Best Fecundity Poems
I paced placidly along picturesque pathways,
Around the vast verdant valley that led nowhere.
Oh Debbie, my Debbie, disappeared in thin air!
I'll search and I'll search and mutter a prayer,
I texted her and called her, but alas all seemed in vain.
Ah Debbie, my Debbie, I shouted her name.
All echoed back at me. still, I yearn for her love.
I imagined her hot lips, lingering on mine,
Yet she escaped me and flew like a rock dove,
But why, oh why? We fitted like a glove.
The blissful breeze blew through the cottonwoods,
"I'm here! I'm here!" Her voice echoed impulsively,
Elated I searched among the trees near a river.
I saw her there, beneath the willow, seductively.
I ran and hugged her tight, with all our fecundity.
Earth
Mono syllables are potent
But are best left untouched
They call for a gargantuan grasp.
For this monumental mono
Commonplace,though
With a contemporary spin,
A monologue just wont do.
And without a twin,
Its original ware ,hard and soft ,
Ever a win-win
Holder of holocausts
Moulder of magnificence
Fairly fed on presaging gods
Fielding primordial fate
Flourishing and floundering
Female-male fecundity
Llipid life limpet like stuck
In non- finite lines, measured out
And treasured nonetheless
In miles and guiles,
Millennia and manias
Form: Freeverse
3 May 13
S.Jagathsimhan Nair
For Giorgio's ' Impress me-5' contest.
Motif: Philosophical, old poem
AFRICA
O beautiful woman,
Africa,
Admirable woman of
the tropic,
O lustre of the
earth bathed with
sunlight,
Today and ever
I bask in your warm
delightful bosom!
Black woman, fine
nature’s artwork
From primeval
antiquity;
Well-endowed ‘scape,
heaved backside
Sitting on a vast
plateau
Washed from all
sides by
Lakes, seas and
oceans!
Black beauty,
enrobed in lush
greenery,
Crowned with the
star;
Round her neck and
waist line
Adorned with
precious coral,
Gold, pearl, diamond
and sapphire!
Oko mi, whose
fecundity
Has flourished the
earth with life
Where faunae find
their natural home
And hominids take
their root!
O Mami, let your
soil be where
I spring up
And my remains form
your dust
On which aliens
would ever tramp
To behold your
charm!
Itsoghole.
by Michaelw1two
The bard, the muse, the low versifier,
each the times bemoan;
stressed by compassion's grasp,
ingrained word sown life disowns;
individualist rare, previews minds mood,
frigid wills he does discern;
insurrection, a thought held vast,
implied truth's, tout one’s dishonor.
Prerogative, free your chained mind,
release past stain despotic;
concomitant imbroglio once bound,
faces now this world chaotic;
temporal truth outweighs want,
life’s bliss questions idea quixotic;
perceptivity palpable eoan,
entwined societal gist, riddle semiotic.
Incessant proves life’s filature,
its touch, binds each into account;
emblements, an inedible gruel,
thought as fruit, abstruse keynote;
historicity, prime number obscured,
self’s augmentative connote;
coincibency jesting theft,
petitio principia, intones snidely cantor.
Initiates, anew in words from blood,
long of mindfulness and mores;
misconstrue one’s meanderings,
as logical crazes, fecundity ignores;
interpretation, ideas coalesce,
worked verse provides the Id amore’;
contradictions, fuel creative trysts,
twisted thoughts, this art restores.
Orient then one’s psyche appetent,
as present wanes benignly;
dupery thrives, flexile ideas hide,
within abderian punning finery;
circumscribe in self perspicacity,
release your jocularity divinely;
sagaciousness poetic ruse,
a mendicants muse, his true babblery.
Jan 2010
I
Some poems write themselves
Maureen McGreavey excels in pithy poetry
So I do not love writing them, sometimes
II
When the Holy Spirit showed me a contrast
Luke 1, a priest prayed for a son (Elizabeth & Zechariah)
When Gabriel brought the good news, he doubted:
"How can this be true. I am old; my wife advanced in age.")
Zechariah was punished, but Mary was rewarded her asking:
"How can this be, I have not known a man?" Truth: innocence!
Zechariah was shut up for 9 months, until he said, "John!"
The name of the son Elizabeth bore, the forerunner of cousin Jesus -
Mary's faith stood not on education, nor upon reading ...
When Gabriel said, "The Spirit will overcome you as you bring
Forth the Hope of Israel: His name is 'YESHUA: God our Salvation!'" -
It stood on simple faith; faith comes by hearing (His Name) Amen
III
We have this treasure in earthen vessles, or jars of clay ...
This treasure, saints, THIS TREASURE, the Spirit of God
The Holy Spirit in each believer; Spirit of God's Holiness
Which is the power displayed in the Resurrection
That is why I have optimism about you, Syria, Iran, that nation ...
Because God makes no rejects, only Masterpieces
Who knew? A girl of Nazareth, a peasant, would be "THEOTOKOS"
- The One who carried God in the Womb - staggering ...
No wonder my India once worshipped through the linga-yoni
The Shiva stone representation of reproductivity
To show the fecundity, provision, multiplicity, through God
That power hidden inside the saints as Spirit: to obey
Dare to be a Mary, beyond the issue of gender, womb & phallus
Dare to be a Mary, birth the CHRIST child in you, with Spirit's aid:
After all, we are to be "Little Christs" in an otherwise dark world
IV
When I see the devotion to honor mothers and daughters
That no one (reading) is dead ... yet! I thank my mom, women in my lineage
"What is impossible with men, is possible with God,"
So said Gabriel, the Archangel in Luke chapter 1. Nativity!
The smell of musty damp clothing
held together by the touch of cheap thread.
And rough dogs bred for rabbiting
kept pots filled with law-abiding stew
When rickets craved a bone to bend
and polio bought another set of braces.
To those halcyon times of blinding fog,
lined with lung-enthusing crystalline particles
And when imbibing tap water came with
the added thrill of swimming microbes,
sharing their raging fevers that made
housing booms an unrequired dream
When to walk the alley ways of dog
defecation, showed off the slums at their
best, with gin drinking mothers taking a
daily bashing from even drunker husbands
And children born as part of a fecundity
regime, a numbers game of survival
of the fittest, only recognised as an
individual when past the age of most risk
When losing brothers and sister's along
the way, was barely remembered and
hardly ever affordably mourned. Like a
whisper barely heard or purposefully ignored
Yes, those were the days. Remembered
with sepia fondness and still framed
photos. Of few bleeding hearts and even
fewer charitable acts. Thinking Back is all
The higher the fecundity of hares,
the worse the chance to reconcile their heirs.
Volodymyr Knyr
2014
Isolated peat bog is a lonely place never more so than on a storm-driven night. It's a time when the banshee howls streaking across the land claiming midnight for her own. With hair streaming down her back and garnet eyes alight with malice the manifestation hovers watching and waiting for who knows what. Her age is timeless to all intent and purpose she is a prisoner of time itself.
795 AD
As the Viking longboat pushed its way up the narrow river the Norse warriors were on high alert. Carefully watching the landscape as it passed them by. All was green and fertile the fecundity obvious.
Thora was by this time a battle-hardened shield maiden who had earned her place among the warriors. Ragnar, her soulmate, had been killed during the last raid that took place at Lindisfarne it was a bloody slaughter long, long to be remembered.
As Ragnar lay dying Thora took his sword and made sure it was firmly in his hand Valhalla was assured. She looked forward to the day when they would be reunited. However, her first duty was to the unborn. She cherished the idea of Ragnar's child. It made her more fierce and determined than ever.
The story continues: Invasion Part-Two
Pixabay image Clker free image
the big P
it was in it’s own proud prominence
the path that entered your world
innocent
ruled by beast
brawn
blood
pressed in tensile tension
awakening in sleep
asleep in wakening
a one note song
spewed from a
two sphered voice
spiraling into the fulcrum
of your fecundity
it was in it’s own stuttering singularity
a part pieced partly from
paltry presumptions
petulant pursuits
penetrating into palsy
perturbed then pallid
plucked
pruned
passed
into peculiarity
punctured
pitied
perplexed
into perpetuity
trapped in pubescent possibility
perambulating at the periphery
of your heart
just beyond the miracle
of profundity.
Perfect Poem with Perfection
My perfect poem offers an opportunity
For us to unite and end up with unity.
My Haiku.
Poem proclivity
Perfect opportunity
For fecundity.
Believe you and me
With no negativity
Much better will be.
Each other behoove
Middle is where we must move
Then start to improve.
Are finally free
And not in impunity
Now that we agree.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
this middle aged rue stirring bummer
haint no stranger to cold,
when dark hen stormy wintry days
eggs hit from Arctic portal en fold
ding Atlantic Seaboard
in a blizzard of bitterly, blindingly, and
brutally sub zero temperatures
from an occasional nor'easter
fiercely gripping hold
the majority years, sans this prolific
recalcitrant scrivener lived
in various and sundry abode
housed within Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
with 19*** zip code,
and during my boyhood recall,
how massive ice sheets did erode
the (then) opened expansive farmland,
in preparation for planting time,
where runnels of frigid water flowed
with childish cheeks exposed to glowed
after hours upon
many a green acre got tilled and hoed
despite feeling energized and refreshed
with arms and legs n'er fro zen
aye didst eagerly await with exuberant yen
kickstarting thy body electric
experiencing hearthstone nook
designed and built by Christopher Wren
after heading indoors counting fingers
and toes to make sure, i still got ten
soon hearing the chorus of fauna,
and floral kaleidoscope of color
aground or taking wing
thus, upon thawing out thoughts
drifted toward approaching spring,
the season revitalizing
dormant natural inhabitants,
whose excite (like mine) didst ping
announcing the debut of fecundity
nsync with screeching from the lizard king.
This Spring Equinox (i.e. man date:
12:15 PM Tuesday,
March twentieth two thousand eighteen)
doth rejuvenate
inviolable hibernating animals
and plants, and me equate
to experience sensation,
whereby entire being does inflate
and (despite marital status),
nonetheless envisions another gal asthma mate
no...no...no...please do not think this chap
mean spirited and under rate
the woman (at present taking a siesta,
and i breathe easy),
who oft times doth henpeck, a trait
inherited many a chic hen
(with tantalizing tail feathers)
now (until she awakens)
proscribing yours truly to wait
for my repast most likely ad hoc
moist ideal for any nerdy kid to knock
senseless, the worst facet of self important jock
consisting of pop slop mock
Hungarian Goulash, a melange
of relics from age old meals
transformed into a petrified sawed little rock.
It sometimes amazes me how a seed of inspiration is translated into poetic
composition...............
Words bubbling
like molten lava
and flowing down a
mountain of creativity.
Ideas flashing into
consciousness, like
comets in the night sky,
begging for durability.
Imagination simmering
in a cauldron of creation,
par-boiled, and waiting
patiently for deliverance.
Verbs verbalised.
Nouns nurtured.
Similes simpatico.
Metaphors metathetical -
all awaiting translation
into metrical form:-
be it iambic verse, rhyme
or sultry sonnet.
An onslaught of inspiration
clambering for attention.
Poetic invention born of
imaginative progression.
Wondrous words!
Artistic expression.
Scintillating syntax.
A palette of calligraphy ....
Words bubbled down
my mountain of creativity.
I have survived the
onslaught of fecundity.
Creation created.
Imagination captured.
Ideas apprehended.
Job done!
After lifting the fingerprints of bloodbath
a bushfire starts, engulfing contradictions,
the gulf between erosion of truth and
survivors appears widening. Tiny ants smell
blood, exfoliation begins, from
nameless earth for the exodus of barefoot,
the epic of tragedy, something in the debris is left
for acetic reminder, a death reunion.
The pain starts the saddest saga of human
suffering, a salt lake melting in each eye and then in
every courtroom the defence for the crimes, bail -
out by the buried dark sniffing of fecundity.
The night wraps me, the land of my birth
haunts in its greenness, the wounded sea bids
refugees to hostile shores, a cracked sun
welcomes the lost umbical cords.
SATISH VERMA
After the rain,
came the smell
of rain
as the earth
vaporized its
pleasure at
its renewed
fecundity
felt deep within.
The musty scent
of dampness
loaded with aromas
and fragrances,
wafted up from
damp organic stuff.
Wetted by drips
and drops, and
scattered splatter spots
daubed on the
parchment of
dryness, the smell
of rain arose,
in a spiral,
curling upward.
Spring dawns at her threshold
blowing away the wintry leaves
from her garden.
She is ,but,little perplexed to choose between
the old,bleak association and the light shining through the dewdrops on new foliage.
Everything around seems a Midas's touch -full of unseen eternal regrets.
It looks vivid and mesmerizing through the streaked window.
she craves for a life and reckons it exists in the obscurity.
A new promise awaits in the fecundity of Spring.