Poetry: Of My Soul

Everything was dark
To the depths of my soul
Never had been see a spark
From my blackness without parole

Wronged marked the door
Sorrow staid any stream of light
Bitterness and vengeance were evermore
In my endless night

My torment and fear
At the hands of my self
A pain unable to bear
Was the dimension of my gulf

I was doomed to my fate
Of misery everlasting
Payment for sins un-berated
No hope of which to cling

What is this?
A trickle of warmth
Has found its way to my abyss
It is blood and water and breath

Come for my pain to dismantle
It melts through my windows and door
With hope that fire kindles
Breaking, forgiving to my core

It is a hand, a whisper
A liberator who has suffered more than I
He lifts me above and higher
Where death cannot come nigh

Light streams all around
Darkness gives way to the morning
With it joy is found
Dissipating hate and mourning

He uncovered me there
Trapped in the prison of my own soul
In sin’s desperate lair
And cleared the charges of my scroll.

                                                                                                                                                                   

by Camilla Denniston
An Inkling

Poem: My Place

My Place 

 

 

If I had a place, there’d never be a place,

to which I would rather return,

I’d sleep there by night, and clean there by day,

and the butter by my hands would turn.

 

 

The walls would be wooden, the floors would be bare,

the kitchen simple and plain,

The shelves would be covered, the table all set,

there wouldn’t be a thing to call vain.

 

The bedroom would be furnished, the closet half full,

the mirror perfect with age,

The drawers would be chipped, the bed would be hard,

but the room would smell like a sage.

 

The furnace would sit, right next to the couch,

the fire would be out until night,

Paintings would hang, right next to the wall,

and the carpet would be such a sight.

 

I’d dust every day, wash dishes by hand,

and weed the garden at noon,

The chimney would smoke, the roses would grow,

this place would be perfect, I know!

 

 

I’d have a corral, built out of sticks,

but they would be thick and broad,

Inside I’d have mustangs, of all different breeds,

and their heads at me would nod.

 

Their manes would be thick, their noses so rough,

their eyes would be filled with fear,

Their tails would be long, their ears would be sharp,

their hooves would be pounding I hear.

 

I’d sit on their backs, learn how to ride,

and soon find out how they speak,

No whip would come down, no spurs would press in,

and soon they’d be gentle and meek.

 

I’d ride every day, train them ’til noon,

and then cool ‘em off in the shade,

We’d walk the plains, gallop the slopes,

and twenty friends I’d soon have made.

 

 

The grass would be green, the sky would be blue

and I would be happy and gay,

The trees would be tall, the bushes so wide,

and heaven water would spray.

 

The ponds would be clear, the pebbles so smooth,

the sun would shine down on my back,

The woods would be thick, the prairie spread wide,

and a home I’d no longer lack.

 

 

by Emilie B.

An Inkling

Poetry: Being

Being

 

They are here

The fresh, nippy air flows through their lungs

They live here

The sky’s endless expanse above them

They feel here

Far up the crowds are breaking open

They see here

A shiny light, the moon is not full

They give here

Thousands of people who don’t see it

They overcome here

Does no one know to esteem our world?

Do you live it?

Do you feel it?

Do you see it?

Do you give it?

Do you overcome it?

Are you?

By Maike

An Inkling

Poetry

The rhythm, the  rhyme,

It doesn’t all seem right

If the poem talks not to me

All rhythm, all rhyme,

But nothing to me

I don’t understand, why?

A  rhythm, a rhyme,

Far ahead of my sight

Tis’ lost upon me

Rhythms, rhymes,

Are truly not for me

So I’ll leave ‘em be!

By Aravis

An Inkling

I Wish Someone Would Write

Well you may have noticed that not a word, creative or otherwise, has been written in months. This is really quite depressing to me… Now that it is the time of year again when people must come inside at 6:00 or so and the living room fireplace is much more to be preferred, I am expecting to have writings pour in around me, and to be up to my ears in words! Now if you wish to contribute your words to this blog, do tell me so in a comment and then I will give you an address (email)  to send them to.

Short Story: Willoughby Whitney’s Mishap

Here is a short story I wrote last winter, to entertain two shy, young children!

Willoughby Whitney’s Mishap

It was winter in the big wood, and if a girl or boy would have walked through it in the white month of January they would have found it quite still and quiet. Many of the beautiful birds had flown south to where it was warmer, and many of the four-legged animals were sleeping the cold away in their warm homes. Of course if one listened very closely they might hear the pitter patter crunch of papa Tigglebaums little feet as he scavenged for a treat for the Tigglebaum children. It was just such a day and papa was hurrying home with his basket over his arm and an excited look on his face.

 When he entered he found Mama Tigglebaum in front of the fire making a large batch of porridge. “How are you this morning my dear?” asked Papa as he set his empty basket on the table. “Very well thank you! And how was your search in this blustery weather? You must be chilled to the bone, come sit by the fire and warm yourself. I’ll fetch your tea and your porridge in but a minute,” cried Mama in one long breath as she bustled about. Just then the children burst forth from their room with wild hollers and squeals of delight at the sight of Papa sitting in his easy chair by the fire. The oldest Tigglebaum was named Henry, the next was Ellen and the youngest was Bill, and all at once they descended upon Papa begging for the treat that he brought them without fail. “Well,” said Papa “First you must all eat your porridge and finish your lessons and then I shall tell you of the surprise.” “Oh Papa please won’t you tell us know?” begged Ellen while Bill scrambled up onto Papa’s lap. “Please give us just a hint,” cried Henry. “No my dears,” laughed Papa “You must be patient and finish your work but I will not say a word!” The Tigglebaum family finally settled to the table, Papa said grace and they all ate heartily. After breakfast the children practiced reading, arithmetic and history, until Mama said they might go. “Everyone put on your warmest clothes,” said Mama “And then come to me for inspection.” An excited scuttle followed before all three lined up for inspection.” An excited scuttle followed before all three lined up to be looked over. “Alright, you may go!” said mamma. “But stay with Papa all the while.”

The young Tigglebaums followed closely behind papa who carried a large and knobby sack ever his shoulder, whistling as he walked. After a short but brisk tramp the Tigglebaums came to the small pool in the centre of the wood. “Well,” said papa “This is the surprise! Go ahead, walk on it” “Hurrah, hurrah,” all cried at once. “Here are your skates my dears,” laughed papa as he handed them out to his waiting children. As soon as everyone had fastened on their skates the slender form of Willoughby Whitney appeared from behind a tree. “Hello mates,” he said as he casually strapped on his skates. “Oh why did that weasel have to show up and ruin our fun?” moaned Ellen to her brothers. “Weasel!” exclaimed Willoughby pretending to be angry. “I am an ermine, thank you very much . So don’t call me ‘weasel’,” finished Willoughby almost shouting. “Now, now children let’s not have a row,” said papa with a sigh, “And all of you be careful of the middle, the ice might not be hard enough. That goes for you to Willoughby; you remember your accident last fall and how you haven’t been able to swim well since.”

All of the animals stepped carefully onto the ice and then began skating around the edge as daringly as they knew how. Willoughby started with skating fast around Ellen and Bill, who were both rather wobbly, because you see Willoughby was quite a naughty young weasel who at times was a bit of a bully. He laughed at the young Tigglebaums  as he skated nearer and nearer the centre of the pond. No one paid him much attention and papa and the children raced and played until they heard a splash followed by a scream. Papa turned just in time to see Willoughby fall through a hole in the ice. As fast as he could papa ran towards the hole, “Henry fetch a stick or rope or something, but hurry,” he called as he went. Even though Henry did not like Willoughby he obeyed papa and frantically searched the bank for something papa could use to pull Willoughby out with. Papa carefully sprawled on the thin ice near the hole. “Willoughby, give me your paw,” called papa. Gasping and spluttering Willoughby reached for the offered paw but slipped and disappeared beneath the icy water. As he was quite a young weasel and as he had been in an accident in the fall, poor Willoughby forgot nearly all he knew of swimming in the freezing water. At that moment Henry found a suitable stick and raced as fast as he could to papa, who took it and implored Willoughby to grab the stick. Finally the unfortunate Willoughby caught hold of the stick and held on for dear life, while papa Tigglebaum and Henry did their best to pull him out. The Tigglebaums’  fun was cut a bit short, since papa and Henry helped Willoughby home.

On the Whitney’s front porch, Mr. Whitney scolded Willoughby for not heading papa Tigglebaum. Then he questioned his son as to why he did not just climb out himself. “Oh Father, I was so startled and the water was so cold,” whimpered Willoughby who then turned to papa. “I am so sorry I didn’t listen to your warning, Mr. Tigglebaum.” “I forgive you lad,” said papa.

 

When the entire Tigglebaum family was gathered around the glowing fire at home, they told mama about their adventure, and papa said to his children, “I am very proud of you all for obeying me today. Willoughby Whitney’s mishap has shown us how dangerous disobedience can be.” “Very true papa,” said mama with a smile at her brave and obedient children.

 

The End

 

 

By Camilla D.                                                                                                                        

Short Story: Peter Grey

You will probably notice that there are several words in this story that have been posted in bold… at one of our meetings each member was given ten or eleven vocabulary words, that had been selected by another member, to be included in a short work of any genre. We had quite a bit of fun with this experiment and Peter Grey was my attempt. The work did not need to be the writers best, or even close to their best, nor did it need to make sense to anyone but the writer! I hope you enjoy this, very short, fictional biography!

I’m going to tell you the story of a man, a sea-captain to be specific. His name was Peter Grey, his father was apostolic and his mother was almost vixen like (how these characters came together we shall never know). Peter was disunited with his parents when he was but seven. He was received thence by his uncle, the back friend of many, William Drinker was his name, and his wife Trust. An unusual name to be sure, but never was a name more befitting. Now you might expect our hero’s character to have been trisected, with the influence of so many and so different people, but I am glad to say that good influences triumphed over the evil ones in young Peter’s life and he grew into a man of honour and integrity. When he was 18 years old he ran away to fight the French, when the war was over (Peter was 21) he inherited his late uncle William Drinker’s entire sea port. So our hero embarked on a journey that carried him to the importous waters of southern Sweden to strange and far off India, whence he learned to hunt the caraboa and ride the great elephant. Now that Peter had traveled and fought, he felt he lacked greatly in the domestic line of happiness so he traveled to England to his hometown. Here he found his aunt Trust quite as snug as when he had left. Now madam was a bit of a harmless matchmaker, and so , she invited a dear friend and her daughter to come for a visit. Naturally Peter must meet them! Mrs. Tabitha Ritter’s daughter Priscilla was young, beautiful, and possessed a sweet temper. As expected our hero fell in love with Priscilla and she with him for he was the dashing, heroic, and good, young sea-captain that she saw him to be. They were married the following Spring and lived in ecstasy, for a time, until Peter was called back to his ships. Priscilla was rather frail so that she was unable to travel aboard her husband’s vessel like other sea wives of her day. The long days alone were rather oppressing to Cilla, so till she grew strong , she stayed with Peter’s aunt Trust (her own mother had lived only long enough to see her only remaining child marry). When Peter returned a number of months later Priscilla was quite strong, so she and our hero sailed off into a glorious sunset wherein they had two shy of zeta beautiful strong and noble children.
And they lived happily ever after till the end of their days.

By Camilla Deniston
An Inkling

Poem: Germany

Across the ocean, my feet once walked the moist earth.
While I strolled down the street, I heard the clang, clang of beer steins,
And the smell of sausage and sauerkraut seeping up my nose.
Amazingly I see people pass by me with the same light blonde hair and blue eyes as me.
Shocked I see my surname all over this strange foreign land.
My surname Wald means “forest”.
I spotted Bohemian Wald. In a distant land

I also sighted the Black Wald.
Looking at the black forest, the colossal, magnificent mountain cast its long shadow into the dense trees.
Can you hear the clang, clang of beer steins in that distant land across the ocean?

Miss Hardy
An Inkling

Poem: The Cowboy

Look! Here comes the Cowboy
In his big, black, shiny boots!
He’s coming tough and ready
To brand them little colts.

His long, blond, sandy hair,
Sits under his leather hat,
His mare is strong and full of speed,
I’m pretty sure of that.

Everybody fears the Cowboy
When he walks up to the bar,
And everywhere the Cowboy goes
Trouble cannot be far.

By Emilie
An Inkling

Poem: A Sea of Troubles

The “unsinkable” boat barely shakes,
But harm has already been done.
One captain made an error…
When he declared, “Twenty-four knots and on!”

Who saw it, that deathly horror…
Snowy and sparkling in the sea?
Who saw its silhouette run the deck?
Who saw it vanish into the night?
Scarcely anyone.

Scarcely anyone but short and freckled Annie,
Amusing her friends on deck!
It was twelve o’clock, minus twenty…
When nearly all persons were in bed.

ICE! ICE AHEAD!
The upset watchman had cried out from the crow’s nest;
Another sixty minutes,
And the charge, driven by panic, begins.

Annie spins and stumbles,
Submerged in a torrent of people…
She cries in desperation for her parents,
But not one person notices the little girl!

Lifeboats are lowered one by one,
“First women and children!”
But Annie merely rushes around.
“Mommy! Daddy!” she shrieks to no avail.

A gentleman grabs her,
Annie is in lifeboat number twenty-four.
Making use of his whole strength…
Away from the Mother Ship, navigates the rower.
But away, too, from small Annie’s mom and dad!

Annie’s locks are swirled and wet…
Her eyesight is misty and stormy.
The tears she is crying lap one over the other…
And inside the little girl,
Are rippling waves of despair and mourning…
leaving her feeling empty
And with a sea that’s at all times raging!

By Jennifer
An Inkling