Short Inactivity Poems

Desuetude
Written: by Miracle man
8/27/2019 

Yard tools, and I,
are in a state of desuetude.
This inactivity is responsible,
for my dysphoric mood.
But each day that I’m found,
in a vertical position.
I know God’s not ready,
to scrub my life’s mission.
...

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when we fall prey to complacency 

and comfortably wallow in abject sloth, 
    
                   we suffocate motivation in its nascency. 

eschew apathy and inactivity; rise above both!



Sin Of Sloth Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Margarita Lillico
Date written: 07/24/2022...

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Buried under troubles, A golden heart lay. 
Deserving but ignored having been given away. 
Continues to support without demands, maintains wellness. 
Not from desire but its role in sustaining life. 
The heart functions as the organ of love, 
Sensitive to pain, inactivity, 
Does all that's necessary, For the sake of one....

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The killer that will get you eventually
is plain and simply inactivity.
This is one of the downfalls of living in a society
with all of these comforts from modern technology
which in turn promotes complacency
both mentally and physically.
Get off that couch and stop being so lazy.
Exercise that brain. Exercise that body....

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intimate
   domestiques
pensive
   melancholic
juxtaposed
   clips in apparent
                 inactivity

inward thought
             exposed
composed
slowly
    graduated
      in
accentuated contours
glazed

  opaque
        layers
where
     light
       floods
the mood
     highlights
emphasises
the
  subtle
    symbolic
with
   significance...

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Stress is stressful. It stresses me out to be stressed.
It is distressing when we go through so much stress.
I wonder what life would be like with no stress-
Dead, asleep, dull, unexciting. Life is stressful.
We love life, so we must love stress, right? 
It is a necessary part of life. For every action there
is a reaction. The opposite of stress is inactivity,
no interaction, and BOREDOM....

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I am staring at the screen; 
blank screen, blank brain, 
void of imagination and imagery. 

Evaded once again by creativity, 
I stare into the void of inactivity. 
I conjure up a line, glimpse an idea, 

then it is gone, and I can see no more. 
Blank blank blank, 
a blanket of literary fog has descended. 

Composition ended. 
blank screen, blank brain, 
void of imagination and imagery....

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A moment in the island of activity and solitude
Where you have no choice but to stay a time
And then go back home and back again
Now worsened by the labourers strife
That bred the supervisors inactivity
And souls bored to tears
Suddenly a moment beside the gentle presence of loveliness
Probably feeling the same as me
A presence that has lasted for just only awhile
With delight and joy in its trail
A moment of respite that leaves us in grief...

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“Where is activity or inactivity? 
Where is liberation or bondage? 
I am timeless, indivisible
I am Self alone”


Verse revisited on 28-May-2023

there is no agenda on the shelf
as Self renews itself within itself
luminous, alive and self-existent
free from fetters of ego insistent

the Self is vibrant and complete 
spontaneously creating its beat
ineffable peace, no need to act
as the totality, nothing is lacked...

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Recapturing thought can be more elusive
than chasing butterflies with pole and net

word's peltering mind like hailstone's
eventually evaporate.........
must wait for the brain cloud to rain again

Somewhere in the dark recess sit's an insomniac host
inmost phrase's at inopportune moment
inactivity appears not to be an option

managing time........proper use of space
pen to paper , the point will trace
eloquent style is where I find my peace...........

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Proper conduct at its best when under check
Returning to originality when freedom is let loose
Experienced to show inactivity while in action or
Traditionally doing while in the real sense not doing
Even the sun isn’t powerful enough to detect foul play
Not until a misstep sets the fake yard ablaze
So engulfed in the presence of the concerned to
Established a false sense of responsibility and honour....

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Listen to poem:

Feeling sluggish, shelled.
Lithely lingering in the dust and grime.
Palette grey and dull, devoid of crisp bright hues,
Brushes all furry, frayed, blunt, incapable of fine detail.
Apathy and complacency palls to gloom and doom in my room.
Inactivity and being non-committal, chokes the creative urge, to be stillborn.
But then, words and poetry flood into the brain during sleepless nights.
There's no stopping it. 
Its spell, dispels the squashes, and quells the squishes to splats....

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