Farewell to the Inkwell

Written by Ashcloud

Adieu mon ami,
For now it must be
The end, our farewell, our adieu.

Adieu mon ami,
Forever we will be,
A team beyond any description.

Adieu mon ami,
Full of fond memories,
Of our friendship and time spent together.

Adieu mon ami,
In our hearts you shall see,
The impression you left through your wisdom.

Farewell to the Inkwell,
You shall be missed dear,
Though your legacy shall continue,
Through the ones you held near.

Our last published post of 2015, and one that marks it beautifully. Ashcloud’s tribute poem, “Farewell to the Inkwell” is a goodbye to our wonderful little community on the Inkwell Forum. It’s served us well – six years in fact – and I’m glad that Ashcloud amongst many of our other members could be a part of it. If you wish to view her other published work on Inkblots, make sure to read her poems “Waterworks” and “Is it Wrong?”. You can also view her new blog, here.

Thanks go out to all our lovely members. Some will still continue to publish their work via Inkblots, while others have moved on. Either way, I wish everyone the best. And thanks to a wonderful 2015 for Inkblots to all our followers, readers and contributors. You are all superb people.

Featured Image CC // Jonathan Blocker


Written by Ashcloud

It starts as a trickle, deep within the ground,
One day bursting from dark caverns, moaning silent sounds.
The water erodes the toughened ground and carves wrinkles in its face.
Flowing wild, furrowing down, to find a new hiding place.

It gushes down the mountain, with speed and power as a guide.
It begins to slow and mellow coming nearer to the tide.
From waterfall to river, from river to gentle stream,
As quiet as it came to be, the water vanishes under the evening beam.

Ashcloud’s beautiful poetry gives us a sense of strength and salvation through powerful emotion. Water works in wondrous ways, twisting and turning, filling up holes, eroding rock, and then submitting to the powerful sun rays. But water is also in our tears, and sometimes we need them, particularly to combat the darkest of days. If you enjoyed Ashcloud’s poetry, you can view some of her other superb work such as, “Is it Wrong?” and “A New Star is Born“.

Featured Image CC // Kim Seng

The Root of Insanity

Written by Ashcloud

beach campsite

Logs burning, searching for a soul. Image // stockarch

Eyes that can shatter with a fleeting glance,
The pallor of wispy ashes, their steel-like trance.
The flame that never flickers, engulfs the fire of a soul,
Burning, burning, fading fast. Never to grow old.
A drop of raw emotion, a single splash of blue.
It’s clear you always see me but I never can see you.

Rough hands that craft, today they come
Squeeze solace from the soul.
Impatient tapping, deadbeat drum
Forever haunts the foal.
A pinch of raw emotion, one hand held in two,
It’s clear you always see me but I never can see you.

A gruesome grin or wicked word, countless deepening gashes.
Swaying, swaying, back and forth, in turmoil of endless lashes.
Rare the calm before the storm,
When tender breeze my heart doth warm.
A breath of raw emotion, a whispered promise few,
It’s clear you always see me but I never can see you.

Your eyes could burn,
Your hands could hit,
You never cared one single bit.
Mind games and violence made me insane,
Daddy, you’re the only one to blame.

Ashcloud’s poem cuts us to the core. It’s deep and it’s powerful, but most of all it feels raw. Though it’s written in verse and has a tight structure, it somehow feels loose with emotion as the poet’s voice struggles to keep control. We were swept away by reading this, so we commend Ashcloud’s written work. If you liked her poem, feel free to leave a like, comment or even check out her other work such as, ‘Knight‘ and ‘One Day at a Time‘. 

An Address to the Coconut

Written by Eruantien


Hello…Steve? Wilson? Coco Chanel? Image Courtesy of Genna Marie

So grand is tha’ noble face,
Mighty Baron of the nut race.
There’s nothin’ canst thou not adorn,
and yet be held highest in scorn.

Tha’ makes many a pud so great,
by off’rin’ tha’sen to the steel grate.
Tha milk shall break my fast ‘ere honeydew,
the milk of Paradise shall satisfy but few.

No man, be he Welsh, Cockney or Irish,
shall for tha take o’er much in his tin dish;
for thee, my Portobello belle
I have but one hell,

A swift chop
on the chopping block.

Eruantien specialises in traditional poetry with a light-hearted vibe, and that’s why we love his short poem about a poor coconut. Inspired by a certain fellow named Steve the Coconut – who really was a coconut – while visiting South America, Eru produced this piece on a simple whim. The time spent on it was sparse, but then so is thinking about a coconut. He also suggests he could have been hallucinating while on anti-malaria tablets, whether you believe it or not, we hope you enjoyed the poem! And while you’re here, check out Eruantien’s poem The Tarwarkelion, which tells the tale of Ankou, the Legend of Death.



Written by Silver


“She sits as candle flickers to and fro.”
Image Courtesy of pincurlmag.com

Blissful liquor fills child of woe.
Drenched in moonlight by window’s sill,
she sits as candle flickers to and fro.

Wispy breeze chills the room.
Goosebumps rise from pasty skin;
she’s not surprised when shivers bloom.

Warm presence draws near,
touches with cold hands.
Affectionate memory shimmers,
draws forth painful tears.

Soothing voice echoes in mind.
Dancing with fondness,
erupting in glee.
No longer confined,
completely free.

Tender care needs no words.
Arms outstretched, she feels so close.
But the pull of life is much preferred.

He kisses her forehead,
breathes heat into her lungs.
And silken hands lift her to bed,
her travel to death not quite here yet.

Spirit was written on behalf of Silver’s struggle with two recent losses in her close-knit family. The process of bereavement is personal to each individual, with each death taking months or years to accept. If you wish to see more of her poetry, be sure to check out Fudge and The Recurring Nightmare


Written by Bobartles

Image Courtesy of Royal Berkshire NHS website.

Image Courtesy of Royal Berkshire NHS website.

Just down the street, at the edge of the town,
there’s a jumble of buildings, old and run-down.
Behind steel-plated doors a full three inches thick,
lies Ward Number One,
where the sick heal the sick.

There’s a man dressed in white with a comforting stance,
whose father disowned him for being a nurse,
and a sister in blue with a phone in her hand,
and twenty-five packets of pills in her purse.

The man with the clipboard and half-hearted smile,
whose girlfriend bled out after something he said;
the cleaner who sweeps down the halls all day long
to drown out the sound of the voice in his head.

The day’s rounds are done, but still it is known
that only the patients will truly go home.
For this huddle of boxes of slate and red brick
is Ward Number One,
where the sick heal the sick.

The Tawarkelion


Ankou ‘The Legend of Death’ – his presence is near.

Written by Eruantien 

Within Arachnos does darkness rise
And Ankou shall watch as hope dies
For in his lands his power shall fall
And lo they shall roam, not one but all

No more shall light the dark hold back
And no safety shall be on the track
Five shall leave to tread on wood and stone
With one to pass through fire alone

Now on the fields shall they be arrayed
With the hosts of hate against them played
Arms of steel to their aid shall come
Yet through pain of loss are lips struck dumb Continue reading →