The Conduit

The Conduit is how I feel often as words just come at me and the final poem that results is neither planned nor much edited. I keep taking the message per se and forwarding it out here.

  The Conduit


One cannot plan the process

Of a poem

No more than a pregnancy

A literal gestation period

Riding the swells

Of good words

In bad worlds

And bad words

In good worlds


In the background therein

Beats a rhythmic cadence

Both furious and eloquent

Muffled by layers

Of muscle and fat


It bifurcates off the writer

A living conduit

Rendered silent


Validated only when she

Can name the body

With a title.


   Ciera S. Louise c. Dec. 03, 2005