How I sit these idle hours
with upraised pen in hand
waiting patiently for flowers
from that never, never land.
Once my seeds were fertile
and they overflowed their brim
and those anxious sperm would hurtle
from that space within a whim.
But now those seeds that once begat
those rhymes of love and mirth
abandoned all my hopes unborn
...and left the afterbirth!
love the piece and really like your author comments. agree we never run out of things to write about but sometimes there's an unexpected pause that is a nuisance at the time. Sometimes it's a case of lack of inspiration at the moment,sometimes things on our mind blocking creativity,sometimes we're just too tired to really do anything and forced writing is always crap, at least in my opinon. I say write when the inspiration hits because that's the best time to express oneself..
I think I posted a poem in my "Poems For The Poet " section titled "how many poems does a poet have"...or something like that:-) Anyway the gist is, he/she has an endless amount but the truth also is that he/she is not always open to receiving them or writing them. That I'm afraid has something to do with God, with Grace and with a fickle muse who teases, torments and tickles us into our creations. Sometimes our hands lie sill, throbbing with words in our fingers that will not spill, like man sometimes reaches a threshold and cannot give, experiencing both agony and ecstasy in the same moment that release eludes him. Poets are strange creatures indeed, mystical and fleshy at the same time. We are extremes and opposites, expressing a world with a handful of stars....don't you think?