Inklings (Poetry)

I get them all the time
small interruptions like an irritating rash
a little festering of notions that come on
when some mental spider spins a random line

They crave attention — niggle and demand
I give them space — let them grow a bit
take over what I’m thinking — thrust on through
expressed on any scrap of paper close to hand

Opportunists — spotting any dip or lull
in concentration as the mind goes drifting off
they creep and crawl — slow-teeter on the edge
quite confident the page will catch them
                                                where they
                                                              fall ...

They are a ragbag mix of cultures, age and sex
that infiltrate so slyly I forget
they haven’t been invited — crashing flimsy gates
my prone-to-wander logic failed to lock

And what to do with them? —
these so-pushy wild and woolly bunch of strays
with their off-the-cuff suggestions crowding in
commandeering how I spend creative days
while showing absolutely zero discipline

Since cramped in notebooks — always waiting to be fed
and trotted down a wide expanse of page
they have potential — as I jot them down I doubt
they’ll evolve to poems — tidied-up perhaps
                                        but realistically small chance
                                                                        of being read