Percolate Poem by Mark Ballard

By day, I make my rounds.
I peer in rooms, I gather sounds.
Conversations catch my ear.
Visions fill my visual weir.

At night I sit and percolate,
sparks of love in tinder hate.
Notions rise as conscious fades,
rhythm rolls down palisades.

Sometimes syrup spoils the potion,
others, bitter fouls devotion.
Worthless wastrel words awry,
too sad for joy, too barren cry.

But God, the passion when it strikes
lightning arcs o'er flooded dikes.
Swept away in rampage course
Till mental muse, quiet hollered hoarse.