Thursday, 6 March 2014

Where is the inspiration?
my muse?
All the words that fit together
like puzzle pieces
shaping emotions and ideas into little
rubber balls
I sometimes allow myself to call poetry
There is very little angst these days
no turmoil to stir the prose in pots of change and fear
Instead a solid warmth slides easily
over my days
I am content
in this house with its liquid gold sunshine
with the ones I adore, so easy to love
full, extraordinarily deep breaths of life
In this contentment
art seems shy
Unable, it seems,
to find a way to celebrate the exquisite delight of living
So afraid of maudlin sentiment
voices speaking of the impossibility of perpetual happiness
survivors guilt from an easy life
Pages lay empty and dry of words
aching for the strokes of a restless paramour's pen
While I blow happy kisses to the wind