Cradled thoughts.


Unborn it lies

in the folds

of my brain,
a poem curled

in a fetal comma
sustained by an

umbilical cord

to my soul.


Sadly I have
aborted many others,
prematurely expelled
on white sheets,
severed by

sharp critiques
and predator editors.


But this one

I will nurture,
till my head swells rotund,
and my heart is moved
beyond all contractions.


Then with a
pregnant pause
spreading my lips wide,
I will deliver it,
with wails of
joy and sorrow.


boldly in front of
many gaping faces,
caught up in its emergence.


Each moment 
hanging breathless
over black holes
of steaming,
percolated energy
at the poetry cafe,
due date:
sometime in May.




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