Some poets write in waves

Gushing thrushing pushing pulling

Some poets write in a steady flow

Every word weighted, pressing ahead

Still others dig canals

Line their words with the concrete

Of Rhythm, Meter, Rhyme.

Then there are the others.

We don't amount to much,

Just little droplets here and there.

Usually we fall on dry cement,

Or in a stagnant puddle.

But every once in a while, our droplet hits the River

The Ocean

The Canal.

And we can't help ourselves.

We let the body take us over,

And we hold it, as it pushes us.

And we look down at our paper

And we have a sonnet,

An outpouring of consciousness

We look at it and say,

Where did that come from?

And then we answer.