Poetic T Jul 2

Herself of infinite possibilities stemming from
that moment...
Drowning within her womb! Never one for reflection,
as those that looked upon the glaring in reflective
gazes where her sisters that were still connected
with her memories.

That which was meant to feed the focus of life wrapped
upon there throats like the hangman's noose.
She looked on hands reaching in the vastness of diluted
life, her screams silent within only her sisters heard her
clamouring  as life was diluted from there figures.

Gazing upon there reflections, no longer a trio of playful
content. two months she was collected in apparitions
that floated around her.. decaying into void reflections.
The silent screams of her sisters lingering through the womb
even though they were gone there cries haunted her.

As she was released the memory faded beyond her innocence,
till age crept upon her skin, and in years that past.
Echoes images of crying babies filled the air, till her eighteenth
and when she gazed into her self she saw herself.
But when descending her sister with opal eyes lingered.

Skin crawled like spiders weaving their thoughts on her
skin, beneath herself things crawled. Videoing herself in
mirrors echoes surfaced like one drowning in nothingness.
And she saw those of her conception reaching forth for warmth.

Looking upon the mirror, the love of those who were echoes
reflected in her absence cried at what was taken before.
A pact was versed for even though there form was lost
a trio of life still lingered within her, from womb till birth.

Now they live a life of echoes each respective of the others
emotions clinging to the shorelines of each consciousness
that washes up. There is a sea shell on the shore but there
is three echoes that live within this moment haunting the
shades of life's passing, never looking at ones own reflection.

Eleni Jun 21

In the warm dark depths of you
I listen; my breath creates an echo
deafeningly silent.

I have lounged in here for so long
A lifetime of twilight
Yet secure I am.

Kicking               away
I explore my universe
Your voice creating a vibration across my feet.

Planting my foot into my mouth
Sprinkling the seeds of awakening into my heart; my legs are growing in breadth. Flesh is forming in my chest.


A harsh white light pierces my chamber.

Struggling, I cry to get out.
I lean towards an opening-
Something cradles me, the feeling uncomfortable.

I squeeze through!
Leaving my galaxy forever.

I am yours.
I have no choice and I don't want to choose,
I am yours.
In your womb started the journey,
I am yours.
Besides any hate or stumble and our great disagreements,
I am yours.
Not because you made me, because you fed me your holy milk and the serum of words,
I am yours.
Through every night awake I always thought of you,
I am yours.
You are as sincere as a sharp blade and I love it,
I am yours.
I have never cried for a woman the way I cry for you,
I am yours, my first teacher, my eternal goddess.

To my mother 14 june 2017

Your womb was my home
And now
I roam with your half genome....

I used to nap on your lap
And now
I map you in my rap....

You & me were together fused
And now
you are my amused muse....

Dedicated to my funny mom....

I pretend I am in my mother’s womb
As I curl up into a ball under the covers
But it is a scary thought
Being born again
Fresh
And untainted
As if the moment I step outside the air will pollute me
And I’d have to live it all again

Steve Page Apr 22

You created my inmost being; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I was woven together in the depths of the earth; from the first stitch your eyes saw my unformed body.  Before you completed that first row all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

You selected the yarn by colour, by weight, chosing the texture with utmost care. You picked out the ideal needles, counted the balls of wool and with a smile settled down to cast on that first stitch.

Your fingers blurred into action as you chatted with family, confident of the pattern you yourself designed  -

With a knit and a pearl the stitches increased and decreased to ensure the desired shape, maintaining a consistent guage stitch after stitch, row after row.

And after hours of knitting and chatting, with a satisfied sigh you cast off and held up the result of your handy work to the light for all to admire.

How precious you are to me. How I wonder at this body knitted together with such love and with such great skill.  I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully knitted.

Psalm 139:13 For you created my inmost being;  you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
Beau Scorgie Apr 4
Red

Satin ribbons
streaming thighs
seedless apple womb.

Fire of womanhood
birthing passion
burning lust.

Cherry stained lips
making love
to velvet glasses.

Opium eyes
siren for Mars
tumid sex.

Blooming roses
slippery as silk
sigh in red.

Torn from mother's womb.
Lungs strain with gasps of cold air,
Unforgiving world.

The Pain of New Life - Part 2
Haiku series
Alice Wilde Jan 26

All I see is up
The pink flower stretches to forever at the sky
I stare wishing to be among the clouds
Its anterior filters the sun’s warmth upon my soft arms
I sit upon the dark, sodden, summer earth
I am all to myself. Alone.
At home under their stems
So benign am I encased by the pink flower

The pink flower trembles under slight hand of a summer breeze
Honeyed are its petals,
But dangerous is its center
Pricking my delicate fingers
If I am not careful
Yet I watch a dragonfly land on it with grace            Fragile insect legs grip tightly at the miniature pointed peaks

Wind caresses wisps of hair around my petite face
I am like a fairy
Not knowing the wonders of the world
Only the kingdom of the pink flower
Moisture sweetens the air
Drenching it with the breath of nature
Almost as if a mother is breathing comfort into my small body

Sienna Luna Jan 20

Back to the whirlwind of starting from scratch.
Alone in I sit and watch
as the world moves beneath me, around me, surrounding me and blanketing me with coolness.
Winter months are the best because they make me wonder and think clearer.
I'm waking to a fresh kind of birth where I can leave behind my struggles and venture forth into the great unknown.
And the white starkness of sky that was once bright blue awakens my true frozen heart, deep in slumber,
to pulse a red  purplish bruise that hurts, then soothes.
That's what this season is all about.

Preservation, hibernation, incubation, proclamation, prioritization.

It is the Root Cellar holding all that is dear.
It preserves the best parts of me so so I won't mold and crumble away.
I sit, soaked in vinegar, ripening.
I sleep, preserved in thick viscous jelly, not solid, but swishy.
I guess winter lets me breath as I try to wriggle out of the glass jar encasing my body.
It's hard, and a little slippery.
I am soaked in purplish red blood.
I am born to the rain soaked land, wishing it would snow.
But alas, it only welcomes me to a season so familiar that tears start to form in my eye corners.
Wet and shivering, I open the Root Cellar's door with a creak, and step into guerdon.

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