Inspiration comes from anywhere!
As an artist, I have been asked the question, "Where do you get your inspiration?" As if there is a formula for such a thing. That all one has to do is to look in that direction and the muse will guide you right on.
You know what? I, too, did not have a single clue where I get mine. I jsut go about doing my own business and suddenly, someone, a thing, or an event would spark my curiosity, and I will start building a painting or a poem, or even a story - although I have not really explored writing a story that much. Well, I've finished one short story, though. Mostly, it would be a painting with colors interwoven in my head, or a poem starting with a phrase or just a bunch of words. b From there, I would stop thinking about any other thing but this or that work, my head spinning and trying to organize and making a complete whole out of these thoughts. This is the reason why when I put my thoughts on paper, or a canvass, whatever the case may be, it would really be fast. This is also the reason why my wife thinks I am lazy, not doing anything in the house for some time. hahaha
My interactions with my mother, who was then suffering from alzheimer's and probably everything that comes with old age, gave me many poems. One time, it was just a light pat on my head while she looked at me and words came flying and voila, a poem.
To answer the question where I get my inspiration, it is all around me. Take this poem, for example. On October 21, I took my family to the cemetery as it was my FIL's birthday. On our way, we were shocked to see a woman, dirty as she was, in just her panties and loose bra. She had her back to us but she stood there in a pose as if her picture was being taken. It was a very fleeting moment as I was driving a car. And yet, it sparked an idea in me and this is how it went:
Child of God
I looked at her and wondered
maybe she was someone's cute little darling once.
She must have been for who did not adore a child's
roving eyes wondering at everything she saw,
all happening for the very first time,
rosy cheeks like they had been chilled inside a fridge,
short black hair swaying to the wind with every move,
fragile body fragrant with talc and oil after a steamy bath
Maybe she was unwanted even then.
She might have been a mistake, an accident
to forgetful teens who had nothing better to do one night-
succumbed to carnal desires which was over
in five seconds or less. It must be quick for the homeless.
Nothing was private. They have to share everything to the world,
even the most secret of all human undertakings.
Who could explain what happened?
She wore nothing that day. Just her soiled, torn red panties,
browned bra as old as time with one strap dangling on her arm.
Her face, expressionless, numbed of all the pain,
oblivious to the world that continues to spin no matter what,
her unkempt hair hardened by smog and dirt- even lice
would not dare live there. They would not survive anyway
for she could not offer any nutrients.
She had not eaten for a very long time.
She convulsed, dropped on the road shaking wildly.
Her eyes rolled upwards, one last thrust and it was all over.
The world spun and every man continued to work
on a dream, every woman weaving her own private tale.
She was nothing to them. She could have been a dead bug
or a rat and they just didn't care.
Her carcass would soon be fodder to worms and gnats.
Maybe, just maybe, she was loved once for surely
she was someone's cute little child.