Best Postpartum Poems
Annotated Achilles amends fallen frame amputees
Bulimic Barbies browse media monkey banalities
Cameo clouds cling to beaded breath curios
Dopamine dreams delineate check cash desires
Echo endophfins eulogize bullet brain excrement
Fecal folly fantasies reveal relevant frivolities
Gonadal grownups gulp secret scrotal generosities
Helical hemorrhoids hinder senior stricken hemocraps
Idiotic ideals idioiosyncrate postpartum iconoclasts
Jack Jill juxtapositories seek sexestential jouveniers
Kryptic killer kisses ascot arrogant kingdumbs
Liquid lipid loiners fear frontline lucklullibies
Malevolent mommies masterbate rich reflective mommocules
Nevertheless nightingales nourish ruby rich noonbeams
Ovulatory occults outsource torrent tofu outrages
Pensive pisces picnics lovelorny passions
***** quiet quintensials release rancid quotients
Rape ripe residuals nullify nimble repercussions
Silky seafoam silhouettes fornicate frothy sandlets
Tepid torch trilogies belie belligerent tourniquets
Useless utterances utilize organize orgasmic utopias
Venomous vixens violate cruel.com visions
White willow wombs softly seed hospice hell winds
XX XY xfactors envision extracurricular xraydoms
Yearning yoyo yesterdays calculate clearcovert yields
Zen zealous zions mirror magnify Zoneotones
Categories:
postpartum, analogy, beautiful, body, corruption,
Form:
ABC
As the Dime Store sirens flared
bolts of irradiated invite,
my query was denied.
Their pimp-striped pilots only moaned,
their lust fueled by encapsulated
stench carried only by toothless carnies
from the canyons. Canyons o’ Crazed Confliction.
And behind… the dull dynamo hum.
I screamed for the Kelp Queen to come to me,
her tresses woven wave-like in the wabe.
My demands were simple.
The scars of the trucker's she must carry
(as war carries death)
for inbreeding has tainted her line.
“Can Omaha be far?” she pleaded
and tugged at my inter-ache
as tin balloons tug with time .
“For you?” I replied in a
flatulent belch.
The boiling madness was by now
beyond the horizon but kept in check
still by the neon dogs crouching by day under the interchange.
It is they who will now stalk the disease plagued ports
I sailed from so many
days
and
images
ago.
Until her kleptic crew of vagrants and priests
sprint with me in postpartum harmony.
Hipsters for TRUTH.
Categories:
postpartum, dream, fantasy, imagery, nonsense,
Form:
Narrative
Mommy, don't be upset
When they say how you should stand, sit and eat
While I munch on your blood and meat.
Just don't be upset
When they advise you on when I should be fed.
You alone know when my tummy needs bread
Mommy, don't be upset
When they say I was born lean or bulky, dark or fair
And force home remedies and weird aftercare
Just don't be upset
When they judge you for the cuts on your belly
Or the amount of milk generated by your body.
Don't be upset
When they rebuke you for keeping me on diapers
Or nag about your choices right from mittens to rompers.
I know how you guarded me for nine months
Every time I kicked from inside, your heart went nuts
When my poor latching has hurt your nipples,
I felt the wetness of your tears on my nerves.
We ate and slept together
We screamed and sang together
I was in your belly and you were in my blood
To meet each other, we worked as a team and laboured.
Now, who are they to make you feel low?
No, whatever they say doesn't help us grow.
Just don't be upset, Mommy.
We'll do only that, what is best for us!
Categories:
postpartum, birth, judgement, mother,
Form:
Rhyme
The White House is on a great lot
It's Washington's drive to it spot
But guards only train
That terror's to contain
So mentally ill there get shot
Author's note: The new treatment for postpartum depression is now a firing squad.
Categories:
postpartum, bereavement,
Form:
Limerick
Just a month ago I had a new baby brother. I play
with him a lot, but I'm really concerned about my
mother.
She really gets upset when she can't calm baby
from his cries. She tells me she's okay, but I
see sorrow in her eyes.
I'm really young so I don't know...this is my confession.
So I ask daddy what's wrong with mom, "Postpartum
depression."
Not knowing what that means, I say, "Okay," and go
my way. I go to my room and with my toys I begin
to play.
Daddy comes in and hugs me hard, I shout out, "Dad,
that hurt!" "Sorry, just wanted to show that I love you
before I'm off to work."
Later in the day, here I am playing in my room. I
hear the baby crying, but suddenly silenced by a
boom.
I hear my mom crying, she then lets out a wicked
roar. The baby has died, he was thrown violently
to the floor.
I'm weeping and wailing, "Why mom?! What did you do
that for?!" She's going off, she's screaming, "I can't
take this anymore!"
She then starts for me, but I run and hide under the
bed. I'm thinking, "She killed my brother and now...
now she wants me dead."
"For the nine months I carried you," She screams "I
thought you were the end of my sorrow. Now I regret
having you. You will not live to see another tomorrow!"
Suddenly I'm grabbed by the legs. She pulls me from
under my bed. She then grabs a pillow and proceeds
to put it over my head.
I'm screaming. I'm crying, "Mom, please let me go!" I
hear her faint voice shouting, "No, for you to have to
go!"
I'm losing my breath. My cries turn to silent sighs. Now
I know how it feels when one is about to die.
My body goes limp. I can no longer fight, there's nothing
left. "What did I do to deserve this?" I have just taken
my last breath.
This was a fictional story, but in the real world this
could be true. Mom, if you ever think of hurting your
baby, then listen, I'm talking to you.
This mother murdered her children, then proceeded to take
her own life. Leaving a grieving husband alone, crying
night after night.
This may be harsh of a poem, but to you, let this be a
lesson. Go and seek help if you are suffering from
postpartum depression.
Categories:
postpartum, childhood, depression, familybaby, me,
Form:
Thirty minutes later. Two a.m. and I'm still here, I haven't forgotten......
Thirty minutes, tears are racing, creating clock hands that point to the edge of my chin,
trembling, my bones point only to the end and you, you're more than
thirty minutes late.
Screaming, I'm slashing my heart to bits, forty minutes now you've been screaming.
Forty minutes later, you've broken, me, I'm well aware of what happens to mothers..
postpartum...
and I paid for you, I paid for you for twenty-seven months and forty-five minutes
late
is only slightly too much for me to
bear.
You're not accepting this, your eyes are popping, Dear, there's blood dripping from your
glances and for
seventeen minutes and 17 days I've been twisting us into nothing while you've smiled at
me, I've been writing the truth that will shut you down...
you're illiterate, you're criss-crossing my statements into lies and my letters are
running from you...
they've been running for months now, back into my mouth to feel the safety of my tongue until
I kiss you
forty-five minutes
late.
Your steps are tick-tocking and Edger Allen Poe couldn't have saved us, underneath the
floorboards at night while I feel the insanity of time...
attack
what's left of me,
you're not doing this this time around, you're late and I'm trapped inside Tuesday, but
it's March now, Dear, and the years since we first kissed are counting themselves to four,
I'm serious about the edges that I've been sanding past midnight, I've saved the sawdust
for you
so you can eat the corners of me
next time your mouth opens, I've saved
myself
twenty-seven months
and thirty minutes
late
but I figure, as the words dance, frightened, on my tongue, at least I'm here
at least I'm thirty minutes ahead
of you.
Categories:
postpartum, love, timetime,
Form:
Free verse
The Chicken Crossed the Road or Did It
For centuries mankind has explored the reason why
The chicken crossed the road
They could not be satisfied, oh no
With the question that came first; what came first?
The chicken or the egg?
I guess we are cursed to analyze this one for eternity
Here are some other ideas to fathom for free;
The chicken crossed half the road
The other part was not to be
As the road to success is always under construction
The chicken was busy being born and busy dying
So it walked away crying
It became bored,tired, suicidal waiting for a bus
It went looking for a truck
It crossed to escape tyranny and other silly things
It got lost with the fog…or frog…. whatever came to be
It crossed the road solely to return
To confuse us… Was it coming or going?
There is substantial supportive evidence to suggest
It was suffering from postpartum direction
The chicken crossed the road, according to reliable sources
Other sources stated and reported
The road crossed it
I wonder what’s for dinner?
Chicken of course
Categories:
postpartum, adventure, confusion, education, food,
Form:
Didactic
a biafra child
who didn't eat
air filled stomach
echoed drums we beat
SAVE THE CHILDREN!
a phase we repeat
a soldier's limb
has returned from war
tears from loved ones
who expected more
WE WANT PEACE!
hangs on every door
postpartum depression
is the new excuse
to kill the child
suffering from abuse
WHERE'S THE JUSTICE!
what's the use
villages of genocide
mercenaries rape and rob
stolen booty
benefits of the job
HANDS ACROSS THE WORLD!
to catch the tears we sob
streets littered with vials
of the newest drug craze
while we laugh it off
as just another phase
SAY NO TO DRUGS!
as we idolize purple haze
another homeless man died
a horse with no name
pulling the plow of poverty
we hang our heads in shame
SHELTER THE HOMELESS!
animals of cardboard boxes fame
corruption at every level
robbing its citizen's blind
the constant trickling down
leave two pennies hard to find
SUPPORT YOUR GOVERNMENT!
democracy of a different kind
then there are those
the ones who understand
the poet's of the world
bringing beauty to a hapless land
MY BEAUTIFUL UNIVERSE!
has been created by your hand.....
Bob Shank-Oct. 21st, 2006
Dedicated to all the poet's
throughout the world, who
through their words make
life livable....write on!, Peace
Categories:
postpartum, life, people, sad, drug,
Form:
Rhyme
Born into an ordinary, churchgoing family
No one expected Satan to reign supreme
Relapse and rehab and sobriety chips
Postpartum vacations in the psych ward’s west wing
Three decades of life, aged twice as much
Finally lulled into domestic bliss
The wild can never truly be tamed
Excitement and fire I missed
Turned my passion of life toward writing instead
Cause 50 years old is too young to be dead
Sponsor: Silent One
Contest: Story of My Life in Ten Lines
Date: 9/30/19
Categories:
postpartum, life,
Form:
Blank verse
Tis a cruel twist of fate
When in love a child is born;
What once was love becomes hate
When fruit of union she doth scorn.
Categories:
postpartum, loss, philosophy, sad, love,
Form:
Rhyme
He would never forget the raindrops knocking on his coffin,
painfully screaming in a postpartum (from life) depression,
nor would he forget the stiffness of his entire body
banging on the wood as the carriage was hurried
along the cracked pavement on the streets
of the Holy Land to the cheapest and closest "Ash House".
He had never imagined what the future would bring to him,
now, when the latest experience in physical death
had been caused by simply the absolute lack of love.
He didn't react too much to the beatings and mutilations of the hysterical fat maniacs,
self-proclaimed highnesses in control of a whole degenerated generation.
He still remembered though the permanent hunger of the soul
and the love he had never experienced.
Adnan was not a fighter anymore.
It was time to move on and die for a while...
But then...
for Gareth's Contest: "Leave Me Hanging"
www.scripca.com
Categories:
postpartum, life, loss
Form:
Narrative
A red clock and the dwarf
will not meet on the wall.
Time slips out in virginal shyness.
On the verge of collapse was
an ossified civil group
after emotive conception fails.
Unambiguously an azure
sky measures the human steps
in somnambulant thoughts.
You throw a bound kid
in a water tank, after postpartum blues
and walk away with a halter.
Who will grab the fractured
age, during the fire dance?
A mirror lies flat after announcing the award.
Satish Verma
Categories:
postpartum, art,
Form:
ABC
America was born in protest violence,
but Lady Liberty now has
postpartum memento —
A colonial, hypocritical condition called:
Revoltee Protestation Amnesia
Wavy umbilical vanished memories,
of destructive actions ~ Terrible justification deeds
needed to break the bond of perceived tyranny
Swaddled in a dissent slogan banner,
her Revolution baby
first words uttered were:
“No taxation without representation”
Shedding musket tears
of colonial employ,
the charter tyke was weaned on
East India Company tea
But the parliamentary shackles
of free speech
assembly oppression
hurt America Revolution baby’s
neck too much
She couldn’t breathe liberty
as fetter such
Swift economic growing pains
bare witness how
the colonial child's voice changed
Words of pretty mild dissent
turned protest ugly
Her juvenile behavior
developed bosom rage violently
It kindled a revolt-tea dumpster fire
At the righteous protestation
adolescent phase,
the Revolutionary young lady
riot-tossed
into the Boston harbor
the British tea
Utter-ly destroying property of the E. India company
Oh, how the Revolution woman-child’s
anger burned —
Torch subtle as volatile voices often be
In Native American disguise,
she killed collaborative officials,
who worked for
the England government subsidiary
And when the fiery rage of her
riotous vexation
died down
This famous act of violence
subsequently became
protest
praiseworthy
renown
My, ooh my: Violence never was so romanticized!
What a violent birther story,
wouldn’t you agree
But now a few hourglasses
filled with Crown Royal ambrosia:
America has drunken pride,
blackout deeds of protest amnesia
At the ripe age of whine maturity,
the Revolution contrary woman now do flag foreswear
she’s peacemaker toting as can be
Cursed be her revolt-tea dumpster fire, blackout memories
So don’t you darkie dare,
with grievance sidearms raised,
try to protest violently
Ain’t it funny how,
with memento frowns,
hypocrites forget so easily
Categories:
postpartum, america, history, philosophy, political,
Form:
Narrative
aswirl within tremendous maelstroms
universal united uninhabitable cauldron
tempered with analogous:
outrageous, portentous
thunderous cacophony in tandem
with thick mucilaginous fog
metaphorically postpartum
nebulous placenta afterbirth
and/or proto planets aborted
per primordial material
slowly (millions of years) coalescence
annealed bubbling primeval soup
engendering (extant
via immeasurably immense stretches of time)
subsequent birth of quasi solar systems
where antediluvian cosmic midwife prepped
quintessential biochemical laboratories
across gamut of space
inexorably incurring, inviting, inuring
pseudo plasmatic phenomenal possibilities
vaguely concatenating, incubating,
nursing inhospitable
wryly, wrought-fully,
write-fully Weltanschauung
respective environmental, geological,
meteorologically rendered seething broth
conglomerations fused inchoate legions
of Ongepatchket protean quixotic
rudimentary shapeless threads
winding up at greased lightening
eventually simmering temperature
thousands of degrees
conducive for indefatigable living organisms
congealing despite galactic Golem
whiplashing microbial unicellular entities
subjecting globular linkedin progenitors
across the countless eons
where hellacious heat gave way to
punks like cool and the gang
drafted heady lagers produced
thickly *** bergs exceptionally humungous ice
hundreds of millions years ago Arctic vortex
preserved intact forebears of this writer
who still retains
one percent genetic Neanderthal Man
stock, lock and barrel.
Categories:
postpartum, 10th grade, 11th grade,
Form:
Epic
I have no time Melinda argues
You need to take time for you, we tell her.
I am way to busy! She shrieks.
She is on her own last nerve.
We see it.
One aunt says she will watch the two-year-old twins.
A great-grandma offers to take the new baby home for the day.
Grandma wants to do her laundry.
We are all rebuffed.
Melinda is the only one who can do any of that.
She is frazzled, frenzied, and frantic.
We have seen postpartum before.
You really need to take some time for yourself we tell her.
A doctor’s visit might be in the works.
I am too busy! Melinda argues. “I cannot see a doctor!”
We are at a loss.
We cannot force a grown woman to take time for herself.
To relax, take a bath, play soft music.
Sadly, her entire family is suffering now.
Categories:
postpartum, women,
Form:
Free verse