In Praise of the Unruly Child

I’m encountering some kind of wall

In my quest to write a poem a day,

Some difficulty of the mind and will

Syphoning off the imagination, the words,

The creative juices, or possibly diverting them,

Like some cattle chute,

Delivering them up to some baggage-powered

Spike in the brain.

But the creative imagination of words is tricky,

Draws outside the lines, jumps fences,

Runs with wild abandon,

Finds the hidey-hole of the mischievous child,

Reassures him of the reality of magic,

And coaxes him out to play.