The Chase

I have heard it said that some poems come through you, 

Using your physical existence for 

A most artful spiritual experience of laboring, pushing, and birthing out 

An exquisite art form we call poem

My poems, they chase me. 

They chase me like a wise little brother almost as fast but not quite

Just slow enough for me to beat him to the couch 

And binge scroll through screened lives of others 

Who display the full-spectrum of a polished existence

My poem, he chases me down the hall to the pantry

And into a quarter bag of flavored pretzels that cannot get enough of me

Because I cannot see that I am enough, just as I am

He chases me to my next stop on the numbing express train

Down to the dreadmill on this bitter cold day
Perfect for retreating under the covers to cuddle with sharpened lead and crisp bark

To put to rest once and for all this wild quest
And like a tired swimmer caught in the undertow
Surrendering, floating, meandering and letting the poem come to life

My poem chases me fiercely

Until I stop and fall into his mysterious embrace carrying me to the shore

Where I will birth another whisper from my soul