Spontaneous Poem

A Spontaneous Poem written at one go on a Monday evening

I issued a challenge to myself tonight
To create a few rhymes - a poem to write
And the rules are that it must be spontaneous

There will be no chance to edit
No backspace and cut
It will go down as it's writ
Or I'll kiss my butt

That's an act that's not easy
Unless you bend at the knees
And have a backbone so flexible
You can snake it with ease

None of those features are features of me
So I'll follow the rule and let this poem be

Now the first problem you face
When you sit down to write
Is not the "topic" or "story"
It's a quite different fight

The most difficult part of the writer's endeavor
Is protecting himself from his own psychic weather
Once I get started, the words start to flow
But it's difficult to start when my inner winds blow

There is the Wind of the East, the cowardly beast,
The wind that blows hunger and enjoins me to feast

There is the Wind of the West, that thinks it knows best,
That tells me that time
Should not be wasted on rhyme

There is the Wind of the North, that likes to hold forth
(About what I don't know
But it sure likes to blow!)

I'll skip the Wind of the South, the one with the "mouth"
It makes things too neat -
Ideas on four feet.

The point is that Nature will often conspire
To prevent you from sitting before a warm fire
And putting your pen to the paper with ease
Writing a poem just as quick as you please

[Let me digress a moment to say
That by "spontaneous" I don't mean
That poems are "better' that way!
It's just for a challenge,
A trick for the mind,
Mental gymnastics
To help me unwind...]

Not that I am "wound up" so tight as all that!
My only worry might be getting too fat!
Yes, life is easy here on Calorie Street
Where the sugar plum trees are so good to eat.

Anyway, once the words start to flow
The next problem is:
Where will they go?

Meaningless babble like a cold mountain stream?
Surreal subconcious like a late morning dream?
Philosophical wit? Musical expression?
Hearty jocularity? Morbid depression?

When it's all "off the cuff" like the one you are reading
"Direction" is something it's going to be needing.
Unfortunately, the rules don't permit alteration
Of even one line of this declaration.

I grow tired of writing
And perhaps you also are weary?
It's best that I stop
Before it all gets too dreary
With terrible rhymes
And out-of-step meter;
Shrinking lines
That just sort of peter...
Out.