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