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.