"incubation" poems
Ebola, coming from the Continent of our roots
The WHO is exhausted by your contagion
Nurses are leaving their posts, doctors are dying
What can contain exponential growth?
Not the money and debts of this bankrupt America
We print more money and expect
The world to stay the same, but it won’t
Not after you Ebola, a profit mechanism
Vaccines, for each strain and mutation?
Ebola, your incubation period is too long
Your death-conformity is too high
How can you possibly be natural?
Man-made, racially biased, targeting
The weak, the poor, the masses
Ebola, a colonial rampage in your DNA
I call your bluff, genocide, Genocide!
Obama doesn’t mind Ebola, flights stay open
New epicenters for outbreaks arrive
The pundits say it’s already too late
Fluids or air-droplets, both, who is to say?
The CDC seems strangely apathetic
The UN is oddly apologetic
Ebola, are you ready to decimate
The white man, as you have the black?
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
Fear too is an epidemic, it stretches out like
An incubation period for a kind of doom
Population control, whispered a silent elite
Who engineer our wallets, our GMO food, our futures
Ebola was a convenient way, of making us fear
Who we once were again, black as a Nigerian
We died alone in deathbeds, isolated plastic containers
For who we once were, our organs giving out
Infection was a spider hand, MSM gave us
False positives, but could the main-stream-media
Be trusted any longer? Wasn’t this just a matter
Of time, an algorithm set loose upon the billions?
Fear is that place, where people go in adversity
It’s hypnotic like an audience at a concert
It’s contagious how the will for self-preservation can spread
Fight of flee, but where to run, out of the cities?
The new normal is a kind of paranoia
While we watch the situation very closely
Every hour there is underground news about
Another case in another country, Ebola isn’t
Your grandmother that only likes good climates
She’s an engineered hypothesis of how mobility
Causes any true pandemic to become a flamboyant outbreak
The comet that signals black plagues has been seen
Fear too is a weapon, when you can’t stop the world
Because it’s too costly to do so, and you can’t
Tell the world not to fly because we’re too free
We left Africa a long time ago, but who among us
Would stand 20 meters from their open graves?
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 9:22 AM UTC
Stuck in a rut of who i want to be
A constant feeling of being stuck at sea
No where to turn
No lessons to learn
Complete isolation
Is this what i diserve
A raven with no wings
Leaves a bird who wont sing
Waves shake and rock me
But i continue on
My boat keeps me afload
Keeping steady and strong
Thrown on this raft at a very young age
Constant sun burn and dehidration have my eyes crazed
Two people inside my mind
Im in control but struggle all the time
Out of sight
Out of mind
Is the story of my life
Full of fright
Now im blind
Must continue this fight
When suddenly i meet an unsuspecting creature
A very tired wolf with a very high fever
I take this wolf onto my floating door
Lick her wounds and give her compassion
...
Something nether of them have had before
The stranded raven adores the wolf
Infatuated with its being
After licking her wound
Her leg has stopped bleeding
But soon the raven will lick to much
The wolf snarls at the raven and howls to say enough
The raven retreats to his side of the tire
The close quarters would make the raven and wolf very tired
The raven was never raised as a hatchling
Rite out the egg starving
No incubation
No warmth for the raven
He is horrible to the wolf
Without knowing why
Could be his need to die
Could be his constant crying
The raven loves the wolf
This is clear
But he has had evil tendencies for many years
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
Now the raven is bleeding
Missing many feathers
Looking at the wolf
Stunned
The raven is starting to see what he has done
And he sits on his corner of the raft for months
He walks over to the wolf
Licks her heart
And says i should have been your boat from the start
I should never have hurt you
Drouned you
And im sorry
I offer you my neck as payment
The raven loves the wolf
This is clear
And decides to be a new bird
For the rest of his years
A cardinal appears from the raven
The black carcass falls
And the cardinal is born
And the wolf heals up
Never to be torn
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
A cosmic ray dispersed into creation
Tail wagging upstream with elation
So many victims fallen to ************
Anxious seed sprouting with incubation
Privileged To exist
we have no choice
Growing like a cyst
No time to rejoice
Cognitive effort to grasp us being alive
Ponder the place from where we derive
Reasons for life and why we must strive
Are we honeybees with earth as our hive
Pray to the heavens for when we"ll arrive
Greeted with a smile and god"s high five
Effortlessly we all continue to live and be
Subconsciously evolving the human tree
Temporarily renting this vessel of a body
Surreptitiously evading death to be free
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
The weak inherit the Earth
The meek inherit their lead
Unaware of their life's worth
Until after they're dead
We are hopelessly trampled by a bullet stampede
Inflicted upon us for the wealthy man's greed
They sell us death as a commodity
While we can only mourn solemnly
They are arms dealers
We are harm feelers
They are life stealers
When we can't find healers
For the fatal wounds that end our lives so abruptly
And the man with the gun has no need to trust me
He has placed his faith in Ares
His humanity he failed to carry
He sold it urgently to feel secure
But then his thoughts became impure
For whatever reason he cast a death sentence
He felt injustice and wanted to get vengeance
But to the merchants of wrath
He is just math
Numbers on a graph
They must minimize
With blatant lies
Businessmen will try to create a need for their product
But engendering fear for profit seems like misconduct
Because as the bullets are raining
And the militants are training
Their money is stacking
While terrorists are attacking
Their nature seems callous
When they rely on our malice
They see us as a body count
They see us as simple trout
Swimming upstream to die
So they can eat us
Convincing us we'll fly
With minds of a fetus
The bullet burns as it punctures our civilization
It fuels our bitter spiteful incubation
We sit in the chamber
As they utilize our anger
The rich get richer
We don't see the picture
When gunshots scatter crowds
And the echoes scatter our thoughts
They want the volume to be loud
So we'll forget what we're taught
That our lives are the price of a gun and a bullet
Our paranoid lives become hard to live to the fullest
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
Hubby,
Our fractured laugh is irredeemable.
It Is reinforcing the heroic microbes.
to brainstorm some tiny schemes.
with a lack of delicacy and tact
to recur the same cynic nights of devastation,
incorporate the sores into our throats; a full-time personification of tangible intrusion, directly to the full portrait of the Meningitis itself.
Distracting the law of the incubation hours for all strains, overpowering the blood cower, and hovering over our jaded hoarse, sneering at our last appalling psyche-knot
After this creative detention,
I’m invoking another forever torpor inside of our hearts' beats to pose another irrevocable damage that would perpetuate a close depiction of da Vinci’s Last Supper masterpiece.
Honey, Light yourself with a viral-bacterial whirlwind and sink into its bleakness beside my bewitching bind.
I'm still loving you despite all my infections.
amid the urge to enfold your tsunami and swallow its combination
Fortunately, we have survived so many different tragedies together, as a full piece of plague
above Utopia.
- The Poetic Soul
Jul 28, 2023
Jul 28, 2023 at 9:54 PM UTC
*Luck's not when the *****
too start to lay and hens to crow
No,that's a miracle...
Luck's when all the eggs laid by the hens you adequately fed
hatch after incubation...
Take charge of your drive...
focus on the wheels...
Luck's a hitcher you give lifts
on your way to success
she tends to walk with miracle..!*
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
in the oven of the mind,the words are baking
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
27.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 11:05 AM UTC
At times,
Cold departures leave
A stain of faith.
You're departure,
However hellish,
Remains immaculate,
Even as you turn
With a blizzard on your heel,
Kicking Winter in
My eye.
You replace him up there.
Not in piety but
In hierarchy,
Of the royal void breed.
I tailor the nails to your palm
And broken foot.
Drying like slaughterhouse
Meat on my clothesline.
I found our nature
Profoundly meaningless.
Was it transcendence?
Algor Mortis?
Or did my new eyes
Survive incubation?
I await the birth pangs
Of sight,
Callousing the whole,
From lid to lash.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Easier to snap stitches sown by a witch,
Individual infliction, comforts to materialize,
Mentally-made pain,
Not one to take a knife to my vein,
Mentally tortured till I'm convinced to claw at those arteries
Peer pressure, I am more than just a friend look for gain,
Naturally nourished before incubation
Neurologically nestled till you learn of our need,
To share an existence, that I will also perceive,
If only we could say, If only I could see,
Our minds can ******* the bold,
Those egos bring us deeper than the worms,
The roots of a cemetery’s dying trees no one can reach,
Keeping us quickly exiting this existence,
The discovery of complete darkness or another chance to perceive,
The mystery that keeps you listening to me,
From lobes that function and breathe
My torment fostered from a self-destructive process,
Thoughts fomented in the cranial corridors of a mind in need,
Independent and only recently unaware,
The mind doesn’t fear the electric chair,
Each day will bring trouble,
But some will bring you peace and a sense of a soul once more,
In the wake of mind that mandates, manipulates,
Be the powerhouse that reaches for your own controls,
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
rusty knees folded under a
quilt weaved by the calloused hands of
particles of grandmothers' grandmothers,
head heavy on a
down-breasted pillow,
rising and falling softly
in a bedroom den,
whispering relative semantics of
a testament revised
while outside, tornadoes uproot trees
and displace plywood houses
with charred pies frozen on the windowsill,
entombed from the harsh winter's frost
and incubation in false ovens;
i recall seasonal naps of
drifting and wakening
and colourful mosaics
painted across the dreamland sky,
drinking cups of melatonin-laced chamomile
steeped in an angel teapot that induced
psychosomatic apparitions in constant relay
from earhole to earhole and
assisted with pulling an endless rope out of my
mouth which had been tied to the pit of my ulcerated stomach,
my head twisting in a corkscrew spiral,
meeting a longing gaze
and twisting back again,
oh! my bottled neck!
you retell poems softly spoken loudly
with my kisses on your heavy eyelids,
before we drift through the sheer veil
into unified consciousness,
taking a glimpse at our crowning home in
an infinite land,
enveloped in time-honoured Love
bestowed upon us in
pure, Divine fate,
watching endless words of
'i love you', 'i love you'
trickle like sand though a
heavenly hour glass figure;
to wake, a chance to celebrate,
to die, a chance to find each other again.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
i simply exercised my vocabulary in tantra-yoga... you mistook poetry for its expression of freedom curtailed... and while i did my tantra-yoga bending and pointing at unseen geometries... you simply ran a 100 metre sprint, elongating the hyphen into a boa eating itself with avarice the pepper & salt.
0i preferred the haggis / czarna kiszka
than my retrospective -
i'm doing mine early, for reasons not
necessarily true, or for that matter worthwhile...
but nonetheless assuring -
had i too the gift for painting,
and the nerve to keep a young girl captive
i'd too succumb to fathom a Grimm's tale...
live the secluded live, secluded to the point
of incubation - i'd lived it like an
Arctic explorer, by the fireplace
talking drunk tales of escaping polar bear
hunts - within a pentagram of limbs intact,
greasy Glasgow my farthest stone throw of heart...
furthest the Føroyar Øer - if only i kept my heart
as stern of the body to mind as the atom of ego
in my mind to be lost among the carousel
of weathered abstracts known
as the four winds and the thrice winding clockwork -
what abstractions to bear
from now on? a memorial service?
only in poseur marginalising tomorrow as only
a change of attire for today; so too the
semi-clad conservatives of supposed workmanship
English? takes two to a woad; whatever Argentinian
*** did to you in tango... takes two to a woad!
but there's you apish and impish entwined for
coerced blue of some other Newtonian prefect
of argument, when the painting screams far from
Norway the distinction between azure and
aquamarine is very far between
suggestion of marriage... i've ate my liver as if it were
a heart by drinking salute! to a marble stone all hopes
to have my life back! i mistook my liver for a heart!
i did that! you mistook more than i care to remember
having been forced a forgetting...
those 3 years in Edinburgh meant nothing... nothing!
spend them in South America, in Antarctica!
i will not swallow another breath with a vowel coupled
to a consonant.... until the remnants of me
believe the words: Europe united, only when Scotland
is free.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
As
The Iron
Gets Ready,
I Wait For It.
Then I wait for it
Passing Through
The Tests Of Time,
As Finally It'd Shine..
Through The Brilliant Shine
Which Blinds The Blacksmith
Pulls The Iron In Perfect Timing
Out Of The Furnace - Ready Now...
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 6:26 AM UTC
draking death features and tones
no lust lost
in oceans we toss
man only of our presence to be
included rudely
at the suggestion of the wet nurse
thirsty in linen
uniform beds her words
nourish
long as ever is
in the business of breath
methods of incubation
amorated swells in the pattern
batten the flourish of our human ilk
for the journey would calm
our raving losses
and punctuations of breeding
Oct 23, 2022
Oct 23, 2022 at 10:10 PM UTC
Human Incubation
The world painted us with mud and it harden
She allowed us to see beyond the cracked dirt
Even though millions denied their own worth
She recognized that our path belong to us
Everything in us is beautiful even when life is ugly
She didn’t permit us to play victim
Our wickedness is only a distortion due to self-hatred
She promoted love through pain
I know sightlessness can still bring forth opportunity
She knew change was absolutely essential to move foreword - FK
Rest easy Maya Angelou.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
mild, so mild in the night
to travel with the earth
amongst an early starlit bloom,
muddy fields fill the air
with pubescent June.
goslings waddle, fuzzy scurries.
mother, father,
enlarge and hiss
protecting their long months work,
now free from pipping shells.
so cool is the night while
laying hidden in uncut fields.
chilling winds dance atop feral growth.
sanctuary for outward gazing,
through to unknown worlds.
there is no envy from a distance.
breath feeds wonder, spilling over
into this vessel, so soon to be forgotten.
spoiled from within, the unborn,
rotten. a shell too hard to crack.
there is no nest for that sacred sibling.
forgotten by mother and father.
their failed incubation, rotting.
lost amongst the stars
but within the field of all.
Apollo sings to Pollux and Castor
stroking somber tones from Lyra.
"Greet the voiceless into forever;
attach to them their rightful wings",
"chirp, chirp, chirp"
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC
After a period of twenty four months of staying impregnated is spent nourishing itself, the egg will finally hatch and out will emerge the Phoenix, the tears of whom will heal me and the gorgeous feathers of whom will give me relief from this moist hot weather which stays as if here from the beginning of time & for ever now on and just for me to enjoy its relieving warmth under this torrid sky.
The Phoenix inside must wait till these testing times are done with posing all the challenges in its incubation period so that its shell has gotten thinner and weaker.
All the desires, longings to meet my loving Phoenix mate which are unfulfilled a present will be made to stand these harsh tides of time and will have to be nurtured with love and, more primely, patience till the she finally hatches and finally meets its long-time match from the previous birth.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
From contact, a poison
A venom in veins
Bound by these strains
Incubation insane
Strikes for notice
Pleads for no time
Sending you off with flowers and rhyme
Kisses and wine
Serpent's vine meets design
Oh but the shine
Not one silver outline
Was the guide for which we find fine
Thoughts of purity perceived by men in their prime
But who am I not to want to experience mine?
Who says what is all?
Who says what is null?
Who governs the ideas strung together by skull?
Experimentation
Knowledge of those
Some impede while others grow
Can't decide
Axis from allies
How is one foe to know?
------
Furthermore
What I adore
Has taken one quite a journey
Why we hurry to hurry?
Often I still worry.
Who are the elected who elected the jury?
I can't wage the battle
From both sides
Why should one have to choose
When the two can unite?
Morals, Values, Ideals, Games
Hand in hand they control
Yet they contain
Potential to change
But what if it is opposite of what's taught?
The learning to accept
That things can get wrought
Twisted and mopped
Has lead me nowhere but to go and to stop?
So the question is this
For my wish list
When is the right time
When is the mask too tight
when is it not alright?
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
My birth’s eve is enigmatic
A day I shan’t relive
Tugging on my piety
As the light flooded my eyes
Both have witnessed heave and **
Finesse and outright folly
As I stumbled throughout life’s corridors
Prodding walls with eager palms
I screamed out at perceived darkness
Then fell once more unabashed
This time further than before
Through the stony grasp of destiny
Into an incubation tub
Turning anxiously to and fro
My pupils dilate once more
As I part my lids, take light in
I reach to touch, to understand
And feel a plastic wall
But I dare not wonder where I sit
For my heart is renewed innocent
I wish to stay wrapped in this cloth
Until my body is dispossessed
Deteriorating in time and space
But my soul would be perplexed
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 12:58 PM UTC
Either way it is wasting.
Claim your right
to keep copy from pasting,
thereby laden these words beneath stone
where they lie as they rot, still unknown
Or to say
what to speak is sweet tasting,
each frame recite
liberties; terms replaced-
-til the thing
doesn't resonate whatsoever, like it had, let alone
retain echoes of intention from initial undertone.
Incubation of thought from at best a guess of hue...
Distraught by more; eventually confessed
and we implore
what is repressed must we explore,
attest the vast extent this mess was misconstrued.
Til to not adore much, lest
we curse what bless us as we grew.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
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.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
Sitting on her clutch of eggs
agitatedly growling.
She plucks out her own feathers-
a warm belly for incubation.
Depriving herself of nourishment for days.
Her eyes glaze over, crazed.
Maternal sacrifices run deep
through her hollow bones.
Aug 25, 2021
Aug 25, 2021 at 12:59 PM UTC
We are being destroyed by advertising
We are like broken pieces of cardboard
Our astral faces are printed on the backs
Of empty milk cartons tossed into the ethers
Fed on scarcity and internet dreams of modeling
With broken hopes we spend our lives meandering
Yet we are fooling ourselves and others
Our barnyards are empty
Can we trust our hearts more than our apathy
Plenty of people are dying young and lonely
These falling arrows following their own trajectories
I seethe with anger at this ineffable insanity
I say f@#! it anyway
Have you ever wondered why our ancestors didn’t sleep
While you take my fingers and bend them beneath you
Jettison the weapons
Of everlasting happiness
We are sentimental accidents
******* the equators
And salivating waiters
We assume we are alone but it's a foolish hope
Instead we resent your intangible laughter
Stand against the rafters
We are dreaming of liberation
Still we are shaking in our dressing rooms
Like confused teenagers
Who eat alligator mustard
Those salty incubation periods
Where we swallowed buckets of sadness
Like mouthfuls of burnt toast
This soap is soft and bubbly
And now we get lost
In our own homes on the daily
These poems speak to us softly
Yet you seek what is costly
I need nothing that i don’t already own
Love is a poem
So remember the phone-calls you made
Yesterday's sunrise fell on our faces
And we hid against the windy tides
Those retired auto dealers
And our ancient healers are weeping
They're just about ready to sell you their souls
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC
Dear Poetry,
My deepest and sincerest apologies that I've been away for so very long
I know you're not pleased with me, and I wish I could say you are wrong
But please accept my appeasing words, and place them in a pipe or ****
Smoke session for the absentees, as we turn this poem into a fateful song
So now that we are friends again and I've spoke and made peace
Desist from how things have been, and promise me to also cease
Resist the inclination to use common words such as Seize the Day
Thought incubation can create replacements for the typical cliche
In conclusion,
Poetry, I just want to thank you for always being there for me
In Seclusion,
the great wide open, anywhere in the future I may choose be
An Exclusion,
Is impossible with you and I in collusion for eternity's timely
Perfect Illusion,
Which can only be truly stamped once these words are set free
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
There you go again,
Claiming to represent me
Because my fingers are
Marked with indelible ink
Vowing allegiance to you
And your unscrupulous colleagues
For the next five years
Which may just be an incubation
Period for the opposition
Party that will claim its
Right to rule next.
Dressed in pristine white
Hearts filled with
The blackest of thought
What gives you criminals
The right to roam free
After every year of looting us?
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 8:18 AM UTC