Long Breast fed Poems
Long Breast fed Poems. Below are the most popular long Breast fed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Breast fed poems by poem length and keyword.
If I had seven days,
I'd feed the hungry...
give milk formulas
to the needy mothers
of the suckling babies
who can't be breast-fed;
what a big smile I'd put
on every infant's face!
And from within, I'd certainly
feel a joy never experienced before!
I wouldn't stop there,
I'd continue searching for them...
for those children who ask for bread,
and a bottle of spring water...
if I were the Pope, I'd sell all the gold
in Vatican City and make them full,
hoping that others will follow his example!
Why do they have to die uselessly;
has society turned away
from human compassion?
If I had seven days
to do as I please, I would be
an ambassador for peace,
stop the violence which causes wars
by asking nations to come together and negotiate...
I would be much delighted to see them shake hands!
Some will listen, some will not
and despite their negative reaction,
I will try to convince them with an imposing voice
that they will be sorry for the destruction which will come!
He will leave me low
he will leave me not ...
oh, flower, do your petals know?
If I sleep with him, sparks won't keep; knowing my truth,
he'll cut me loose. Each day and night, I plot and plan to
avoid sleeping snuggled with my man. He has love's need
to cuddle bed deep but I know he'll either laugh or weep.
Flower, to him I'll confide I'm ever wishin' that a garage
door sealed my kitchen. Smiling, I'll say I sleep-eat;
wake with berries in my hair and bits of eclair. I'll tell
him lowering sheets may expose chip bits and also relief
there are no dips. I'll say I eat unaware and can't be
woken, but will he run after I've spoken?
Once I've told of sleep crumbs, I have to tell him I sleep
sucking my tongue. Putting another smile on my face, I'll
say my fingertips rub my pillowcase. I wasn't breast fed
so, I fell in this mold and my tongue noise is loud, I'm told.
The pillowcase must be my mother's skin and sucking my
way of drinking in.
Flower, will he cuddle in my bed, knowing I'll chew, suck
and rub near his head? I'll leave out that scratching the
end of my spine makes me go pee, every time.
He will leave me low,
he will leave me not,
he will leave .... running with all he's got.
They saw the star and roamed very far...far,
Lo! Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthazar;
Search... is the divinity of my life,
Who will tell this to this nation in strife...?
I saw it lit on my birth as a child,
In form and shape simple and very mild;
Breast-fed, I knew, yet needed much-much more,
Like eagles and vultures, heavens to soar...!
So far from all that I have thought and known,
Within and without each and every zone;
There, lo, has been only and only name,
Isn't it Jesus who lights each small flame...???
06 November 2022
The Only Star For Me Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
Warm with camaraderie,
Filled with extending family eyes
kindly accessible as two-way inviting cameras,
Cooperatively good-humored, sometimes gently critical,
never intentionally mean or ugly,
A healthy communion home
can unravel
becoming an emotionally barren
silent
hidden asylum
for codependent inmates afraid of change,
serving one-way camera time
until someone
someplace better comes along,
Then sacred Earth becomes easier to see
filled with side by side homeless souls
too often becoming houseless bodies
feeling wanderlust
for pilgrimages belonging back to earliest weeks
of breast-fed interdependent memories.
But, solidarity of deep educational intent
to learn and teach,
to experience and co-mentor
cooperative extended family communions,
warm bicameral communities,
peaceful healthy sanctuaries,
not mere small-ego claustrophobic silent silos,
can lead to growing healthy eco-homes
and eco-schools
and eco-villages
and eco-nations
amid multi-eco-cultures
built by loyal EarthTribe sacred communions
of everyday integrity enchantment,
Two-way, multi-wei, camaraderie,
co-operative well-being
rooted back in breast-fed humane/divine misty memories
matriarchal/patriarchal,
spirit/nature,
ego/eco-passions non-violently invited
and responsibly shared.
Like properly compassionate public policy
for wealth optimizing health,
including narcissistic egos
and compassionate ecotherapists
too long in-between cooperative meals,
hungry for WinWin non-sectarian,
yet surely sacred,
communal outcomes.
I was holding my slasher In the cold wet season
That's what we call it here
Then i saw his head coming from the east
Like the morning sun rising from sleep
Wounded like a might hunter
He stood head to toe
With a spear in his right hand
And a fruits in his left
The defeat on democracy was on his face
His begging spirit was gone
The story of disease no more
I saw Africa stand
All villagers came
To witness walking houses
With four balls rolling on the ground
Made by this great giant
He was no longer trembling as he spoke
We had his voice speak to our souls
We once down trodden
But now we arise
We looked as though cursed
But blessed we stand
We walked as dependents
But today we give
He spoke with Charisma and we all
Shouted
Yes Africa we rise
To change the world we live in
Africa we stand tall
To impact souls
To impart morals
To claim our heritage
As we mentor the worlds
That breast fed us for millenniums
Today
The Man, Africa
Stands and will never fall
Summer love, a man, a woman, conception, a new born
Ring the bells, amplify megaphones, bugle the cow horn
The ceremony begins, baptism, cries, holy water
From two one, family, father, mother, son or daughter
A priests blessings, proud grandparents, proud parents, birth anew
Hospital papers, a birth certificate, much to do
Tears from parents, tears from baby, tears from all, tears of joy
Breast fed, nipples, milking mothers, changing diapers, oh boy
A songbird sings, rock-a-bye-baby, lullaby's at large
Aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, sitters take charge
A pacifier, a cradle, corners of stuffed toys
Hanging crib toys, singing toys, jingling bells, rattling noise
A new generation, of life, all this, in summer love
A woman, man, baby, a family, from god above
There you go,
back, far back into the woods once more.
I wish you knew the names of all these tree.
They are distant aunts, and old soldiers,
warriors of coincidental conflicts.
Blood soaked relations of relative ghosts
seen now only as points of departure
where tombs have been riven by lightning
or whole forests burnt to the ground
to a more fertile ash.
Names unknown but named in a book
rivers and reeds write
for later roots to unravel.
Fathers as old as the first horse.
Mothers who breast fed the slow dreams
of a humankind destined to plant her flag
upon a million fields of creation.
Yet more await, are nursed as new seeds
that glimmer in a shinning nebular.
Now I watch one lone child
pass through gorse, thickets, and briar,
travelling through its own forest
to be born into a family
that has yet to be named or branched.
Life lives and returns to find out why
again and again.
Reincarnated crucifixions
dot a new landscape each era,
vacations in Ohio last until
death stamps a later passport.
Sweat and blood in Thailand,
transforms into poetry.
A blind man digging his way through a city
mining for a treasure he was born with.
Back we will come
arriving from anywhere
and anyone.
Each deliverance a blessing
we had to uncover and acknowledge
as our own woodland mystery.
A place between sacred mountains and molehills
where the trees have yet to be labeled
or cutdown, and green growing offspring
with their little axes
getting duller and heavier each year
until the woods and all disappear
to follow the night-train
to where they will arrive at,
whatever platform we have
cobbled together or erected with prescient hands.
Then we claim our Kingdoms,
our many mansions, the many branches of us all.
As the cycle turn and spiral
again to return carrying a new child
as a gift of the light.