"miscarriages" poems
If I said my heart was a cyanide laced pomegranate,
would that make its expressions any less ******
If I said falling in love was like throwing yourself off a cliff on a winter night and drowning yourself tumbling through the air blind like a bag of kittens, but I was quoting Kierkegaard,
would that make it any less of an awkward melodrama?
If I told you the western blocks blind attacks on the other,
kinda resembled Freud's account of the mother
of a miscarriages melancholia,
is that a condoning or a condemnation?
if I translated every meta-narrative of class relation, oppression, wage slavery, state violence, suppression,
into anthropomorphic allegories for a myriad of psychological phenomena,
would I be an academic or a shinto miko?
[and would the world be any better?]
if I superimposed on the geographical topology,
the political and then the existential,
would I have a sandwich?
Or a lasagne?
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
We are manufactured landscapes,
constructed through naming nouns –
we celebrate difference.
We are compelled into being one or the other,
like a nail or a hammer.
We reference nature through motherhood,
voluptuous in her national pride narrative,
her lips red pucker supple metaphors like her fertile ground,
her belly always pregnant
ready to plant desire in discourse.
We forget her industrial miscarriages,
her toxic tar-sulfur consumption,
her global half-bred garbage in words left unsaid,
her ***** laundry in patriarchal hands.
We forget her midwives,
her toiling underpaid workers
who support generations of waste
who spit up truth in plastic mouthfuls,
who regurgitate material narratives
to celebrate flesh in mythic wholeness.
When will the nation, earth and world step from its subject of motherly pedestal and name its androgynous existence, its forgotten lifelines?
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 12:38 PM UTC
For years they'd tried and failed
in their conjunctions to conceive.
The wife prone to miscarriages
so a surrogate was decreed.
Her closest friend from college
took pity on their plight,
and volunteered to help them
by bringing forth their child to life.
It would be their bun, her oven.
Their tenant in her rented womb.
The pregnancy was uneventful
and their son was born last June.
It's a miracle of science.
to some couples it's a boon.
but the procedure is expensive
so don't expect a baby boom
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
Pieces of a woman
Gloom, glee, distance and intimacy
Attitude, gratitude, strength and vulnerability
Heartbreaks, Happiness, Longingness and poetry
Calmness, boldness and a bad *** stree.
Pieces of a woman
Stretch Marks, cellulite, miscarriages and then bossy
Shallow, Intense, blur and then some glossy
Cute, cheerful, lazy, sane and naughty
Benevolent, bizarre, shy and much hotty
Pieces of a woman
Family, friends, kin, acquaintances
Risk, safe and then out of the world chances
Society, sub-urb,rural and them glances
Some music, some writing, some shying and couple dances
Pieces of a woman
Marriage, adoption, career and grace
Clarity,focus,concentration and haze
Red,green, black, purple and beige
Independence, freedom, self-doubt and cage
All this and endless…..
And then some and then some
Nothing can totally define
The ultimate human
The beautiful, the wonderful
Pieces of a woman.
Mar 7, 2022
Mar 7, 2022 at 2:31 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Sadly Paris is
Feeling the ravages
Of those heartless savages
Whose numerous miscarriages
Of jihad on the average is
A total mischaracterization
Of what they claim is the Muslim nation
And frankly speaking I’m losing patience
This I hope you understand
There’s no justification in the Qu’ran
For what they do to their fellow man
As if it’s part of Allah’s Plan
Show me the sunnah if you can
That allows aggression in any land
Things have gotten out of hand
If everything you do is banned
You can spread your hate
But I have to state
There’ll never be a califate
That’s solely built on one man’s hate
It will crash and burn under its own weight
And heaven help those who participate
For them I fear it’s much too late
And that’s not open to debate
Paris is crying, naturally
Because of the carnage don’t you see
But they’ll continue to be free
And enjoy the support of humanity
We all must ask how could this be
While sealing the fate and destiny
Of those miscreants who **** with glee
And have the significance of a flea
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
How does it feel?
To be a girl,
And to bleed,
Whenever we create
Something beautiful.
The dunce cap
Fills the void;
Where the crown should be.
Life grew
And fed, from these *******
Now ripped apart,
Pieces of shame.
Judas’s Cradle,
Destroyed our flesh.
Left us humiliated,
Like Lady Godiva
Hours of ******
From impalement
In spite of Eve
Whom bit the apple.
Hot irons,
Through vitality’s tunnel
To fallow the holy book,
The Malleus Maleficarum.
Confession induced stoning
Drowning, burning
Just to be whipped like animals
For social bonding.
The battles of power
With the entertainment of ****
Still two Hundred years of
Forced sterilization.
A pear of anguish,
For the miscarriages
A coffin,
For the son.
Who can be civil?
When survival
Even today,
Is about exploitation.
A dowry for obstetric fistula,
In Pakistan.
Under the union of god’s will,
Of course.
The ****** test
Out lives the Bison,
Only still being bred
For the hunt
Mutilation for those,
In Southern Sahara.
Huge abscesses,
To cover the curse.
The breaking wheel
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
\\\\\\\\\\___------/////////
Sitting in the blue-grey stillness
Of my bathroom
Temperature set to make a perfect
balance
between hot and cold.
Except I am leaning on the cold side,
Prickly hairs.
Porcelain bowls,
cupids, angels,
catholic saints,
preasthood,
Angelic ivory
white
toilet bowl
Stained with our animal ****
Over time creating cracks
Of filthy streaks
Just like
how humans carve into
the Earth,
Denying our birth,
Killing our worth,
By overstuffing
our girth
To hide our
true nature.
Ivory bowl
I have just released my blood to you
Blood of my ancestors
Sacred blood
Blood pasted down
in this lineage.
Deep, deep
womb blood
Blood of mistakes.
Blood of stupid conversations and lies
I lived.
Blood of my dear dear
Precious baby
Blood of shame
Further ingrained
Into this white ivory
perfection.
Blood of the savage within me
Crying to break out
While I stand stout
And pull my bow
Tighter and tighter
Sharpen the peaks
Of my fake smile.
I'm happy
I'm happy
I'm normal, normal,
Normal!!!
While inside drums cry
To be beaten
Battles rage on
in explosive contemplation
My bodies ovulation
Of fertile
Formation
....
Then the immunization
..
I try to move to the beat of the nation
But it's a boring station
Feeling my souls frustration
With this numbing radiation.
The baby in my body wails
I am NOT(!!!!)
To be born
To a ship that
fails
The sails.
I am sitting on this
Cloy toilet bowl,
a mirage of all that's wrong
Ring wrought
Fought
rung wrong
Throughout me.
I've been living so long
Killing my song
Killing my dear
Sweet, sweet baby
Hiding demons behind flesh
An obsess
to hide the less
Only ever the best
The best, best,
Best, Best!!
And now I sit,
In porcelain stillness
A full release of the wild woman
woven deep in my bones and blood
Now I sit
Smothering myself
in the mud
I was born in.
Once too ashamed to accept the actuality
of this physical form.
Now I sit
In the silence after
The storm.
Miscarriages, miconceptions
Flopped contraceptions
Illusions, lost directions
Miscarriage means:
a foiled outcome
Of something planned,
Lost dreams,
So strongly bound
Into my bone.
Now I'm feeling
Alone.
They say you must be empty to be free...
Pulling the scattered pieces
Off of the wall
Reshaping after
The fall
Courage. Courage.Courage
COURAGE!!!!
Courageous heart
How I let you fall apart
I'm here
I'm now
I'm ready
to grow
Run free
run strong
And let blossom
The seeds
you sow.
--thank you--
.. sweet blood..
.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 1:21 AM UTC
Dry scents linger in paralyzed air,
Creeping bony fingers,
A comforting specter, and a reminder of home,
But the sky's children freeze before they're born.
Miscarriages of moisture,
Nurturing nectar gone sour,
You will provide nothing.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
These days are desperate times.
Persephone wandered too deep into the woods
And the earth has produced only miscarriages in the second trimester.
I’m full-grown curled up in the womb and it’s lost it’s warm.
I’m a child curled up in the womb and the walls are worn.
I swim at the junction of Acheron and Cocytus
Desperately trying to reach the shore,
But the currents far too strong.
Growing furious, I spot my family paying the fare
To board the ferry from Long Island to Connecticut.
I am torn asunder and the pieces dissolved
Into the cold morning air like evaporating dew.
My eyes fall upon a bright red bird, flying in a gyre,
Singing praises to it’s open wings, above a pyre.
The wood burns, carbonizing the soil to start the cycle
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
What silly friends I have,
so busy and active,
always losing their virginity,
getting into fights,
having miscarriages,
running away from home.
So far away they are and they
come to me to confess but I
am no priest. I am not even Catholic!
And yet, with no routineness,
no certainty,
no schedule,
they come back to me to confess
everything they feel they have done wrong.
And all I can do is try not to be parent-like
in my advice and responses because I fear
nothing more than turning them away.
*No, I'm not disappointed, just promise me
you'll be careful, okay?*
And all I can hope is that they are careful
because I will do nothing but worry about
every little thing they do and it will stay on
my heart and I will remember that no one
knows but
me and
them and
Him.
Dear god, it must **** to be a priest.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
" you’re a walking expression" he said confidently, his head tilted on it’s axis, gazing downward into the wine that he swirled so violently. i felt a little empty. he was handsome. i could see the winged tips of his ribcage protrude toward me whenever he stretched or adjusted his posture. "lately i feel like i’m always having miscarriages with my creativity." i said, my eyes transfixed on the miniture hurricane of burgundy. "like i’m there, everything is correct and pure and plentiful- and then it just kinda crumbles halfheartedly back into chemistry". i never say things like this. he nodded wistfully. i couldn’t tell if it was forced or not. he followed it by adding some statement more profound than my own and suggested that we head out into the night. it was getting late. i nodded lightly a few times and began to clumsily button my flannel up across my flat chest and noticed him staring strongly at me across the table. "you know" he smiled, zipping up his coat, "any woman can look **** getting undressed, but it takes a charming one to carry the same effect while putting on clothes.” i laughed, admired the wit, wondered if the line was borrowed, felt nauseous, carried on.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
the ceiling i now wear my eyes up
plastic black garbage bags and the rainbows fuse
wood-stock, bare beams and studs fixed with lines from dried
desiccate nails poked through
on
Milwaukee Avenue the miscarriages of newer child abuse shows through
characters worth keeping close are quieter than I'd choose, the mean grifters are so loud it's trying too hard to be obtuse. Anyone can be an ***
but my assholedom is strained from confusion and too much use. Underneath the mountains inside a record box, I only want to live where you're a fixture and a friend. My fingertips are bent, I can sew, I can write, I can breathe inside your mouth if you'll allow me too.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
*I don't like what I see
when I look in the mirror
I stand there holding myself*
*Sometimes I'll place my hands on my hips
and move from side to side
turning this way or that
grabbing at my behind
pulling it up
seeing how it'd look
if it were plumper
like them girl's in the videos*
*Sometimes I grab a handful of my belly
or **** it in and see how I'd look
if I could just get over this 14 year baby weight
and all the pounds
I've gained from my last few miscarriages.*
*I know stress plays a role
I eat when stressed
I eat my depression and eat when sad or on my cycle
I love to eat and love food
but it's truly never been my reason for this weight
burdening me down*
*I lost my will to move
to walk or work out
lost my drive to fight or even speak out
I went from working and going to school
staying busy
to doing only bits here and there that I have to do*
*I can't be bothered
don't even want to
I'll lay here and not move
long as I can*
*I've stayed in a runt for so long
I'm talking years felt so low
and haven't dug our yet
and I know for me
this depressions a killer
it's got me defeated
beaten down
so low I never wanna be loved again...*
*As I stand in front of this mirror
I hate what's become of me
my pessimistic behavior
and ideology of what love should be
seems like its not meant for me
I hate looking at myself
I hate seeing my luscious curves
my ample succulent *******
*I only currently
like my long hair
that goes to my shoulders
for this chocolate cocoa skin
it seems so out of place
people wonder if its a weave
and not my own
but this is all home grown
yet and still*
*I just like who I am as a person & represent
not my physical appearance
not only because I have a "good hair"
for a black girl
I'm ONLY black
yet
I'm proud of my heritage
I'm black and Puerto Rican
but who cares*
*Funny how my shape for others
is just right
&
for me it isn't
I don't have that j.lo figured*
*I don't look like a Nicki Minaj
how do I look?
I um well I look just like me
but seems I can't find someone who'd
conquered my heart
and own it
take care of it as they should....*
***One day I'll get tired of my self loathing
work out
and the World
will be impressed
but not
as much as ME!***
*Copyright ©
Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-Present
All right reserved*
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
I think, therefore I am.
(5) the possible poems lurk about, here a title,
there a verse without a home, and, despite
cogitating brings no fusion, no unity or home
heading, where the sigh of conjoining both
brings mental ******** organic relief, worth.
(6) the temperature now cool regularity, enough that
a distinctive line crossed, setting from Cool to Heat,
an inflection point of persona, weather, aging,
daytime whispers can no long be avoided,
a choral crescendo, delayed by lazy summer illusions
that permitted us to put off abnormal life as normal.
(7) I think, therefore I am, but I do not feel,
sufficiently, therefore I write a title here,
verse there, but no poem completes because,
as I update my list of people I worry about, I am,
ineffectively yours, lacking answers for you, in all
our present tenses, some of you are on it, even if no notification
sent, selfishly pondering if my name appears on someones list
*ah, these miscarriages of miscellaneous mumbles don’t
qualify as worthwhile, so I pre-apologize for wasting your time
trying, pushing myself to go from thinking, of you, so, therefore
you exist, but if I cannot give you the feelings deserved, then,
what good am I?*
conundrum.
11:26 AM Sat Oct 10
2020
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 11:39 AM UTC
Hi my name is Cardiomyopathy.
I'm 2 years old and I've already had 3 miscarriages.
A run in with alcohol abuse, drug abuse, my noose apparent.
Loose and daring met cruel and caring,
They used to laugh now but cry later loved sharing.
So much for monogamy. Did I mention my name is Cardiomyopathy?
I'm 2 years old with a mild case of marital affairs gone wrong. My mind used to tell me this house is no home.
Careless.
I played dodge ball in a glass house with stones.
Broken.
No real insurance, the love that ensured this.
Was gone.
Every piece of male that she opened, she failed...To pay attention.
Homeless and senseless.
Hopeless romantic my alias. Cardiomyopathy my condition.
Medicated dedication to relieve side effects called intuition.
Treatment unknown and remains at the throne of my wish list.
I'm only two years old. With the stress of a twenty two year cold. Lovely fevers that shake bones that create moans of twisted passion.
My addiction had grown afflicted with my stress and cold madness.
Ah-choo! to be cold Adieu to meek moans.
In retrospect. Mistress was a side downer fueled by sadness, so this cold could live long and wreak havoc; As long as it numbed me.
Recovery at my fingertips and once I'm healthy and bubbly,
The realization that will **** me will be the fact that haunts me...
You never loved me.
I choose to be cold.
My name is Cardiomyopathy. I'm only 2 years old.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
My mind is a trick-seed sprouting in me
Runners wide run in rich but shallow soil
Each birthing things that were not meant to be
Deserted, parched they die as I recoil
A false womb am I and guilty tears shed
Over false dreams buried in open graves
Who will come to avenge the wanton dead
The miscarriages flow in scarlet waves
‘Had you but fed us,’ each cries out, ‘you could
Now reap.’ As weeds they rise from their dark holes
And invading, choking out new crops would
Paralyze this befuddled, barren soul
Who can supplant the worming roots, their cry
And fate other than death my dreams supply?
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
My moods drain me down
To some immoderate sluice-gate,
They run down the grainy windows,
Clog the sand in the top of the hour-glass
Like bat's tears, like misplaced rainstorms
Looking for a cloud to hang out under.
All my temperaments are accidental,
Wrongly placed; too early or too late
Miscarriages of intention,
Predicaments of inattention.
All the inconsequential moments I inhabit,
I'm wearing thin, from changing my mind too often-
Why is there no groove for thinking,
No energy-saving secret gear?
Sometimes I sit absolutely still
In an uncomfortable position,
Hoping the powers that be will notice me;
Will see that I'm going nowhere, so slowly
And they will send some tempest to help move me along.
I'm also afraid they will send change;
The paralytic not only can't move,
He knows he can never move,
And his biggest fear
Is being thought capable of movement.
In that rapid swirling down the drain,
He wants someone to snag him on a branch,
Save and reclaim his manhood;
Not sit in a tree and watch him spiraling,
While repeating over and over,
Why don't you save yourself?
He knows it's too late for words;
The tears only add to the swelling river.
And if once I thought there was a savior on every corner,
I guess I just got tired of waiting-
Because the ones in the mirror only close their eyes now.
Normalcy both appalls and comforts me-
Why does it all appear so average,
As you go sprawling head first over the falls:
You know nobody elses life will change one iota,
And you know you're just paying some bill
You never even saw.
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 4:32 PM UTC
Another week over and my eyelids are drooping as I type this.
They say that
success is in reach if you just tell yourself you can do it,
But see, I've told myself to reach for success but whenever I look I only find failures
With skelatons as gifts because I always try to get my hopes up and they end up being miscarriages of the mind,
I dropped the ball on the touchdown line
Missed the layup
Failed the class
They say success is in reach if you tell yourself you can do it.
I found that failure is more common
That disorders of the mind that go from A
to C instead of making a B line for the right answer
leaves me to believe that the work we do can only take a lot of back breaking work
and struggles and pain and late nights doing all you can to succeed and,
realizing that the dreams you dream
lead to something
Because failure leads to something too
It leads to droopy eyes and morning reflections
and doing your best to get out of bed to revel in your failures because
you will succeed.
Just keep going
Keep running
Spreading your wings as your learning what flying means from jumping
from the nest without the parachute because
we all know life is a sky full of possibilities.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 7:21 PM UTC
You didn’t get the chance to breathe fresh air.
You didn’t get the chance to hold my hand.
You didn’t get the chance to meet your dad.
You didn’t get the chance to meet all the people who were excited to see you.
You didn’t even get the chance to tell the world hello.
You were in my belly for 12 weeks.
I didn’t learn about you till week 5 but I loved you all the same.
Your dad and I were so excited, and we did everything we were supposed to.
We got you a crib and clothes, even though we never got the chance to find out your gender.
We were just so happy we finally got pregnant.
Not enough tears could fill the void you once held in my belly.
We didn’t get the chance to know your gender.
We didn’t get the chance to hold you in our arms.
We didn’t get the chance to name you.
We didn’t get the chance to paint your room.
I had a miscarriage.
It just wasn’t our time.
Miscarriages **** emotionally, physically, and mentally.
The only thing that keeps me going is knowing my grandma is up there holding a new angel in her arms.
You were going to be born in a world of love.
I can’t help but blame myself.
Maybe my body wasn’t healthy enough?
Maybe I ate something I wasn’t supposed too?
Everyone keeps telling me it isn’t my fault,
But the thoughts are still there.
I just wish I could have held you,
At least once.
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 6:35 PM UTC
I called her tiger Lilly
As she favored clothes with stripes
But I did not back away in fear
when she flashed her pearly whites.
There’s a chapel on the campus
And we both so liked to sing
There was just one little problem
Lilly wore another’s ring.
She’d been six months separated
From her lawful wedded mate.
She’d suffered two miscarriages
Things between them weren't great.
It still of course was possible
That they might work it out
But I found myself falling
Every time she was about..
We started sharing moments
At the ballpark and the shore
As much as we were together
I found myself wanting more.
I told myself its over-
that her man’s not coming back.
She’s a pretty, gracious flower
and a tiger in the sack.
And then one day it ended
Her parents intervened
They forced them back together
We never had our farewell scene.
A year after we’d parted
There was a story in the news
Lilly died in a car accident
Her husband had been stewed.
So every year on that same date
The day I heard you’d died
I lay a Lilly on your grave
It’s from your other guy.
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 10:08 PM UTC
Halloween at Camp LeJuene
So those storage tanks
the ads of late-night-- all talkin' about
some thirty-five years a-leaking like...
some aplastic benzene-apocryphal river
Horror!
tastes like chemo Kool Aide
forever in the mouth
washing over parade route
seeping into boots and wombs
of cadets who can't hear the music
over a child's laughter-- ever
over failing livers
lined up like lawyers marching
onto glyphosate green
to Parkinsonian cheers
to Taps-solos echoeimg off the stone-
of mind and memory
Flags!
Flapping-angry!
“No (wo)man left behind
on the multiple ways to myeloma
Miscarriages
of justice!
A silence waiting
an eternity
of tiny infant cries
emptying....
into Love Canal
There will be...
NO JUSTICE!
Only billions set aside
for funeral-ic devastation
“Significant compensation”
--being read in a woman's face
in a woman's voice
“...suffering from any of these....
after drinking the water at Camp Le Juene”
at the hands-down
heads-turned
greased palms of
silence
being owned
by military-corpporate
“channels”
of secrecy
...of Pharma-to-government
medical-backwaters
laundered to-governments
of banana republics
Mercenery chemicals
Medicine with missile launchers
strewn
among military over-runs of...
…of high power rifles,
night goggles, and F-15s
What am I missing here?
...about the rubbery clots and myocarditis?
Has it finally come round to us?
How could I not see!
not recall?
How many years ago--
since I could hear?
the rapid fire!
“The toxic Leaks!”
“...suffered from any of these...”
...feeding tube terrors
Time's tumors
downgrade to errors
deferred...
Now beside the grief as amputees
--take the field of parade
While Misplaced Rage
pages through abortions of blame
in the chemical caldron
where they **** shower, and shave
...then towel-dry their babies
or not....
Where are the rapid-fire rats and bats
when we need 'em?
Semper Fi!
Nov 29, 2022
Nov 29, 2022 at 10:12 PM UTC
Envisioning revisions
Singing broken rhythms
Carrying misgivings about miscarriages
Disparaging pigeons
White speckled calling cards hardly
Invoke the Bard of North Korea
I be your favorite poetic stylist
Freely beguiling smiling at the Wailing Wall
Rotary phone call shopping mall sneakers
Tweekers in Arby’s bathroom break
Picking faces like lottery scratchers
Meekly begging change with blank expressions
Did I mention we offer refreshments?
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC