I’ve lots of poems of poetry

They flutter in the breeze.

Of Humpty and of Dumpty too.

The mouse is in the tea.

I’ve had them all inside my head

Just waiting to emerge.

Some I’ve stored there for some years

They mostly all converge

And then come out just how they do

I have little control

Over which ones make it to the page

Somehow they all have soul.

Some ideas are bigger than

Could ever fit the page.

Some may rot like stinking meat

But I improve with age.