Someone said to me today your heart is in your hand referring no doubt to lines chock-full of pathos calculated to pluck the reader's heartstrings. That sounds cold, perhaps. But truly, every sweet emotion that brings forth words to make you weep dies a little in the telling in the scribbling in the writing so there's little heart left to it in the end. Catharsis. Perhaps it may bring comfort to the gentle reader offended by my cynic tone and hardened heart to reflect upon the need to squeeze pain into story to dry an ocean with a welling pen. For he was right, after all. Whatever may be left by the time you read these scribblings for a moment freely offered my heart was in my hand. ***** M.A. Mohanraj February 19, 1993 (for Ralph Cherubini)Click here to read more poems.