"infertile" poems
mommy loves you unconditionally
even as you soar amongst the clouds
searching for the perfect timing
to come on down
please, forgive my impatience
i just have this undying urge
to have you here
in my arms, clinging to my breast
as i provide you with life
and you provide my breaths
little one, shining so bright
come to me only when you feel it's right
the doctors tell me otherwise
and my womanhood is of questionable might
but i know you are as rightfully my child
just as i am the moon to your night
an infertile mother will forever understand
why so many letters are written to our unborn
with shaken hands
why so many tears have fallen
why you wonder it isn't your calling
to be given a life of other plans
but i know you hear me, little one
and i know you love me too
and i promise to better preserve my body
so that it may be the perfect home for you
until you are ready to bless me with your smile; the uniqueness that is true
everything i do, everything i aim to be,
every dream i work so hard to achieve
i do for you
so please, be slow and easy little one
mommy needs preparation too
just know this,
when you've become tired of waiting;
when you're ready for the world
and you're journey has come to the point of passing through
watch for flashing lights
and smiling faces
and tears of joy
listen for songs of love
because i'll be right there--
for i've been waiting too...
just for you.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
If a world is known by its ideals
Let mine be known as sanity
Let all men be infertile
And all women, stale
Let streets be known for sanitation
And all babies dipped in chlorine
All talk, sterile and sufficient
All excrement concealed
Let the youth of my predecessors
And their mocking vulgarity
Drown in a town of minimal design
And shocking similarity.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
This poem is dedicated to the fallen of the First World War, and also, to all those we have lost in the years since.
- Somme Harvest -
In the early morning
Dawn of the fiery horizon,
The sea of green caresses the land
And gave it gentle kisses
Of tender sadness.
On this day many an unlived life would find
Life in Death, but first must come Death in Life,
Indeed, a bouquet of barbs grace the
Dark, dank, *****
Halls of Morningstar,
Servants go to and fro preparing the sordid feast
Of unsung heroes.
Babes in arms are they, who shall
Ever sleep till the break of the final day.
Fields of Flanders infertile,
But for the harvest to ripen
The fertilizer of life is
Scattered, battered, tattered,
Sown,
Human manure, nutrient of vitality,
It seeps into earthly soil.
In the year of our Lord,
One thousand, nine hundred and sixteen
Did the farmers collect their greatest bounty,
Not all farmers reaped massive yields,
Farmers Kultur, Sickle and Hammer
Fed their maniacal hunger with rotting corpses,
While famers Lion, Bulldog and Bald Eagle
Wept their hunger with mechanical eyes,
Farmer Scythe, steward of Morningstar,
Laughed dry, dead tears of hungry joy
And sang the golden harvest song
As his blade swam through the harvest thirstily,
For indeed, the harvest was an endless
Smoky sea of blood green
And thousands were sailing.
Twilight gleaming through the sky,
The raging war god vomit’s dry thunderous wrath
And wreaks barbaric, savage, ferocious, ****** carnage below,
As sleeping
Babes in arms fly through the red twilight.
Vultures dressed in human feathers
Gather and crowd around their congealing cold feast,
With hatred sewn on their
Lifeless, lidless
Blind eyes,
They shriek their throaty, ******
Thankless prayers to idle gods.
A multitude of thousands upon thousands
Of souls sour to the heights of Mount Olympus,
Unshed tears,
My child, I saw you in that dusky evening half-light,
Flying, soaring and rising higher with your
Brothers-in-arms.
As I looked up at the darkening sky
My heart wept warm tears of ebbing love,
While my eyes forever dimmed the light,
And my baby,
My body became the Earth,
The phoenix has nested.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
When Robots ruled And “The Guardian” went into liquidation
It will be a strange quiet world when robots take over
there will be no middle-class the ranting of the eggheads
in the Guardian will cease their utterings will be quaint.
At the time when robots were perfected a pill emerged on
the market made women and men infertile until they
wanted to start a family, alas, it was irreversible and it only
Takes a generation. The poor was working for the robots
picking up trash such as screws, the streets were empty
and cars were obsolete.
Some robots that had received too much learning wrote
Books to each other – as they did now- and had literary
reviews, but since each book sounded like another down
to the ****** “,” it fell out of vogue, so much academia
and no one to buy their books. At the same time as it was
discovered by the human workers that when a friendly
robot accepted a glass of beer it made a summersault, froze
and became a piece of junk leaking oil.
The fight back began the robots had not been programmed
To tolerate Alcohol, the Achilles heel, and the workers were
Jubilant waved flags
No longer should robots- any robots with mechanical learning
whether university or not- to rule over them.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
simple reminders:
beach towels,
mustaches,
grilled vegetables
beetles,
time.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 10:54 PM UTC
Somewhere in this town there is man with his feet bare.
He has spent the last hour staring at his toothbrush and trying to remember how to leave this room.
His fists hold fingers that are twisted into paleness:
Like jaws too small for adult teeth.
The bathtub gapes up at him, yawning in his peripheral vision,
He remembers that two feet are just as good as six when it comes to sinking.
He never did learn how to swim, but
Like a fish out of water knows
The sea can make short work of accidental sailors
And the gurgle of a tap can sound like the tide coming in.
The bathroom mirror is not kind to him:
His imperfections make apologies he simply won’t accept.
Ribs forming corrugations on his t-shirt, as though his bones are trying to escape from the confines of his skin.
The porcelain lip of the sink continues to pout, its expression a perfect ‘O’.
The plughole is wearing lipstick today; blood red,
As it has been every day of this week.
Thoughts are like spiders webs, he thinks, constructed by moonlight then torn down in the morning
Occasionally he’ll still catch the dew.
In the sterile light of an eco friendly bulb, he holds the mirror back with both hands, one hinge broken.
He wears his heart on his sleeve, cufflinks cutting off his circulation.
In the shadow of the cabinet, are kept row after row of soldiers he uses to fight off his demons
And below that another regiment to handle the effects of the others.
He says, “All I am now is a synonym; and alternative to what I used to be.”
As alive is in likeness to living.
As the sun is, to the infertile glow of his grandfathers TV.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
Goodbye enemies
talking and stalking
I never knew you
while you spoke
rearranging truth
snide comments
rude ideas
toxic seeds
in infertile soil
planted deep
without water
dried
without roots
Goodbye enemies
branches without leaves
leaves without life
rotting designs
molding fruits
twisting reality
wildest roots
lifting up houses
poisoning
mine
Goodbye enemies
smirk and stare
I don't care
I never knew you
and you never knew me
trauma bonding
at my expense
a primitive mindset
but no drums
or pretty colors
or life-fortifying culture
dried and dead
Goodbye enemies
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
Do not lay your body upon my heart.
Quivering as it is would be a bad start.
You wont grow, for I have an infertile soul,
But I assure you I'm quite whole.
Problem is the lack of sunshine,
And a consciousness drawn by a thick line.
While I love you,
As you wait for our debut,
Do not lay your body upon this work of art,
For it simply would not be smart.
You wont grow, for i have an infertile soul,
But I assure you, I'm only partial troll.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
Hold me
Like I'm the most fragile thing
You have touched
One breath
And I'll shatter
And I'm all
That is keeping you alive
Hold me
As if
The whole world has turned into a dark, cold ball
And I'm the only lamp light
You must save from the breeze
Hold me as if
You are the hurricane
Leaving a path of wreckage behind
And I'm the only thing
You intended to keep
In one-piece
Hold me as if
Stars are oozing out of me
From where I should be bleeding
And you try to find the exit hole
But you get fascinated by my stars instead
And you stand there
Perplexed and mesmerized equally
He held me,
As if I was the last flower blooming
In his garden
Salty and hence, infertile
From the tears all the other wilting flowers had cried
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
That’s all it takes to make a woman quiet,
to silence her.
A slap, a word, a scream, an eye
and perhaps a kiss too.
But there’s a different story for my mother.
For the three words, she spoke
while her heart was struggling to keep alive,
She was given a slap.
A slap whose loudness,
I still hear somedays
when I go to bed and when my mother wakes up.
I think she has been silent for too long
to even count now.
So, I pretend I never heard her speak in the first place.
But there is a different story for my sister.
For her Thumbelina sized request,
she was shouted on like Lady Tremaine did.
In a voice so loud that
It was all she could hear for years to come by.
So, while hearing that, she forgot to speak.
She did not know who to search for
when your ‘Prince Charming’ becomes your ‘Wicked Step-Mother’.
But there is a different story for her.
For tears in her eyes
and the words that were just a zygote in her mouth’s womb,
she got a stare.
A stare, that froze her down
and her words had to go through a miscarriage
So, she went through an unplanned abortion
that made her mouth infertile.
But there’s a different story for her.
However, somehow, they are all the same.
Because that’s all it takes to make a woman quiet,
to silence her.
A slap, a word, a scream, an eye
and perhaps a kiss too.
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 9:32 PM UTC
Barren home
Something is missing?
Again
Had she forgotten something?
Keys?
Phone?
An appointment?
Had she turned off the cooker?
The oven?
Check
Check
Check
Can’t shake off the feeling
Her barren stomach
Un-filled with joy
Always monthly bleeding
Grabbing
Punching
Mocking her womb
Useless body
Empty tomb
Desperation choking her
Never to love her own
No bond with a pure and undamaged soul
Her womb an infertile home
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 1:37 AM UTC
say say, "poems"
orbit around teenage angst or "melodrama"
and unrequited love or a "15 year old's infatuation"
with the relishes of teenage woes
alongside skanky ******
were reversed roles in a millennial
battle ; a literacy war
say say, "poets"
clad in magniloquent scrapes
of tight skin, "grandiose" leather
that screech tumblr or more commonly known "fashion"
were the luminescent windows
to that "boy's soul" or obnoxious ****
say say "teens"
as infertile as neglected garden soil
had fervent thoughts on "feminism"
or as the males see it as misandry
and whose words did not revolve
around themselves or "ignorance"
then maybe bloods wouldn't boil
past water's b.p.
and heads wouldn't load with loathe or "insecurities"
and hearts wouldn't heal with blood
or "suicide"
| say say - m.m |
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
.....a day's, or a night's inspiration
just walks away
and escapes my mental grasp
an idea, pregnant with possibilities,
suddenly becomes infertile, like
a barren woman, or a wasteland
i try to get hold of it,
still...it glides away, falling along the
edges of my imagination.
i am bereft,
when my muse has left.
::::::::::::::
sometimes,
i eagerly dip, and wiggle my toes
on a sunny blue river that
manifests itself in my mind,
bursting with promises of new insights...
yet, a slightly curving path is hard to ignore
for, it easily presents itself......and
sometimes,
i give in to its swirls of unfulfilled
dreams, and....sublime moments,
hovering, like a hummingbird
quivering...in my own space,
there in neverlandia, where i'm left
pondering, about a life......unlived.
:::::::::::::::
my toe-dipping moments,
my rare moments of serenity,
are short-lived........ruffled,
besieged by old shadows,
because....phantoms of fear
refuse to die.
::::::::::::::::::::::
sometimes,
when treading this curved path,
unwanted, unexpected
circumstances occur,
and, all of a sudden,
my muse emerges from hiding.
inspirations bloom,
like mushrooms,
bolder,
than those that elude(d) me.
:::::::::::::::::::::::
sometimes,
it takes a while,
for love and life
to rhyme.
::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright February 10, 2018
rrab
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
The foggy harbor buries itself into the bricks,
misty fingers make their way into thick brain threads,
causing invisible skyscrapers to erupt from natural terrain.
Lackadaisical loneliness producing nothing but infertile hands;
You are wasting the precious prayer of earths' life in your lungs,
while saltwater slips into the crevice of your sorrowful joy.
The masks begins to bleed and life carves itself into your skin.
Nothing can be done to stop this carpenter of time,
for even if mortal scalpels disguise,
the knowledge of dying will coat your soul.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
I am a player of words.
I will be the the one to grab you by the neck first
but I might show sympathy on you
kick you in the shins and call you a fool.
My pen can do wonders
crush kingdoms, **** children, point out your blunders.
It takes a movement of my hand to change it all
fulfill your dreams, defy science's laws
I can make your lover infertile
make you an illegitimate child
send you to the most brutal fight
or present you with the Nobel prize.
I can make you a part of a dirt poor family
I can make you live your life without a tragedy.
I can make you an old hunchback
who has seen failure
I can make you the knight
in his shiny armour
I can push you off the cliff from which you hanged
or give you a nice pair of fangs.
Oh yes, I am nefarious.
write words which are a mystery or hilarious.
I would rule this place if I had asked for it first,
I am a player of words.
I have painted your world in different colours
cheered for you when you got the medal of valour
I killed your favourite character? Go figure!
I can make you turn into someone else at full moon
I can torture the ones who were your muse
I can build a world of my own
Not taken down by any force
The fire in my veins cannot be extinguished
I will present you with people between whom you cannot distinguish
I can bathe in the tears of my readers
Don't underestimate words
through your spine they can send shivers.
They see me as danger
to trouble, I am no stranger
there is no extent to my freedom
I am half angel, half demon
I have had my mind drift away to places
I have made friends with the one with scarred faces
danced on waves, sang in deserts
all of this can't be done in reverse
I have killed you using shells
I often write to vent.
I often **** the things which you clenched.
I hold onto your soul and the boredom you munched
isn't all of this fun?
I could be queen if i asked for it first
the world calls me an introvert
and
The player of words
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
She asks why I don't speak of it.
I will not. It is a lake of blood
of flesh and bones and limbs and stink.
I fear to sink but will not let go.
I am as one with it. there is no me.
So I must guard its dam, stop any leaks,
for a breach would drown us both, leave nothing
but acid bog, infertile, insensate.
She seeks to cure me, to 'get it off my chest'.
There's no rest. The pressure builds and I need ale
to stem the pains and blames she cannot share.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
Like a city grows on the banks of a river, water giving the people life, the brain grows in the skull.
Burroughs of the brain flourish, expand, fill with children; all age together.
Roads are built down familiar trails.
Thoughts flow like traffic, passed honking person to person.
Somewhere seven ghettos are folded into the pattern, somewhere seven suburbs.
Churches grow in clumps uptown, the steeples of the brain.
The people grow up, find careers that never change.
All are infertile.
School classrooms, though the books of teaching remain, empty.
Age claims first the eldest, tragedy claims others lost to alcoholism and extreme sports.
Libraries close, leaving suburbs of food sprawling.
Eventually all are in nurse-less homes, the TV flashing but set to no channel, ******** their pants.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
"I easily forget names" his confession rings loud.
She smiles as if she knew this all the while,
She is a woman who forgives, like nature.
She loves his big hands and the promise
Of caresses to sow goosebumps all over
The infertile earth.Suddenly fecundity arrives.
Then, the scents, pheromones wafts to his mind
Speak the same language in different accents
At times it is read as the whispers of winged desire.
The purple hues of arousal, and if read from an angle
Different,it spells sin in black, in calligraphic letters
The flow he is, that dances through hills and dales
Wind and water romancing red earth and ocean.
Where once blood spilled in fierce battle with foes,
A tree full of flowers now smile,a magical moment of life!
She is the drop that oozes under the moss, gathering speed
The fog that spreads and embraces the extended woods.
She defies the limits of mind and touch ebullient galaxies.
She is the field of ripe corn, mellow yellow, gently swaying.
The seeds she collects and keeps safely in her living repository.
Whatever she spills becomes her on which tomorrow smiles.
At the window wind knocks,breaks the egg shell of a dream.
She emerges, opens the door, finds him gets charged once more.
It was raining outside, an auspicious hour, like blooming lotus,
Time to conduct fertility rights,for seeds to come alive.
He feels the stirrings nature creates, arranges all
Necessary things, he towers above all
He is the sun that spreads his warm rays around.
She is the fecund red earth to be sowed at nature's behest.
The horns blow aloud, she heard, and closed her eyes.
Felt like a flower, ready to open her petals for a bee folding wings.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
Dormant aspirations lie in winter's fallow ground
Burgeoning freedom furrowed in shallow soil; sovereign elements do pound
Infertile seeds in barren hearths tightly wound
A cold wind from on high scourges each, desolate mound
A dreary drizzle from hovering, satin crowns seeps deep; hopes are drowned
Nutrients for spawning growth are leached; blighting tentacles surround
Ambition suppressed, inactive period of malaise doth abound
In due season, warming rays of light shine thawing frozen hearts
Incubating innate desire to fulfill individual destinies, from chained depth departs
In destitute minds, a burgeoning sprout of liberty starts
Branching forth into fertile souls, intestinal fiber imparts
Taking root, it spreads deep, penetrating shielded ramparts
A fragile frond from each wavering limb darts
Triumphing in tyrannous environment, a fruitful future charts
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 6:33 AM UTC
The land is scorched, it lays bare.
Now become a blood red dust.
It's blown by wind, everywhere.
A strength corroded, turned to rust.
Where once was love, now is hate.
I am defeated, a wearing toil.
The land, I feel It's mortal state.
Burnt and parched, infertile soil.
My blood and tears are all spent.
Forsaken, in my thoughts and fear.
Tis cooler now, the sun has set.
No clouds nor rain we've seen this year.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
A void where when your affection dwelled,
A gorge profound, where satisfaction withstood.
Presently repeats wait, murmurs of agony,
A heart uncontrolled, lost in the downpour.
I meander through days, a ghost's phantom,
Tormented by recollections, a weighty expense.
Your giggling, a tune, presently a lament,
Your touch, a glow, presently an unpleasant flood.
The world appears to be dim, absent any and all shade,
An infertile scene, where nothing is new.
Each stage a battle, a fatigued situation,
Lost in the obscurity, without your light.
The evenings are unending, loaded up with despair,
An unpleasant quiet, stunning.
Your nonappearance, a consistent, a significant burden,
Pushing down on me, constantly.
I long for your presence, your caring hug,
To experience your glow, to see your face.
Be that as it may, distance keeps us separated, a horrible declaration,
A partition, difficult to see.
I look for comfort, everywhere,
In any case, track down no solace, no harmony, no Danny.
The world appears to be chilly, a relentless machine,
Without your adoration, I'm lost, concealed.
I attempt to occupy myself, with books and craftsmanship,
However, nothing can make up for the shortcoming in my heart.
The hurt of yearning, a consistent aggravation,
A significant weight, that I can't maintain.
I miss your grin, your giggling, your mind,
The manner in which you caused me to feel so fit.
Your affection was a fortune, a valuable gift,
Presently lost everlastingly, an excruciating fracture.
I long to hold you, to feel your touch,
To realize that our adoration, won't ever be squashed.
Be that as it may, destiny has mediated, a brutal wind,
Leaving me broken, lost, and uncontrolled.
I look for replies, however see as none,
Lost in a maze, where trust has gone.
The aggravation of partition, a weighty burden,
A weight excessively weighty, to be conveyed abroad.
I attempt to continue on, yet it's difficult to do,
At the point when each memory, carries me to you.
The prospect of losing you, perpetually, is a trepidation,
That torment my fantasies, a large number of years.
I trust sometime in the future, we'll see as our way back,
To the adoration we once had, a lovely track.
Up to that point, I'll continue, with overwhelming sadness,
Expecting a future, where we won't ever part.
Thus, I stand by, anxiously,
For the day when our adoration will vanquish demise.
At the point when we'll be brought together, by and by,
What's more, our hearts will retouch, and our adoration will rule.
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 12:46 AM UTC
The flames soared high
Above the broken city-
Troy sodden by war
Necks cut, women ***** children
Enslaved. The sea mirroring
The city’s pain, screaming waves
Piling on the shore.
In the dust lay
The groaning towers of Iliam
The beaten
Shards of a brilliant culture
Felled and fouled
By barbarians.
Around the moping Cypress
Heroes' ashes
Lie infertile,
While Achilles moans in Hades
Weeping unwashed tears
For his body's fading
And his shadows continuance
In eternal gloom.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
I’m tired, so tired, of!
The fake gestures
A cigarette between two fingers
The ******* cough, bogus smiles
A chapped cup, full of dark Turkish coffee
Being!
Who you’re not
Not the eyeglasses!
Knowledge, should be in you
Wanna be enlightened?
Come, walk with me
Under the rain
to the barren lands
How's the weather in California?
Come with me
Let’s go
for a walk
To the white planes of Alaska
Just to make a snowman!
Enough, is enough
Leave the soundless guitar, alone
Walk with me
To the infertile terrains
Where the rainbow
taking her last breath
To be fed, not to feed
A bit of, humanity
Let’s go for a walk!
January 13, 2009
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC