soft grumbles

not today

I have given birth
to dozens of poems T
when words flowed freely with every sigh
inspired by early morning larks
singing a symphony of dulcet notes
or a plethora of colorful images
exploding in spring
or the discovery of a rainbow
arched in the sky

I have found beauty
out of a cacophony
of thunderous firecrackers on New Year's eve
or the opening salvo of gunshots
in a peaceful night
or even the dismal sight of wrigglng worms
overflowing, creeping out
of an otherwise dainty wine glass

but why do none of these words come out today
in spite of the fiery sun
waking from a deep slumber: tiny sprout
of a mongo seed springing to life
on my daughter's flower pot

Why can’t I find solace with the pair of butterflies
swooning their passion over a freshly opened
sampaguita in her garden as they flutter around
outdoing each other to flaunt their wares
to a prospective lover

Alas! I couldn't weave big words
into a beautiful pattern of an expensive rug.
Not today when I feel contented,
neither feeling ecstatically happy
nor desperately sad

Ahh! Perhaps that is the life of a bard
Who can only write because of extreme emotions
Either when joy overflows or on an empty stomach
only when angels sing triumphant songs
to applaud accomplishments
when carrying the burdens of a tragic existence