Unhatched Poems | Examples

Wild Birds

  A red-throated hummingbird, betrayed,
begins the annual rite of packing up his nest, 
in response to the mercurial spinning of winds, 
and the twisted temperaments of weather. 

  Distant friends once conspired together, chasing sunbeams, 
beak-seeking nectar beckoned from blossoms' tease,
thoughtful temptations from the breeze who taught him to fly.

  Without warning, save the predictions of history,
the wind turned her shoulder, hiding the cold, 
smell of snow on her breath belying denials of inclemency. 

  Taking only what he needs, tucking it in next to his breast; 
an odd stick, a tuft of newborn lanugo for the sake of nostalgia,
unhatched plans of a portico he had intended to build. 

  Red bird perched on bare branch, in morning bids farewell,
takes flight on desolate breath, his load less heavy now,
having left his heart with the unsteady humor of sylphs.

Robins

When I went out this morning,
I heard two robins somewhere singing.
Then, I heard them in a bush;
One said to the other: Shush...
our unhatched babies are laughing.

Superman Aborted

How bird-like a new fetus is,
like a chick in an egg,
the delicate spine curved,
all the fine bones promissory wish-bones
tucked into s floating nest.

Unseen embryonic pathways 
are not yet cleared, diverse divisions
are still dividing. Genetics uncertain 
for an interval, a pause.

In the blood bound sac
a reptilian blastula 
breaks through to be human,
a primordial development
reenacted as a timeless secret.

As a young child
I really thought I was Superman.
I would jump off ever higher elevations
arms outstretched
until at last I broke my legs.
Reality was my kryptonite.
Yet like a fledgling
I was just readying myself for flight.

My mothers womb was closed tight
within it still the residue of  broken wings;
they would have to be expelled
before I could be forever grounded.

Songbirds now come to my bird table.
I listen to their chipping beaks as they 
crack seeds.
None stay long for fear of the circling hawks,
yet they sing on the wing,

to me, they seem to warble triumphantly
of eggs hatched and eggs
unhatched.

Pickings

When the snout of lush abundance is full and flowing,
when all prey and creature-kind spill upon the verdant swards,
then it is that I worry night and day,
for the stoat, fox and hawk are at work,
they scythe in the whelm and nimiety, they hack and harrow.

The kits and chuckling’s are many, the light too bright;
for then the foragers forgoing fright, are palpable and open.
The long-eared nibblers, hairs on scattered rodents laid bare,
they scutter, skitter and twitch much in the open
greatly prone to be pounced upon;
their paltry pelts all unhidden, and being many,
and not running, they are huddled; yet not strong.

If this slew not ease, if the grabbers not falter,
if the singled-out dither, the glut not wither,
then the green snake will climb to where nestlings hutch -
they all so easily plucked and quickly snatched.
I worry for the wee brown birds; mottled shells still unhatched.

I fear a winnowing, withal a harsh hazard of gorge and sate.
I fret for the freshly delivered, the teeming,
the newly produced, all the bounding bounty
for those too easily found and so, arrived too late.

The Birthing of Monsters

There’s a boy in the cellar with a stone in his mouth.
In the stone is a bird.
In the bird is a future unhatched, unborn, unclean.
Unbeknownst to the world, he is dead.

In the dark there is laughter from faces unseen.
It is here you will stay and alone in this place you will
dwell. 
With them. 
With it. 
For all time.
But I’m here, Mamma’s here.

I wish I could help you.
I wish I could hold you.
I wish I could save you from me.

I wish I could stop this.
I wish I could help this.
I wish it could somehow be better than it is.

But it’s not.
And I’m me.
And you’re you.
You’re down there.
I’m up here.
So it goes. 

There’s a wound in my heart that won’t heal, and it bleeds.
It’s your fault little boy, yours alone and I’ll snap you inside 
like a twig on a tree ‘till you’re still and at peace in my arms.

There’s a boy in the cellar with a bird in his mouth.
In the bird is a stone.
In the stone is a future reviled, rewritten, repaired.
Realized by the world, he is born.

Pickings

When the green snout is full
rabbits spill on the lawn.

I worry night and day,
because the stoats and the Red Tails
are at work
even in whelm and nimiety
they hack and harrow.

The young kits are many,
the sun too bright.
Foragers forgo fear,
are palpable and open,

not just 
the long-eared nibblers,
the hairs on many scutters 
are laid bare,
the sniffers thrive,
are prone to be pounced upon;
their thin pelts all unhidden,
and being many,
and not running,
they are huddled.

If this spill will not ease.
If the grabbers not falter,
the singled-out dither,
the glut not wither,
then the green snake 
will climb a way
to the nestlings hutch;
all so easily found
and quickly snatched.

I worry for
the small brown birds, 
their mottled shells
still unhatched.
In this gorge and sate;
I fret for all this new life
that has arrived too late.

Collaboration By the Two of Me

A tapestry lay in an ancient sun,
Basking neath a ventrous day yet unspun,

Colorful hues of ocher and saffron,
Draws aqueous fumes that moist production,

Every eye, blossom, unhatched egg, greet, opens,
Fortuitous bounty spreads emotions,

Gathered, skins, feathers, and scales, 'bout all strewn,
Harken a flightless prayerful dove a tune,

Invocates breaths to cite a liturgy,
Jolts loose a cloak of boundless energy,

Kingpin meanders its righteous release,
Lifts a poised sky veiled like an altar piece,

Mirrored echoes o'er a restless domain,
Naked beings wild, nay wear traps of vain,

Oaths show side-by-side, generating warmths,
Pleasant touch between life, light and air, calms,

Qat leaves pools a creeks hold, stirs brew a tea,
Raven espies to hover, pecks a spree,

Symmetry fulfills in a baseless realm,
Tenacious wanton rhapsody days' whelm,

Universe descendants be a joint trust,
Vast spectered spectrums spirals to adjust,

Webbed stars a new sky, quietude abound,
Xenon fades into a nulled swarty crowned,

Yielding yawns, surrenders lids to be froze,
Zzz's orchestrates descents towards a lulled doze.


Date: 06/01/2019

Opportunity For Exclusivity

Time is of the essence when playing
The field is wide open to the opportunist
Love is an engine fueled by lust
Many eggs remain unhatched, untouched
Undamaged by the trust you bring
There is no deposit no return on virgins

There is only one woman in the world
That one opportunity for you 
Intimacy is a dream elixir
Exclusively designed with you in mind

I trust you will find her before time runs out
Before the opportunist takes her away
Makes her one of the many merry
Perverts the purity that once was yours alone
The one and only touched by no one

The Irony of Mirrors

You were a bird
And I was an egg
You left me unhatched
And I was unfed

I was not a pencil
To use on your test
But you didn't care
You used his chalk instead

I was a raindrop
That fell on your head
And you brushed me off
When your heart turned to lead

My soul was a country
I couldn't defend
When you invaded my home
And you burned all my land

A Comely Damsel

I was a comely damsel
Made of fragile fair clay,
Pregnant with unhatched rebellion,
Beclouded with the mist of youthhood,
And on the broad path
Dreaming of butterflies.

I heard a still voice calling;
It was the Prince of Peace,
Oh, how sweet the sound!
So I followed closely.

But the sword in his mouth
Pierced my flesh and bones,
Caused my timely abortion,
And shaped me into fit -
A precious pearl for him.

What else can I say?
O Man of Calvary!
Your love has captured me.
You are my king forever!

(Read 1Timothy 1:12-15)

Unhatched Poem

A poem still in its shell    I'm listening for peeps

Happy Birthday My Baby Girl

Today you are seventeen years old;
We have brought to you our lineage gold.
We have brought our swiss vevelt lace
And sweet powder for your cherubic face.
 
Happy we are you are not a "broodlord":
The broodlords, the unhatched -
They say eagles waft in the air,
They see marauding cobras in the jungle,
They shrug at the pain of laying,
Grimace at the fast of brooding;
Tick, tick,tick; broodlords rot the eggs.

March 17 you broke the wall;
The honey was not spilled, the jar was not broken.
Seventeen years  now you are pruning your wings.
Sweet to see you bristling your breast.

Happy birthday my baby girl;
Next year I shall greet you again.


For my daughter, Amogemola, on her seventeenth year birthday.

Embrace the Day

Embrace the day loosely don't cling
Let it flow, unhatched, free
As the river rushes or saunters
Ever rolling to the sea

With outstretched arms fly 'pon breezes
Swaying north, south, east, west
Ride the waves soaring the currents
Freedom wakes are the best

"The moment you doubt whether you can fly, 
you cease forever to be able to do it."
Quoted and don't know author..

Untitled 30

I portray the mother of dust:
the rattle in our empty nest,
echoing, echoing like the bray
that escapes the moon at noon,
the shrieks from soft white rooms.
These unhatched eggs cry,
crawling to my windows,
peeping in, trying to frost
each dirty sheet of glass
with their shallow dirty breaths.
Is there humanity in this reflection?
I am a factory assembling
cadavers: cold glassy eyed dolls
all wearing the same vacant faces:
blurred, blurred, and terrible.
Their little fingers stain the walls
like the pages of blank novels.
I try to hold them. They go.
They let me go, for now.
I don't fear the darkness anymore,
but it is their tongues of silence
that leave me unhinged.
Remembering is to ache
like a shadow. Mother
mothering dirt, a stranger to health.
My cramping hands pray and
hope my past can eat itself.

Untitled 28

The ledge is where it begins
and ends. She feels her slip rise,

her rusted wings quiver into use.
She knows the wind has a language

of its own too. Its trusted wet tongue fills
its mouth. She could never put it back together

in time. She recoiled, unblooming
like the moon daisy at dawn.

The moon remains unconcerned,
her faces stare as blank as snow.

She forgets her past, her future stunted too.
She's seen enough, she's sure.

Her black eyes frail from overuse.
Like the Earth, she is old before her time.

As a graffitied flower, she feels impure.
in her forever empty nest

the ghosts of unhatched eggs press their
little faces to the window, their shallow  breaths 

trying to frost the glass. She is the mother of dust,
draped in cobwebs thick as dirt.

She slips it back. She has known the outside
too well. At last, she tries to fly.

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