Who Is In Charge of Me
Cougar’s growl shakes me awake in the worst of ways
Her realism prances forth in my mind; I am disoriented.
The last line of a poem waffles through my brain,
And my eyes are not fully open yet. Poetry already?
I grab a piece of paper and take it with me to the bathroom.
Sitting, I jot down six phrases, and a poem begins to write herself.
She flings herself onto the page in dots, lines, and dashes.
I find myself writing seven poems before breakfast.
Without any energy at all and little conscious effort, it is a poetry day.
Who decides? Which muse is about in my head today?
Is she going to distract me from my morning drive?
I turn my I-phone’s tape recorder on, as I get into my car.
There are no more ideas for a day and a half. Then a full writing day.
Thirty six poems in twelve hours, my new record!
I am gob smacked, consternated, confused.
Where do these days come from? Who is in charge? Apparently not me.
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