The Ones That Get Away

I write some poems, they're not too deep but my best ideas come when driving or asleep Driving. I often have an out of body chuckle watching the eureka moment of my mind-blowing idea one hand on the wheel another flailing about in search of a pen, a notebook, purpose . . . whichever comes first then some ass hat cuts in front of me on I-85 while the cell begins its siren song somewhere southwest of my foot. Thinking this could be someone, everyone, anyone? important I drop the pen & begin to search. Found! I desperatelypushbuttonsputituptomyear & . . . silence poetic idea(l) disconnected. Not even an operator to direct my thoughts to an original state of inspiration rhyme, meter, cadence, all whisk away with the bird flying up to my window. Asleep. I know restless rest of the damned those in daylight held back from true knowledge of man. Inspiration waits just by the palm of my hand tries to thumb a ride with me up out of dreamland. Conscious concepts flow like e-mail spam & give hope that I don't taste like poetic ham & they ache in my soul, till before you I stand with this song in my mouth and my heart in my hand. Words wait with great patience for me to wake up & dispense knowledge my waking doubts can't corrupt Stir emotions, feelings, dreams, disrupt Status quo, dead notions, closed minds and such but It's over the limit - becoming too much as I turn & twist wrestling with ideas I clutch - the tail end of a mind-blowing image of such an unfathomable concept, there's just not enough time to develop before the abrupt sound of my clock says it time to get up (I gotta' find something to write down this stuff!) a recorder, a notebook, it's getting quite rough to remember the concepts that followed me through the entire night so I'd bring them to you. Wait. A cat with a hat . . . a ball in the hall . . . Was it really that simple?  Was that really all? There has to be more, I remember it well I dreamed of a poem as savvy as hell! I straight conceived something that had no guardrails! It could fix the whole world in the places it ails but I just can't recall it . . . my memory fails. Awake. Sometimes ideas come to my desk in the moment between word and act They drift in like silent musicians and crescendo all over my Mac. This writing, at times, makes me happy & I'd cheer for each poem's birth day except for that funky exhaust in my nose from the good ones that just got away.