At times I will get a notion
of a poem I want to write.
Often it has its inception
nearly on the stroke of midnight.
A feral idea crawling
gains an entry into my head.
I cannot ignore its calling
even though I remain in bed.
Could it be you know the feeling
of a thought that’s too appealing?
– – – – – – – –
I could not find an image of an actual feral idea, so I thought a black Jaguar would be a nice stand-in. For lack of a proper name for it, I am calling this poem form an English Dwarf Sonnet. Instead of 14 lines of iambic pentameter, it is 10 lines of iambic quadrameter.