Again I sit to meditate and muse,
Cocked back in my soft chair, awaiting news,
Some motivating notion to pursue,
Of which, until I sit, I have no clue,
For poetry proceeds from such repose,
Releasing what subconscious thinking knows
In its own time and of its own accord
As patient contemplation’s choice reward.
But should I try to urge this process on,
My Muse refuses to be put upon,
And my mental momentum sputters, stalls
Till what had gaily bound along, then crawls.
My poems rarely reach to the sublime,
But if they do, they do in their good time.