Sometimes the pen,
unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed,
in his mouth, born.
Silent back labor,
unbeknownst the existence thereof.
Yet knowing now
his contractions,
coming fast and furious,
eyes many centimeters dilated,
the sac's fluid breaks
upon the poet's tongue.
He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion
When the poets hand to mouth goes,
like Moses,
when he touched the burning coals,
tongue burnt,
the words are signaled,
freedom, born, released.
The words announce:
We are now created, conceived.
This new oxgenated atmosphere
is now our
final resting place.
This child, this poem, this exhalation,
once freed, is now
lost to him,
Its been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of
newly adopted parents as
"Ours."
So
when you hear the poet-man exclaim,
I live hand to mouth,
weep joy!
by, for and with him,
for his true meaning,
now clarified.
An ode to joy has
been birthed this day,
*a child for the people.
A repost of a poem