Inspiration. That's what's funny. Having recently joined in with various Blog sites which provide prompts for aspiring poets, I've realised the jinksy "I" is beginning to feel a tad stifled. This is a bit of a conundrum. To start with, I thought prompts would serve to nudge me into writing more - which I suppose in one way, they have, and are to be applauded.
But in another, I'm beginning to feel the constraints on the jinksy imagination, which is used to roaming freely where it will. Do you think this is simply down to my being an ornery, born awkward critter, or does it go deeper than that? Am I contemplating my navel too much? (On which subject pop over HERE if you have a moment.)
Bubbles float skywards,
ephemeral spheres bearing
a glowing rainbow
circumscribed around each shell
of living, dying beauty.
Sometimes I need adjectives to float my boat.