Unironically uninspired,
I drift through the grey,
Floating through hours,
A lone leaf on still water,
Away from my life source,
Insignificant and yet common,
Waiting for the storm.
There’s no fire in my chest,
No spark, no fight,
Just the dull hum of existence,
A clock ticking in a quiet room.
I breathe in the ordinary,
Exhale the mundane.
But then –
the crash,
the crack in the sky,
the world splits open,
and I am alive.
In the chaos,
I find colour.
In the rubble,
I build towers.
When the earth trembles beneath me,
I dance.
Only in the crisis
do I find myself whole.
Unironically, I wait
for the storm,
for the flood,
for the flame,
so I can rise,
so I can burn,
so I can feel
what it means
to be alive.
I’ll make waves.
I’ll be noticed.
I’ll be heard,
listened to,
acknowledged,
remembered.
Pray for me red heart bleeds
Giving up on turquoise dreams
Can’t design a silver fishing line
To pull back in passions unwind
Gave up so long emerald ego for sure
What use to matter doesn’t anymore
Perhaps I’ll find inspiration in old age
My purpose to be a warning an old maid
Then I remember my favorite verse
In the Bible I heard from church
Rather it was more a feeling unrehearsed
It’s not over until God says so get to work
I’m once again in a block
Nothing to do with political shock
That was not such a surprise
As USA has evil influence and lies
No for me it’s a lack of passion
I’m becoming more old fashioned
Bored with the new stuff of the day
Finding comfort in familiar place
Is it better looking back than ahead
Do we misrepresent fact in head
When a butterfly has fallen from grace
Is it not still beautiful in its own way
So happy hearts learn to adapt
To hear the lark ignore the crap
To lift your heart up towards light
To walk by faith not by sight
I’m uninspired but still at peace
For even broken clocks tell time you see
My inner clock knows time is a short
Not all have time but all need the lord
Here I sit again uninspired
No pencil no pen no keyboard desired
I have to write or I have to play
It is my life but just not today
A pen is just plastic
Pencil is wooden stick
Wouldn't it be fantastic
If I could wave it
And have it create
My great emerald escape
From writers block and lost
Fire or desire to make
A funny limerick lemon
With sweet and sour rhymes
Or stories graced within them
Red romance of a valentine
Or if words escape me
Can the melody jump from inside
And my pink piano playing
Inspire tears of beauty from blue eyes
Nope not tonight
There shall be no such delight
So eyes shall read by moons light
The poems online I find
You feel that tension deep within your soul,
momento mori, you are on a clock,
inside are many stories to be told,
but within your mind they seem firmly locked.
The energy to take them, make them words,
drains away with the weakness of the flesh,
trying to make them real sometimes just hurts,
and what you write reeks with the stink of death.
You look at it and know, it’s just not there,
the story a check that your brain can’t cash,
can drive creative minds to real despair,
what seemed so special just comes out as trash,
makes you question your vocation, and yet
uninspired, you can still crap out sonnets.
Sitting,
Alone and uninspired
Ruminating on my throne
Of the tired
Freezing,
My heater, broken and retired
In a building whose condemnation
Remains desired
Searching,
For some deeper, elaborated meaning
To a poem procrastinated
A cause for my demeaning
Sulking,
I lack muse and direction
I can only imagine the forthcoming drear
Of this poem’s lection
Drinking,
My hot chocolate keeps me company
As I mull over this poetry
And choose a word that rhymes only subtley
Uninspired, yet I sit and write
Wondering what to say
I pour my heart into my words
And think of yesterday
Birds chirping, gentle breeze
Feeling calm, soul at ease
Free to do as I please
Peace Acquired
Uninspired
***
September 24, 2021
Quietus-August 2021 Poetry Contest
apart from this
so far ahead
you can see through me
Feeling uninspired
Walking the mire
Out of my bones
From drugs at last
Sickle not seen
Or ivory cast
Baby I’m blessed
You I will not get past
these things. themes. sounds. and simple symbols. ruthless. yet I'm rooted. interwoven and deeply rooted. I'm inspired.
A void
A vacuum
I am an empty space and unyielding
Barren and dry
A word desert
A vulture lands and picks at
a dead sentence
The clouds of a brainstorm
hover and shrink in the distance
And the air is stale with the unimaginative
I can tell that nothing good
will be written tonight
I’ll pick my topic
And write a bit
Then two lines in
The words won’t fit
my pen today is slow and weak
so bleak of what people seek
of love it see's empty lines
only memories of what's far behind
my patriot lies in a silent grave
unremembered are the boast he made
my pride has fears of being attacked
unmoved by silence and hearing he lacks
my eyes see beauty but prefers the unwritten
my heart still desires but has not been smitten
my interest have waned because of work
my crazy wild side won't go berserk
of life I have nothing to say
this barrenness of feelings won't go away
even who I love is a mystery
is she dead, living or even near me
but a poet lives inside of me still
waiting to write what it will
seeking a greatness from words distilled
fancily written as though from a quill
devoid of motivation,
emptied &
without ideas, creative
vision, focus or the ability to
brainstorm,
s/he enters the night
out through the door to
her/his dwelling,
to define what it is to
exist in this present moment,
for the night brings
worry to the senses,
when the mind treads water
in the fears of our distant
distant ancestors,
who without electricity,
without illuminated cities,
walked alone among the
animals who may not have
been so sympathetic or
respectful of the power
which we humans wield now.
s/he ponders in the Cimmerian
shade
just what it would be like to
be actually afraid,
for such sensations have fled
as science and technology
brought with them an
investigative method
whose use has dispelled
the delusion, lifting the
curtain to reveal
new fears, certainly,
but ones that s/he cannot access
in the depth of her/his personal
night---
bored out of her/his mind,
her/his stroll begins to slow
down,
coasting into oblivion
as the headlights pass
scanning her/him over like
the hand ticking on a clock,
mechanical &
precise.
Languid notions
Curse my head
The cursor on
My screen blinks_
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