The Ripple of Inspiration

Okay, so a lot of you know that I haven’t been on here much lately, really at all, hence the title, and I bet you’re guessing what that reason is.

For the last couple of days, in my town, it has been raining quite a lot.  Today, I was outside (God knows why) and I was sitting watching the rain fall into slowly growing puddles.  I watched these puddles ripple as the rain fell.  There’s something graceful and curious about rain, especially when you watch it really closely, when you give yourself enough time to watch it and not just watch from inside but actually listen to it as well, you can see everything magnificent about the rain and see the brutality of it all.  Rain is not kind.  It is patient but it is not kind.  There is something gentle about rain of course, but like any form of pressure, it starts to bruise if it is repeated.  Over and over.

That is how I am feeling at the moment.  Even a small amount of guilt can bruise over time.  There is a pressing on my nerves.  Stories untold, ideas not expressed, and poetry withdrawn.  This is what I am doing to myself.  And, just like the ripples of water, the pressure of inspiration needs to be released and if not released naturally, it will bruise.

Whether it is the adjustment to winter, or because of the sudden change in my life, the lack of inspiration is hindering on my mind.  It is there, it can be done, but I need to see it to be able to let it go.  Put the pen in my hand and just let myself go and the let the ripple of inspiration begin.

So sorry for annoying you all with this melancholic post though with it I guess I am trying to inspire myself.  And hopefully you may get something from this, too.

Hope you are all well, and thank you all again for the support of this blog.

J. A. Weymouth

Undying Sun – Poetry

Undying Sun 

By J. A. Weymouth

Damaging these old tattered bones

Tokens, now hung above static needs.

Ever trusted, ever stored.

We, basic, in all powered sources/scrounged

Depthless

Beneath

A symptom of the heart. What heart we need? What heartless? All heartless

 

ethereal/earthless.

 

More sunken, more devoured. Little by little an epiphany comes.

 

Ideas shriek like stricken grass – all grass becomes golden in a dying sun.

And I see not your eyes.

Sure, your eyes are here within withered loneliness.

You are my eyes.  My fervent, undying eyes.