“The Birthing of Poems”
Poems come to me
in different ways
and in different places.
Often, they just come
as I type on the keyboard,
flowing like creeks
and sometimes rivers
onto the page.
Most, however, flop out like fish do
when fish hatchery trucks pull up
to some distant creek bank and dump
their fish into the water.
The flopping makes lots of noise
and chaos for a few minutes
until the truck finishes
dumping its load,
and then there is silence,
while the fish scatter,
swimming in some direction,
up or down the stream
or laying low for the moment.
For them, it doesn’t matter.
They are free now
to go where they wish.
So, too, are words
that flop out of my mind
onto the page, swimming
chaotically around,
trying to find a free place to rest
for just a moment until they find
their direction, their spot
of connection to their new life.
Once they find the way, they swim
exuberantly as if they had never been
cooped up before
in schools in a pond.
And there, suddenly,
onto the page emerges
a semblance of a poem,
mostly neat and pretty,
a few of the words
shuffling to their preferred spots,
finally squeezing in tight spaces,
truly parallel parking at its best.
Then, they bask in the glory
of their new environment,
knowing full well they are safe
and sound and looking delicious.
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