Nothing going on

[Sir_Nigel 10]

When you’re facing the realisation

that you’re lacking divine inspiration

and you’re struggling to bring to mind

a topic of the worthy kind,

and you wonder what occurrence might

inspire you to start to write.

You may proclaim in a poncey way

‘O whither Muse shall I go today?’

 

There’s nothing in the daily news –

no burning topic you could use

to weigh up every view and then

dispense your worldly acumen.

Whatever could you do or say

to make this problem go away? –

wander o’er the ancient hills

acclaiming frigging daffodils

or hunt that hurried, scribbled note

of a half-remembered anecdote.

Or expand on the lady from Ealing

who had a peculiar feeling!

 

But you can’t even do

a quick Haiku.

 

Perhaps a syndrome might explain

the tumbleweed inside your brain.

Perhaps some childhood deprivation

caused this lack of stimulation.

A lack of zinc? or too much salt?

It might be someone else’s fault.

 

You idly entertain yourself

with a smiley face on a dusty shelf,

and wonder should you go outdoors

avoiding certain pressing chores

but will the chill autumnal day

furnish something fresh to say

or might a bright idea call

whilst staring at the kitchen wall?

For sometimes mellow, empty days

encourage you to navel gaze.

 

Then being such an idle scruff,

you root around for navel fluff

and wonder, if you saved enough -

how big a cushion could you stuff?

 

The technicalities you now find

invade your jaded, barren mind.

And that is all, suffice to say,

there’s nothing going on today.