Who knows where ideas come from. Is it a single word? A weird set of images colliding? Random thoughts while marking papers? Annoyed thoughts while the floor vibrates to some distant bass line? I’m sure I don’t know where the initial line for this poem came from, but once it appeared, it would not leave and cried out to have some friends. So here it is, a poem about Snot. (No, I have not been hanging around with 10-year-olds.)
Snot is an unpleasant subject
Thought I one day as I sat alone.
Brought to mind by who knows what brain
Rot – no nose was then being blown.
Sown in my head this thought bloomed I
own. It has become today’s rhyme.
Shown the door, ideas return
Loan wings to vacant bits of time.