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My Poems Propagate Themselves

My poems propagate themselves
               stirring ingredients like adjectives and adverbs
                                        as I slumber, gloriously out of my mindset

I give my muse permission to pay attention
                      for I am not in body. Astral travel is my go-to-dream place

Taking no credit, I ease awake often listening to Trixie, my muse
   whispering the last line of a poem she has apparently been working on
                                           several hours before I wake

Am I being humble? No. I am giving credit
                  to a part of my brain that does not travel with my soul at night
            the part that regulates breathing insuring my fleshly continuance

This is why I readily give my muse Trixie
                 credit for a great deal of my poetry.
          Sometimes I read it and I think “Who wrote that?”

Then one phrase or one word will click
     and I know that I know nothing about my creativity or my dream state

But I do know that it is much easier to give Trixie credit
                  for I am not one who knows what she is about
                                         flying by the seat of my soul most of the time.

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Gershon Wolf

Date: 5/12/2019 12:53:00 PM

I'm torn between three comments: 1.) Freud would have a field day. or 2.) Proof of Spallanzini's 'spontaneous generation.' 3.) Instead of asking you, "How are tricks?" the proper question is "How is Trixie." ... Happy Mother's Day, Caren. Best wishes, Gershon

Caren Krutsinger
Date: 5/12/2019 4:39:00 PM

Freud and I would have done battle with axes, my friend. And I fear he would have been limping away to his Mommy after all was said and thrown. Ha! Trixie is being her self, in every way possible. Best wishes back from both of us.