The Poet is In.


Where does a poet punch in?

Starbucks? The kitchen counter? The train station?

The backyard hammock, while the bees and butterflies labor in nectar?

Is it in bed, snuggled up to your

neck, dear?

These poets.

How can one punch in when the mind is wrapped in rhyme 24/7,

and it’s hell until it’s written? And then it is heaven?

The life of observation, consternation, inside jokes, so very inside.

An outsider, who writes on the inside, errr.

And wonders, how such quiet words, once written,

soundless on a screen, or a note pad, or a grocery receipt,

Mean much, much more than they say?

Inuendo, intended.

By lavagal

Hawaii Kai wife and mom. Melanoma Stage 3a Cancer survivor. English Language Arts teacher, English Learners Coordinator, and Paraprofessional Tutor. Super sub teacher. Dormant triathlete. Road cyclist and Masters swimmer. Gardener. Mrs. Fixit. Random dancer. Music Curator. A teenager trapped in an aging body. Did you know 60 is the new 40? It is.

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