Endless Possibilities ❤︎❤︎❤︎

 

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Endless Possibilities ❤︎❤︎❤︎
・・・
I swam out past the break
To see what was there
And it was just miles and miles
Of endless sea
The infinite flow of life and love.
.
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© Jennifer Calvert 2018 ❤︎ #inkandquillpoetry
📷 Pinterest .

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Vanished

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Imagine, one morning waking at dawn. The colours of yellow and burnt orange warm your skin. You open your eyes and search your surrounds, everything that once was, gone. Your world blank. Your loved ones vanished, your career and professional life irrelevant in a new world. Your home a distant memory. It is just you and things you own. Emptiness grips your throat and your breath laboured. You’re left cold.

Everything that was important to you yesterday, replaced by times rapid clock. How do you move out forward?
In this life, we’re constantly thriving to achieve financial success. Chasing materials to fill a deep void. Masking our sadness with bigger and better products.

But what happens when you awaken; from this life created? Will you look back and love the things you have brought? Or will you remember the people who travelled beside you? Moved through the thick hours of time, and supported you with love, and action.

As time ticks by, remember it is only fleeting, that one day the hands will stop, will you be left with all your possessions or will you choose love?

 

Image courtesy of http://aracelirldeloleoalcincel.blogspot.com/2016/08/richard-avedonel-hombre-que-revoluciono.html

Little by Little

  Little by little She withers away The light in her eyes Fades Like a flower, Petals droop Under the weight Of the densely –packed blooms and seasons end, The sun shelters behind the rain and treetops gather the fallen, … Continue reading

Little Lamb

  She spoke in tongues of old of stories long told Red raw and brimming with gold Her breathe darted against the cold Trees fallen by the wayside lonely in the night silenced by the wind, her voice – hushed … Continue reading

Thames Twilight-by Kim 

The very talented Kim from Writing in North Norfolk, with the beautiful poem Thames Twilight. 

https://writinginnorthnorfolk.com/thames-twilight/

She Speaks To My Heart

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tig-fashion.blogspot.com


She spoke another language,
Verse fell from her lips,
Sweetly unfathomable,
Like poetry to my ears,
The sound of love slips, 
Music to my ears,
She spoke another language,
Perplexed and stunned by the roll of her tongue,
Yet, still I comprehend every word,
For she speaks to my heart. 

A Call To Arms

A call to arms,
My heart;
Eccentric,
Jaded,
Hostile in the dark.
As the sun beacons
flames,
Summons the grave
of darkness,
The moon regains
composed in the depth of night,
Upside down; like a bat of navigation
My insides sign with articulation,
A skeleton to breathe against the grating battle-cry
Eloped in time stood still,
Forever merging with the ghosts of Halidon Hill.

J.Calvert 2016

Faded Tune

 

http://www.fubiz.Conceptual photography by-mega christine

Where my heart once beat,
In rhythmic tune,
Needles and prescription,
Sedate my quickening mind,
Dead skin and choked arteries,
Blood congeals,
Painkillers to hide,
Softly echo against numbing thoughts,
Anesthetise my life,

Where my heart once beat,
In faded tune,
I hear, only the echo of the throb,
Ache over my body,
Cracked lips and bleeding tongue,
Sentimental of the past,
Eyes twitch,
Hands tremble,
Shaken by the race,
Will I ever feel again?

Guest Poet On Ink & Quill: Laura. A. Lord

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It is with great pleasure, I introduce you to Ink and Quill’s feature guest, Laura. A. Lord. Laura is a very talented poet and I’ve really enjoyed finding out more about her. Her poetry is incredible, edgy and original. Please, follow the link to check out more of her wonderful writing.

NAME: Laura A. Lord
COUNTRY: United States
AGE: 30

Please tell us a little about yourself:
I’m 30 years old and live on the Eastern Shore of Maryland with my husband and three children. I have been writing since I was a teenager, but didn’t start publishing my work until my mid-twenties. I have published six collections of poetry and vignettes and one children’s book.

‘Poetry is by far my favorite form to write and what I spend most of my time on.’

 

In fact, my newest collection set to be released this summer, I Am, in entirely poetry. I’m also an editor for Birth Without Fear and The Reverie Journal (the latter of which is a poetry magazine). You can find out more about my work on my blog,  Laura A Lord

When did you first start writing?
I started writing poetry as a teenager…Really bad, emo poetry. In fact, I have a huge binder full of the poems I wrote back then. I keep it effectively hidden in the hopes that no one will ever be subjected to the horrors inside there.

What does poetry mean to you?
Poetry is memories’ music. I am rarely ever able to write about something that is currently happening in my life, but after some time has gone by I am able to reflect on those memories.

‘I think that is what is most important to me about poetry – the ability to be able to freeze those feelings, emotions, and images in something like a poem.’

 

What might inspire you to write a poem? How does a poem begin for you, with an idea, a form or an image?
I tend to choose a theme. I think of a specific time in my life or emotion and try to work from that. I also enjoy wordle prompts. I have had great success with those and it is always fun to be challenged to use words you might not have ever chosen yourself.

Which writers/poets inspire and influence your own writing?
Sylvia Plath and Raymond Carver are two of my absolute favorites. I could, and have, read and reread their works again and again for inspiration.

Has your idea of what poetry is changed since you began writing poems?
Certainly. I used to think that poetry had to rhyme and that it needed a dark undertone. I am thankful to keep those hidden in the binder and to have learned to evolve my writing. I rarely rhyme these days, but I think the dark undertone lingers.

Tell us about your writing process: Pen and paper, computer, notes?
I have terrible carpal tunnel, so pen and paper is almost always out for me. I do keep a notebook in my bag and in my car, just in case, but I tend to use the notebook on my phone to jot down ideas. I write everything exclusively on my desktop, though.

Please share your favourite piece/s with us and a brief description of the inspiration behind it:
These three poems are from my upcoming book, I Am. The collection focuses on a woman’s view of herself at different points in her life. “Not for Keeps,” for instance, revolves around how I saw myself after learning of my (now ex) boyfriend’s infidelity, while “Brood Mare” stems from the drastic changes I saw in my body after the birth of my last son. “Skeleton Dance” formed a sort-of promise for me, in my effort to be as honest as possible throughout the book, and how it felt to open up so much about my own self-image.

laura

Not for Keeps

I’ve been nursing this blow up
like you’ve nursed that watery beer.
I wanted it big
and loud
and bright –
an explosion of color
in the harsh tones of a Las Vegas wedding.

I wanted my pain to hurt your eyes,
make you blink back a few tears.
I look better a bit hazy.
My angry face is heavily lined –
a child’s drawing,
all thick crayon swipes
and blurred edges.

I wanted my rage to be palpable –
a pulpy glob of orange juice in your mouth
after brushing your teeth.
I wanted you to roll me around on your tongue for a moment.
I wanted you to spit me out.

I’m no good for the long haul.
I’m not for keeps.

I break up like a wave crash,
a grenade with extra shrapnel on the side.
I can make a soap opera look like reality TV.

So come here, baby.
Let me lurk there at the back of your throat,
a taste you can’t get rid of.
I’m the kind of memory that gets closed up in some shoe box
under the bed.
I want to dine on the dust mites there and
listen to all the moments you whisper into her hair.
I want my claws so deep in your back
you still feel them when you’re fucking her.
I want my name engraved in your throat,
your voice box to massage every syllable as it slides
between your gritted teeth,
riding the wake your hips have made.
I want her to hate the plague marks I’ve left behind in you.

I’m such a needy little thing.

Brood Mare

I am a brood mare
with empty feed sack tits.
I’ve lost all sensitivity and
I’m emotionally bloated.

I’m an angry red slash –
The Joker’s mouth,
right above lips that have
stretched open so wide to speak
that they have split themselves sideways.
I’ve been stitched up,
stitched tight, and
I’m still loose.

I’m a pair of crow’s eyes at the corner
of a red-faced, wailing baby’s eyes.

I am lanolin-caked nipples –
I’m just trying to make the pain bearable.

I’m, “My God, I want you,” and
“Don’t touch me. I’m fat.”

I’m a hormonal, demolition derby car,
with no roll cage.
There’s no height requirement for this ride.
I’ve got an ass for days and nights,
sunsets and rises, and
rises,
like high rise to tuck in,
hold back,
control top.
I’m a peep-toe shoe
with thigh high stockings,
in a terry-cloth bathrobe.

I’m fuck-me-in-the-dark beautiful and
a saunter while I walk through the produce aisle.

I have nursed this image
until the well ran dry and
the keloids rose like mountain ranges
through a bush so neglected
it’s become a fanatic feminist icon,
but you’re still banging my crown against the headboard.
So I’m either that kind of desirable
or I’ve got a concussion.

Either way, I was never meant to be a princess.
I was meant to be a brood mare
with empty feed sack tits.

Skeleton Dance

I am ready to spill my skeletons,
open the door to the proverbial closet
and watch them perform an irreverent
skitter-dance across our bedroom carpet.
They will two-step in the moonlight
shining in jagged strips through the
wire screen against our window pane.
They will sing a false swan song
with lipless mouths and bones that
rattle as change in your pockets.
They will twist up on one another,
like a bow around a present,
and I’m giving you this gift,
because it is no longer possible
to keep them in my head.
I am dragging them out from under
the piles of old neglected things
that hinder our ability to speak freely
and humiliate what is left of our love.
I am giving you faceless truths
and praying that the melody of our past
is enough to string us back together.

 

Would you like a free copy of Laura’s book, Rumble Strip?

Sign up to her mailing list here