You try to make them civilized and grown-up,
but the words are infants,
they want to crawl around and yell for a bit.
You know that an eye is upon you.
watching you in that whelping room
where creation rearranges molecules
into a planetary system of speech
made of matchsticks and glue.
A poem is about to be splashed,
onto a speeding window of light.
Logic and reason must first
bash their bulbous heads together,
until their mechanical, self-winding brains
fall out.
The collective humming of incubators,
begins to lipread your silence.
A process similar to hand washing.
Eventually a swaddled indigenous form,
unwraps itself,
it begins to walk upright.
Matchsticks and glue
form readable fragments.
You begin to hope,
that someone inside that watching eye
will name what you have done -
even attempt,
to explain it to you.
Categories:
incubators, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Mermaids and Mermen are given a choice you see
Whether to lay eggs or have a live birth in the sea.
Each one makes her wishes known in a dream.
It is promptly granted by the Mermaid Wishing team.
Some choose laying eggs, for it gives more chances.
Many mermaid babies will hatch southern sea wind dances.
Others choose a live birth, but it limits them to two.
You will want to choose this if you only want to raise a few.
Mermaid twins and triplets are raised in incubators in the deep.
They are implanted via a uterine vial that you will want to keep.
There are other ways too, since mermaids are magical and kind.
If I share all mermaid birthing secrets though, they will wipe my mind.
Categories:
incubators, fantasy,
Form: Rhyme
There are stretch marks for every delivered line.
Skin keeps strumming until it runs out of sweat,
incipient and membranous they arrive
through a mutual tension. On their own
words in the woods unseen,
but when pushed through a primal viscera,
they slip through wet and new.
You try to make them civilized and grown.
you know that eyes are upon you.
Birthing’s a messy affair
something you do behind swollen eyes,
a stress disorder that defies latex
or the collective humming of incubators.
Then you look down and everyone’s looking
it’s not a poem, it is a configuration
of arrhythmic pulses,
meanwhile you swaddle an indigenous form
native to a ‘no man’s land.’
You hope someone will read it to the end,
but it’s not the end, it’s another beginning.
Categories:
incubators, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Plane, Train or Automobile - none of us can escape our fate
in these dark and dire times
we find ourselves living
we often fear that the times
are infected with death
and so we are afraid
deathly afraid
that if we take a plane
we will find General Corona
among the passengers
and we afraid
deadly afraid
that the subways
are incubators
of death and destruction
the virus spreads
fear and death
in its wake
many of us
retreating to our homes
and venturing out
in our cars
only to find
death is stalking us
as traffic piles up
traffic accidents
still killing more people
that the dreaded General Corona
the grim reaper smiles
his work is done
Satan thanks General. Corona
for a job well done
writing com daily dew drop in prompt
Categories:
incubators, america, angst, anxiety, april,
Form: Free verse
Emotionless, the doctor applied tools.
The foetus extracted,
they wheeled her away.
Although she could not move,
and could not relieve herself,
they did not check upon her
until the next day.
The Aerobus arrived
to take her to the
nursery planet,
where she would tend her offspring;
The matriarch checking
daily, weekly,
to see that she did so.
She did not rest.
She could not heal.
But there was no help for her,
fertility was more valuable every day;
and she had resigned her rights
when she had chosen
to join the gene pool.
Better than a row of test tubes,
were these living,
breathing incubators.
Once a gift to all humanity -
part of a lost cultural phenomenon
called ‘the family’;
Reproduction was now a rarity.
Originally published as "Childbirth on a Civilised Planet"
Clarke, R. (Ed) The Mentor 85, January 1995, fanzine published by Ron Clarke, Sydney, Australia, [Archival copy available online at http://efanzines.com/Mentor/TM85COMP.pdf].
Categories:
incubators, corruption, future, science fiction,
Form: Free verse
On the fifth floor of the hospital
I walked to the corridor
Where on the other side of me
I could see babies in incubators
Sleeping calmly
Covered warmly
The wall was just mid high
Reaching my shoulders
From my left side i could see lots of
Kids who had swollen necks
Very sick kids but they had the best laughs
I looked below me and i felt the pull
I just wanted to leave this world
Three weeks in the hospital
Two major surgeries
Only a teeenager
No food for a long time
My body flowing with pain medications
I wasn't me at all
I wanted to be free with a fall
He came and tapped my shoulder
Wearing his nurse suit he told me that i wasn't supposed to be out there
At least not alone
He walked me back to my room
Asking me if i wanted to talk
Assuring me that all will be well
During my stay, a friend repeatedly reminded me that God will never give me something that i cant handle
Categories:
incubators, life, me,
Form: Bio
Candling an egg isn’t something new
Centuries ago people learned “how to”
And candlelight was used at its debut
In a dark room, eggs underwent review
The eggs guaranteed infertile to you
All must be candled to prove they will do
Using candlelight, you can see straight through
If any are fertile, remove those few
Selling them to the public is taboo
Eggs in Incubators are candled too
You can tell a “yoker” from the egg’s hue
without some candling, you don’t have a clue
And now having said that, I’ll say adieu!
Submitted by Charles Sides
For the “By CandleLight” Poetry Contest
Categories:
incubators, history,
Form: Monorhyme
When terror strikes,
fear inside you
makes a hissing sound,
breaks the vessel.
Pain spurts out.
Your limbs swell like sapphires
in a naked suffering.
You were searching the face
of your dead brother on burning ghat.
And then on, it pours.
Babies were burning in incubators.
Blasts devouring the eyes,
ears and noses.
But the dredging will continue.
Irrespective of ocean of death
leaping to fragile shores
till the waves send back the relics.
Whom shall I call for condolence
in the thick of fog?
I was closing the weeping chapter.
SATISH VERMA
Categories:
incubators, art
Form: I do not know?
When terror strikes,
fear inside you
makes a hissing sound,
breaks the vessel.
Pain spurts out.
Your limbs swell like sapphires
in a naked suffering.
You were searching the face
of your dead brother on burning ghat.
And then on, it pours.
Babies were burning in incubators.
Blasts devouring the eyes,
ears and noses.
But the dredging will continue.
Irrespective of ocean of death
leaping to fragile shores
till the waves send back the relics.
Whom shall I call for condolence
in the thick of fog?
I was closing the weeping chapter.
SATISH VERMA
Categories:
incubators, devotion, life, lost love,
Form: ABC