Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.148.108.24
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
the roots – i.e. genealogy of words long held me 
   (no pun intended) held spell bound
e'en upon fertilization of ova and sperm viz – conception, 
   an acute sensory means n'er got drowned
out via the bubbling, dribbling, huzzahing...
   (from within and without the womb) while in utero, 
   especially when me then young spring chick hen ova mum, 
   and cock strutting cock 
   (doodling his due tee) oft testes handsome dad found
their coop t'would be increased by another 
   (at that time no means prevailed to foretell gender, 
   but an old wives tale hatched 
   since time immemorial stubbornly persisted 
   if the husband put right heir (ear) to the ground 
accompanied with petsmart skills of a blood hound
   a close approximation could be discerned, 
   whether the swelling abdominal mound
would yield a son or daughter, 
   which second guess passed thru 
   the umbilical cord shaped grape vine as re noun
splendor – giving participants planning a baby shower 
   purchasing and showcasing an infant gewgaw 
   costing no mo' than a best seller by Ezra Pound 
   or a couple rolling stones,   
 preferably those flat versus being round
with assessment sans prediction per sex of offspring 
   offered slightly greater hedge Tibet 
   with recent introduction of ultra sound

nonetheless genesis (unbeknownst to either parent – 
   trapped in that role for a life time)
this fetus took a fancy to imbibing verbalization 
   that transpired between when shine
warmed the cockles and muscles of this parasite – ha – 
   expanding his vocabulary prior tummy birth in nine
teen hundred and...(th beh so thee ya haint tell in – 
   go ask aunt Roadie) or...find someone name Stein
beck, and give yaw self a pat on the back faw trine
plotting a tentative addition to family tree or 
   (what would turn out tubby more apropos) a vine,
cuz ma late mum referred tomb me as her little monkey
   who when born deeply engrossed reading about urine
thence, when the pediatric doctor snatched the book – 
   BOY DID I WHINE

which out shrilled any wailing police car, 
   or emergency hospital siren
thus...i got christened RED (for short), yet code named 120 db
which translates as the decibel threshold for pain 
   even afflicting the dead poet Byron.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required