks and your cherry-white lips
winter harness of bells and softest
leather.
v.
clouds sing of roses, winter sinks
like a dark rose, magical inks, rose-
girl, roses, dark thorn of black,
muse in the hedgerow, singing
of a long forgotten world. wounded
bird, drawn of paper and the ringing,
ringing air.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 6:35 PM UTC
my feelings are the splattered inks
bold, italics
threatening to spill
weighing on every meaning
words could carry
scrambled up, juggled
those who’ve yet to feel
shall not speak
and pray tell, words
do you realize what you amount to?
what’s behind was for a reason, a person
clear as day, solid reverie
what lies beneath shan’t remain between the lines
and if it reaches you, we’re alike
Sep 27, 2022
Sep 27, 2022 at 7:01 AM UTC
the sea, rushing,
its blue inks dissolving
in pools.
a cloud whispers
fragments of a dark song
to the sky.
the waves crashing,
crashing, crashing….
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
"INKS OF TRUTH"
A dedication
For Soul Survivor
''~~~~~~
*There's A City called Hello Poetry
And in this city,
Lives A Woman of many colours
A Poetess with a kind heart
A Poetess of Class
A Woman that loves to care for all
She's a kind soul
Meandering through this city,
She has a heart devoid of hate*
* A Motherly nature
Always hoping everyone is well
Find this woman and
Appreciate her
For her heart is pure
And Soul too kind
Have you heard about Soul Survivor
Or call her Catherine Jarvis?
She is the woman
She is a Mother
A Mother of Hello poetry
Find her now and appreciate her*
Ovi Odiete©
Dedicated to Soul Survivor
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
she is a rendering in darker inks of lighthearted subjects
the eloquently illustrated surrealistic seduction of the heart
demure yet ravishing sexualization
the ideal of beauty offering itself up like a sacrifice
at the alter of some wanton hedonistic temple to gods of lust
she looks up at me from her practiced good girl gone naughty dream
and tells me that she wants me
wants it all to be perfect
like in the paris magazines
wants it all to be crafted in perfumed perfection
near to goddess as human can be
she is rendered in darker inks
but i am captivated by the lovely
entranced by the beautiful
enraptured by the perfection
as only darker inks can be
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
Ink and rabies flows in our veins. Copper cogs hold our eyes into place, and we can see the undulating liquors flowing like waters in a transparent waterbed, rolling back and forth with gravity.
Ink and rabies flows in our veins. They came with togetherness, in the same pen, passed along, gently, from one hand to another, a friendly enough gesture, cultured, combined, colluded into a single consciousness of tactful inks together, tactful links together, a single solvent.
They were once separate towns...separate people...until Radii Ink and Yuli Rab were together...
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
In a pornographic poem
ee cummings wrote
may i feel ,
Fell the nicest of the rhymes into
Brooks of sholas
Untidy caveman and lady in water
Heard the words in the streams
Though evaporated few from the stream
There stood ee Cummings on the banks
With the inks for liquid state
Somewhere he again stood
With the inks for gaseos state
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 4:37 AM UTC
i.
summer, with her golden
light and bluebell valleys
sweeps the senorita skies
and shady groves.
ii.
the sea rushes to the sand,
relentless waves surrender
crashing on the rocks
where the raucous gulls glide.
iii.
the moon-sky of summer’s
warm nights brings sweet dreams
and lavender fields, stars
of slumber, ropes of
gold thread like
embroidered silk.
iv.
the white clouds
woven from the rain
hide the sun which
waits for the blue inks
of a summer sky.
v.
small, the bird
painted
on the sky.
vi.
i am jealous of your legs,
crazy in love with your love,
swept up in your arms
while i wait for you to
claim me as your own.
love me i cry out,
i am yours, i am yours,
forever.
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
Teetering on something significant,
but the words haven't been molded;
just some idea that was formed
in the attic of an old comic book store
when I was inspired by the artwork
of that Liefeld guy who inks dysmorphia.
-
The definition of ******* seems to be something
that fits like a drunken tattoo in a hard to see area.
You need a couple mirrors, your arms start to ache
and you never really do get a good look at it.
Now you have to explain to casual intimate partners
that you think it's the first Megazord, not a little devil.
-
I recently did a math problem that took up an entire page;
it was my first time doing something like that.
The pacing of math classes gives me an anxiety like I can't believe.
The word prerequisite give me an anxiety like I can't believe.
Sweaty, cold, fetal, this can't really be a normal reaction, right?
I think Montessori might have messed with my wiring.
-
I can hear my mom shuffling about on her walker.
I think she must be feeding a cat, or cleaning up puke;
the spectrum of caring.
Holly is in heat and howling.
I can't find my Proventil, it tastes so much better than the other brands.
I think I might just have some fruity pebbles.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 4:31 AM UTC
There is a map,
which I cannot read,
I trace paths upon unknown lands,
foreign names, and broken lines,
hoping to reach,
somewhere, some place in time.
The compass gently spins,
And the hourglass bleeds.
The map changes a million hands,
A million eyes gaze,
This way and that,
The paths I draw, interlink,
Traces criss-cross and overlap,
Inks run into each other,
And separate by centuries.
Time rests among the folds,
creases shut out history,
between visibles and invisibles
some distances decrease.
The compass gently spins,
And the hourglass bleeds.
This map remains before me,
still hidden and revealed.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 3:47 PM UTC
blushes
tips, brushes and spills and the willingness of physics
dip the quill
blending a full face of colours trippy
tipping my crown, my head,
my thinker becomes creation winning
inks
i wink faithfully lacy into the universe pirouettes and eddies
tinkering
i divide myself couple and quad and oct..
flood my breeding into the cosmos
spoon-feeding peddling out into the mutter
the great relax of the creative meddle
Dec 31, 2022
Dec 31, 2022 at 8:21 PM UTC
The girl on the subway
dropped the handkerchief
that was sitting on her lap.
------------
I picked it up
only to find out it has
splattered inks of black.
------------
She came to me,
mascara streaked down
from her sun-kissed face.
------------
Her pretty brown eyes
were like sunset and I swear,
I couldn't look away.
—indialev
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap
Shhhhhhhhhhh
drop your pen and drink your inks
stop your words from polluting
the clean slate minds of the youth
let them memorize the ancient rules
This world can't read what you're writing
Arrange a funeral and bury your thinking
Make it quick and be silent
Don't let them know that you're different
You can write? Good for you.
Now go and hide, or else they'll come here too.
tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap
Shhhhhhhhhhh
How dare you write
against the tides
about your views
about the lies
about the news
and prostitutes
and ****** abuse?
This world is cruel,
don't overthrow
the rule of men
who can only write
tap-tap about women rights,
tap-tap and the social issues,
tap-tap and the silent taboos,
tap-tap and the rich and the poor,
tap-tap and about the schools
which are producing
brain-washed fools.
tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap
Shhhhhhhhhhh
Don't you know? They heard you too
Run for your life, they're chasing you
To erase your words
and silence your voice
To suffocate you
In your own mind
tap-tap, tap-tap
You're still standing here, asking me why?
Well, you're a threat
to what they possess
the power above all
the power to play god
to decide how we'll live
and where and why
and decide how we are going die.
You're still too young, you haven't seen
How they hide behind the walls
of their own fragile masculinity
and show their strength to scare you away
Ironic how it reflects their own image.
tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap
Shhhhhhhhhhh
Now here they are, calling you names
with ***** meanings that they have made
They're pulling you down,
dragging you around,
making sure you'll never make a sound.
tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap,tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
I know
I know
Oh, I know
How hard it is
to suffer all this
a punishment
of their own ****** sins
It makes me wonder
if they even will
punish the angels
on the last day
for writing
down
their *****
*****
mistakes.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC
all i've been able to think about lately
is a poem written by fingers on a keyboard
attached to a left hand not yet responsible
for being blistered with cigarette burns
or lifting can or shot or handle to lips
with which to stain -- barley, hops,
potatoes, rice, and alcoholic love.
and i've been thinking about how i felt
after i read a poem written the night
before by a left hand now singed
and swollen, and guilty of lifting
many such apparatuses bearing
many such inks to blot out
mistakes and scribble over
all the misjudged words
that have spilled from
lips stained with barley,
hops, potatoes, and rice.
and i've been thinking about
the content of that poem,
and about how differently
i thought of it two nights ago,
before i got my own matching
business card with a followup
appointment for next week,
and a matching warning
to allow 24 hours notice
before changing the day
or time of an appointment
in order to avoid being charged;
and with it came the opportunity
to write my own poem about it:
Christina M., LMFT,
Wed, 4-17-13 at 4:00 PM,
and it has a sacramento street
address with a phone number
i have no intention of calling.
and i've been thinking about
how i met with her today,
and what we spoke of,
how i told her about drugs,
and how i told her about drinking,
and how my grades have been slipping,
and how i realized that
my poem is his poem,
just eleven months too late.
and that's why i told her about
this party i went to this weekend,
and how i'm passive, and i have trouble
speaking up for myself when i need to,
and how we sang until i left the room,
and how i went outside in the cold
after i came back inside to notice
something i wasn't expecting
to make me sad, but did.
and this person with whom
i have another appointment next week,
and most likely the week after that,
for however many weeks it takes,
told me that it helps to tell a person
how you're feeling without
gluing strings to the information,
or getting upset, or lying,
and so i guess this is an attempt,
albeit one made out of cowardice
and impatience, and some desire
for there to be an easier way
to tell a boy i've loved him
ever since i found this stupid website,
filled with his stupid words,
and his stupid poem about
a stupid girl he used to date,
that clinically broke open
my amygdalae and upon them
tattooed every feeling
of which i was never sure.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
I am usually an amnesiac
Which is why there is always
cheap stationery in my pockets
- "An inexpensive set from Faber-Castell"
I look to my scribbles when I'm lost
unless an unexpected shower
has been tasked to ruin them
- "Pages stuck together, smudged and stained"
Three monsoons have come and went
I don't carry an umbrella or run for cover anymore
I stand in the middle of the downpour, drenched
But I guess some inks are just too hard to wash away
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 8:17 AM UTC