Infertile Poems

ABORTED REALITY

Stolen and re-rooted here,
We can no longer be as 
Their virgin forest—
Raped and impregnated
By heirs of  their slavery,
And rechained with infertile
Emancipation ejaculations:-

With this climax,
Need I seek to excrete
Anymore aborted reality?

The Art of Identity

The words
cease to resonate,
not my voice's fault
nor the walls,
it is the absence of
my yang,

sister self;
emerging,
new world
unsheathing its 
unease:
there were two
cries of joy.

Reverberation or
affirmation,
and was there ever
a difference
in the sando shops 
where we stole 
tuna mayo onigiri,
or in the hospital,
where we were no longer
wide-eyed and 
buck-toothed,

and you learned
your husband was infertile;
you hadn’t seen
your reflection
in years,
no matter how much
I tried 
to see mine,

so in the bridges
where the futatsu dirty
faced bandits
used to roam;
one on the side
where the stars
could greet her
and the other
facing the earth
and its restraints,
only tremors
from our lips,
identical tones;
I was your shadow,
you, the moon.

Now; in the barren
cadence of one-half
of a voice,
with her half message,
the hitotsu
phantom warrior
cuffed herself
to the hand-made robes
and teary-eyed skies
of her memories.

Soul Speak

Soul Speak 8-28-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Soul Speak

In a conversation with darkness,
Haunted
By whispered ghostly remnants of hope,
Exaggerated I only sees Ego 
In a cherval glass broken
When grace seeps through cracks of pride
In blinding rays,
The unstoppable I Am
Roiling 
With the tongue of the whirlwind.

In the vanishing point of truth,
My soul
Cowers,
 Infertile as shards of a mirror
  Mute as cracked reflections,
Then bows
To the beauty of no other,
Christened in testament,
 The heartbeat of gospel grace,
Relentless
 As incoming tides.

Diving into waves of mercy
My soul tastes the sweet confection
 Of the Word,
Eternal ambrosia – everlasting manna –
Sing-speaking elocutions 
 Of I Am.

retribution

the vanquished were mocked
humiliated
their graves were unmarked
memory erased

that day space was scarred
it wept silently
time too held its breath 
in stench of decay

womb of Mother Earth 
became infertile
Schumann’s resonance
dropped its frequency

the sun dimmed its light
moonlight became grey
birds no longer sang
with doomsday looming

Water in a Dry Land

A mental landscape of shifting sand dunes.
an intimation that something may be worth writing,

A scrabbling creature crawls bedraggled out from
a saturated darkness.

A Scarab beetles shadow takes hesitant form.

Watch as words ripple above infertile ground,
see how serpentine they flow.

Yet another poem about Creation is arriving.

Adam is sewing pants out of banana leaf's
for Eve.
The young man is jealously aware,
that the googly-eyed monkeys
are eyeing her nubile libido.

Early days in the Garden; Eve is making
mud cakes, they have yet to figure out
how to eat manna.

The scarab beetle, has resorted
to scratching hieroglyphics,
for words alone are no going to complete,
this arid revelation.

Something may be worth,
transcribing - maybe.

Perhaps this envisioning
will find fresh water in a dry place.
The white page has a blank face for a reason.

Drought Orphans

Drought Orphans

                                              Homeless clouds,
                                             Orphans of drought,
                                                   Tattered
                                               Wispy shreds of
                                               Misty tapestries -
                                                    Infertile,
                                                   Rain spent
                                                   Vagabonds -
                                                     Solstice
                                                   Silent sighs,
                                                   Dry foundlings
                                                 Drifting aimlessly -
                                               Stray itinerant waif
                                                      Clouds 
                                               Float on tuneless airs
12-8-22
Contest: Writing Challenge – Yalto Form
Sponsor: Constance La France
Syllables checked with www.howmanysyllables

Desert

Wind gusts in the desert
         sand  cover on infertile soil
          only poetry sprouts nature

Animus Farm

The roots of our political system,
    Have grown up through some infertile topsoil.
As excessive and targeted 'cash-dusting' ...
    Has reduced the land's potential, with much to spoil.

Weeds of corruption strangle organic growth,
    Taking away what nature could provide.
While any effort to meticulously prune and
    Salvage a crop, gets derailed and put aside.

Just as the laws of nature contribute to man ...
    Can we till and sow fresh landscape to cultivate?
Perhaps conditioning the soil without manure,
    Where profound growth gives reason not to hate.

Now some might prefer to set apart large tracts, 
    Fallow, while claiming success and yield.
Yet those buried seeds won't wither or remain
    Beneath, they'll bare fruit in another field.

Empty Arms

Every month, ovulating
Yearning, breathing in and out
In and out, breathing – inhaling
Exhaling, panting, gasping
Yearning, begging, pleading
Please, God, please!

Every month, echoing
The past months, the years
The tears adding up, rivers
Of yearning, hopes shattered
Moons coming and going, 
Hearts breaking, interrupting
The prayers for a small cry,

Every month, praying, praying
Imploring God for a child
Little eyes, small fingers, toes
To count and kiss, breathing
In and out, the prayers, 
Beseeching, entreating, praying

Every month, the blood
Drenching soft linens, 
Soaking like tears, softly falling
Quenching the dreams
The echoing of prayers, yearning
Hope doused, darkness all around
Optimism fading into the shadows

Every month, a heart swells with hope
Then breaks, crushed by the weight
Of silence in the nursery,
Emptiness in the arms who long
To hold a baby, a little one, a light of life!




July 4, 2022

My Other Self

Cannot create without my muse
Why on earth did she choose
To desert, this moment, need her so
Last few days a tale of woe.

Pen is infertile cannot write
Completely miserable, dejected sight
Half written odes litter floor
Walk sounds good slam the door.

Forest obvious place to go
Muse will sit there this I know
Under green canopy, I will find
Other self silent, slowly unwind.

Strangely no one can see my muse
Even though she does enthuse
My writing depends on forest magic
Should she desert how very tragic.





POETRY MUSE 
Poetry Contest
Sponsored
by: 
Beata Agustin 
26/04/2022

High School Love

Love so deep but it's infertile
Breaking into the edges of a virgin's soul 
Slowly penetrating through like a silent virus
Just polluting the infant's heart temporarily wet but jelly

Crushing down my feelings to my beloved
Knowing how well that it's fake 
I know it's fake 
But she keeps it real 

For real 
Her heart it pumped up 
Cause her infertile heart thinks she has found love 
Love that can never die 

I laugh how foolish
How a polished fake 
Will be real 
In thy sight but not in my sight 

Series of scenes I've tried to create 
And I've created
And series of scenes have you been caught up in 
But nevertheless I control my path trying not to loss you for anyone 

For you're pearls in my eye 
But our high-school love have gotten into the way of a permanent relationship
Which I want it to be 
For in this life and the next we'll be one and one we'll be forever

I wish I could recreate time itself 
And not the clock
So we can try and morn the reasons for a temporary love 
So we can make it real someday and in a way

The Lost Muse

Where is my muse am feeling dire
It's wonderful how she does inspire
Nowhere to be found am left alone
Hit brick wall with mighty groan.

Need to search all forest trails
Magical atmosphere deeply inhale
Where inspiration can be found
Infertile pen becomes unbound.

Muse is found feel so much better
Realms of paper written with pleasure
Scribbled all night and most of day
Anxiety is gone it's quite passé



Pixabay image byDarkMoon_Art

Fruitless

(TW Infertility) 

My body is built to bear children.

I must stop comparing my body to those 

of women who are simply built....

differently than I am.

My stretch marks are an atlas of the 

paths I've walked. From adolescence to 

womanhood, I have a story. My body 

tells, my story.

I'm coming to accept that I will simply 

never be that small, and it is not 

something to be shameful about. 

I'm coming to accept this with little 

anecdotes, such as, my body is built to 

bear children. 

But I still have days, where I feel like I am...

too much. 

On those days, I try to make myself smaller on my couch; 

but only end up making myself larger 

with each handful I shovel to the pit, 

in the bottom of my stomach. 

What can I use to console myself

when my disappointment in my looks is 

all consuming.

So much so that the doubtful light 

at the end of the tunnel is more tempting 

than the sun. 

And what happens...where does my 
anecdote go when, the children never come? 

When my gynecologist finds similes in words such as 'barren' or 'empty' 

My body-was, built to bear children.

Jumping the Gun

He wanted children but she could have none,
then left her in the lurch, burdened with shame.
They both remarried and she soon had twins…
He was infertile; she was not to blame.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Four-line Light Verse No. 2 Contest
Sponsored by L. Milton Hankins

© 29th August 2021

The Axe of Civilization

The moon is punched into the sky,
half hidden. 

Under this mid-summer half- moon 
a tree is carved from a block of wood;

this tree effigy is of course rootless, infertile. 
It is the height of Barbie, or Ken, as shapely,

as slender, and easily held in a hand, 
as the ax of civilization is held in the hand 
as it swings...

The moon knows I am looking for its mystery, what is left of its mystery in this 21st century. 

How I cannot see the robots roaming 
its surface, and where two space explorers

stepped, long ago; how I can only see it is an ancient spirit- less decor' of the celestial 

sphere.  I stand looking up, at the moon,
it always catches the eye...

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