“I wish we coul…

“I wish we could go back, even for a minute, to the way it was… I miss who we knew and what we did and how we lived.”
Ia Stavig


Poem: Untitled

Holdfast my dear beloved child

Clingfast my precious, priceless prize

Grasp tight my arm of deliverance

For I will, on my life, I will deliver you.


Clutch close the promise I bequeathed you,

When your eyes see not,

For being clouded in doubt

For I will, on my life, I will make good


Endure, oh endure my veriest treasure,

Until I come to fulfill hope,

And architect a glorious end

For I will, on my life, I will come


For I am, on my life, I AM faithful.


By Ia Stavig

An Inkling

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 Ia Stavig
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



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


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.