Angele Toomey Poetry

Yes, I am of the age now that I will walk into a room and on finding something I’d forgotten will have forgotten why I came into the room in the first place.

I blame stress, a lack of sleep, the humidity (or a lack of it), cats, and those little imps that go about the house moving things when I’m at work.

The birth of an idea
It started as a subtle spark - 
one single neuron fired another and through a
cascading effect the idea took form and meaning. 
Connections between dormant points joined the activation 
It was impossible to predict if or when this would ever happen - 
the generation
of a completely new idea. 
But it did happen,
as hot water washed over my face - cleansing me of 
the misdemeanours 
of the night before. 
And I held the idea in my frontal lobe, firmly, 
as I walked through other morning rituals,
Losing it only in the finding of my shoes.