Content: birth

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Ever had the need to write though you know it is an unfinished rather imperfect piece? Of course you have! So bear with me. The need overcame the reality that it lacks that finished touch. It will come when it come but for now it is birthing. Spring...

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OK this might be termed science fiction, but for me it is a detective story. It is set on a planet where intelligent life has evolved from marsupial mammals, like Kangaroos, who give birth to barely formed embryos which have to crawl from the vagina to the pouch containing teats. Imagine taboos and cultures intelligent beings would apply to this and how easy birth control is --- if it is culturally acceptable. This is where conflict occurs. I have only written two chapters, although I have a story plan. I am posting this to see if it raises general interest before continuing with it.

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A poem that was a "writing assignment" for an in-person writing group; inspired by Max's Meyou Youme poem.

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Recently read a poem about the trials of American motherhood. Mothers in America don't realize how good they have it. ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈ Reading and seeing recent videos about the plight of women in the Middle-East (and elsewhere) bothers me. ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈ This is a poem I published in eight eZines by this title, or Whisss... Chang!≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈ Birth, Murder, Abuse, Motherhood, Twins, Spouse, Innocence, Death penalty guillotine ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

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The story of the birth of my second grandson probably needs some help. All feedback welcome unless Sonny insists I clean up my language. Can't do it. I'm just stating the facts as they happened.

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It’s been a crazy few weeks.

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Just something that came to me this morning. It isn't profound or anything nor was much thought put into this. Again.. it is in my 'not' thinking that the words breathe I love writing like this. It is effortless as in trying too hard.. I flounder and many times simply miss the mark I hope this touches what I know lies within the hearts of most writers... before they too found this love of expressing in words and the utter freedom it gifts to the soul

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On my walks, gees, sometimes a poem just jumps into my mind already hatched and writes itself. Don't know if this works, but here it goes.==== Alternate title is: Youme or Meyou. ==== If your were a twin in the womb what your you call your twin? Youme or Meyou? === 9th month, dark, sun’s gravity pulls up, the moon pulls to one side. The twins prepare to enter a brave new world... UPDATE FOR THIS POEM (12/2/2010) - I have had this published 7 times. This poem hit a resounding cord with many editors/readers. thanks - max

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Quick little Haiku for itchy writer. Not time for thinking! Any and all. This has Mishmont and Marilyn Johnson in mind as they love 'critters' like I do. Any and all feedback always welcome

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I try to encourage any and all feedback. I realize this poem is cryptic, so here is the meaning of this poem for those who are interested: My mother died last year, so I was the one grieving in this poem. My wife and I decided to have a third child after my Mom's death. I didn't actually want the third child until I lost my mother, which changed my mind. It seems that I have been to several funerals of relatives and friends lately and it forced me to think of my own mortality and how short life is. My decision to have another child was born out of my grief for my mother and my realization that children are the only way to extend oneself into the future. My wife and baby boy are both fine. Little Noah Elisha was one day old when I wrote this poem. Tanka is defined as follows: "Haiku is always written in 3 lines. Tanka has an additional 2 lines of 7 syllables each with a line space after the Haiku section." Also, I am following the Japanese traditional rule that long vowells count as two syllables, or onji.

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I call these 'floaters' as they are thoughts that float through my consciousness. I grab them and type them down or are forever lost! Emotional feedback as well as technical

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Life in the South circles and swarms me.

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A premature lamb has died on our sheep farm. Every birth and death is a lesson, a story which adds to our life. This one seemed a metaphor.

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I normally don't approve of qualifying a poem, but because this was a rather large departure from my normal approach, I thought I'd say a few words about its genesis. This poem chose to write itself (my pen tends to have a mind of its own sometimes). It veered away from the very personal to explore what major elements make up life's experience; the impact birth, dreams, and dawns can have on one's anticipation of death one day; and the way endings beget beginnings in the ever repeating cycle of life.

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