Poetic Muse
My poetic muse is such a fickle thing,
One minute hiding,
from my probing and penetrating mind.
Next leaping up dancing, and singing,
and throwing ideas and words
and phrases at me so fast that
we collide in a heap.
We slowly detangle ourselves.
He apologizes for keeping me in the dark,
but is now ready
to create in a serious way.
He gently tosses words and ideas at me
But they begin to frolic and wrestle,
reminding me of puppies at play.
How can I make sense out of such a jumble?
And yet as they play, a word leaps out of the pile,
tumbles into my brain.
My brain tosses it about for a while
looking for a place to put it
when another word and then a phrase
join in the fun.
My fingers start typing.
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