When I sit myself down to write verse,
The flow of thoughts gel and then disburse,
I empty my head of thoughts adverse,
But still I can't force the rhymes to come.

I've tried to analyze the method,
But each time attempted I'm bested,
When asked, I shrug at reasons guessed at,
I can't explain where poems come from.

I've been woken from sleep, rhymes flowing,
Busy with else, then meters showing,
Write on whate'er surface the whole thing,
And poems have sprung from within me.

Long lost the urge and will to fight it,
I succumb, the words will win, I quit,
Stand aside, let words find where to fit,
I am a slave to the muse, you see.

I'd like to take the credit for them,
Can I when I can't control their whim?
They come unbidden, their own rhythm,
And I can't coax them when they won't come.

I've come to accept my “gift” as is,
Become part of me, no special biz,
Another aspect of who is Chris,
Poetry notions, part of my home.

tags: poetry  

links: digg this    del.icio.us    technorati    reddit