Long Childbearing Poems
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LOVE’S APPLE RED LIPS
At night the horse appeared dark.
It stared like a dead man -
perhaps into the pit itself.
During the day - -
Up and down, he would go,
and children would hang on.
Mysteriously, the devil himself
unassembled the amusement ride.
Tired and bored he went home.
The horse lay on his side -
as if suffering, ailing, in a
cardboard box green with mold.
One day the devil arose,
after resting in fire and gloom,
and spied a couple in love.
The serpent began to whisper in
Eve’s ear, for he loved her name, for
great harm, he inflicted her namesake.
Like the Eve before her, curiosity drew her.
Evil pointed to the old cardboard box,
and she inclined her ear too closely.
“We must put this carousel back together!”
Her beaux thought her a bit too excited,
but he pulled out his tools, Adam once again fooled.
That night the horse stared straight through Adam.
He shivered. He dreamed. He shook it off.
“Hop on the horse,” said she.
Not wanting to disappoint, he climbed way too high.
She loved his new prominent spot, elevated above the park.
“You look so regal! All the guys will be jealous!”
Eve never spoke to him this way. It scared him a bit.
“Tally-ho!” She said as she released the lever.
“Won’t you join me, Eve?”
He thought he heard a hiss! Shook it off!
His imagination galloped.
Up and down, round and round.
Like the first bite of an apple,
he felt a crunch, almost like a hickey kiss
“Eve, I’ve been bit!”
“Adam, don’t be silly! Enjoy the ride!”
He seemed to sleep after a couple rounds.
Eve thinks he must be comfortable now.
So in love, Eve - with her gorgeous golden hair,
her apple red lips, her childbearing hips.
She comes to her senses too late.
Adam slides to the ground.
She shuts the old ride down.
Eve runs to his side.
The horse has turned pale with envy.
His eyes on fire as Adam’s stare into eternity.
Eve’s tears burn and sting like hell itself.
She hears a laugh emit
from the horse’s mouth
sounding something like a hiss.
4/7/2017
Nayda’s Urban Legend Contest
From: urbanlegendsonline.com/the-merry-go-round
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday during month of May
can be traced back to ancient Greeks and Romans
festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday.”
Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis (a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter
paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies such as Hallmark gen
er rated a market (money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the vulgar appetite of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
lionized, revered re
formed unsanitary living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale "mum."
Incomers
From the middle east and Africa, people seek European shores
dispossessed and poverty struck, they seek, a better life
a promised life of democracy and work for everyone
Many, when reaching Europe, cross the channel from France
in Britain, thanks to the BBC World program.
Their point of embarkation is Libya, once a successful state
now a rough country laid low when their leader, Ghaddafi
was murdered by Western power getting their blood dripping
hands-on petroleum.
With many races and cultures coming to Europe, one asks?
Is there an upper limit for this invasion; is there a moment?
When, this must stop for the sake of the individual nation-states?
Is this influx good for Europe, making it malleable for business
a low-wage economy and no bothersome trade union?
The truth is, in Western countries, have a net loss of newborns
because of a high standard of living and top-educated women
who no longer want to be burdened by many children, this
make perfect sense not to waste time with childbearing.
When Russia noticed the population was retracted, they did
something about this and introduced an economic plan to
counter this and gained; we see the same in Nordic countries
In Portugal, say, too few children are born it only takes
a couple of generations to empty the land of its inhabitants
Migrants to our shore can be a blessing infusing new blood
to an ageing population, it may not be like the nation of Yore
two cultures merge, that is better than being forgotten. No?
Conceived In Sin -
Cincinnati, Ohio
(most Up To Date Virgin)
Any attempt for fecund woman
to successfully counteract biologic
reproductive force to whit
deserves grudging testes
meant to garner at least tidbit
sans, ejaculated kudos (by Dickens),
where aborted squirt,
viz skin flute, gets writ
off as sad sack pit
tiff full seaman unwittingly spit
outside sought after vasocongestion
swollen phallic doth intuit
thwarted down thrust trend,
where offspring of genetic
inheritance since Eve soffit
a dam nibble prickly outcome
braking abrupt copulation,
where half cocked drill bit
attempts to hit
bulls eye included with animalistic kit
and caboodle born toward illicit
propagation of species,
this indomitable overbearing gen nit
till foreplay to liberate dill lib writ
lee, pointedly and instinctually
continue human race,
where a bajillion threads did knit
world wide web steeped with lit
richer replete with orgiastic nit
tee gritty prurient details
recounting bacchanalian debauchery
nun such breakable classless habit
ah what a dog send to gift
and empower women to inhibit
unwanted pregnancy (of childbearing age)
equipped with superhuman heft quit,
while erect phallus unable to lyft
uber penetration, no doubt miffed,
especially in throbbing throes far drift
from coital provenance, one agitated fitbit
feeling royally screwed
particularly virility predicated
on loose sing penile glue stick
within secrete slit.
The regressive Supreme Court decision
hustled, proclaimed, and voiced
June 24th, 2022
immediately quashing pro choice option,
struck down constitutional right
(upheld for half a century -
formerly allowing, enabling and providing
the muliebrous population
access to secure and safe abortion)
and sent a chill into the air.
A woman of childbearing age
within the United States trade
risk seeking abortion if she
unwittingly finds herself pregnant
resorting to desperate measures
sans mortality written
courtesy blood and gore costly paid
for ownership of body electric
autonomy usurped to choose abortion,
especially females representing
low income statistic,
whose chaotic, frantic, hectic..., existence
quite unlike bucolic, idyllic, poetic
lifestyle exemplified, exhibited, and exuded
by Thomas Kinkade
impossible (aery) mission
to buzzfeed another mouth
hence unlucky gal
now faces criminal charges,
whereat strong arm of the law
one lass unable to evade.
Despite being an older
long haired pencil necked geek male,
(a genetic product
of the baby boomer generation)
albeit one dazed and confused man,
whose body resembles
a miniature lead zeppelin
I a baby boomer guy
always inclined toward
remaining aforementioned gender,
nevertheless can empathise
with red hot poker anger
fecund women most likely experience,
when in the heat of passion
birth control measures vehemently
even non verbally overruled,
when an aggressive partner
thwarts such rational precautions
exerting patriarchal domination
loosing abundant seminal fluid
with deliberate intent to impregnate.
Many instances abound,
(since time immemorial)
whereby linkedin couples
ardently, fervently, maddeningly
strive to beget offspring
and thus shuck off
the application regarding
accessing, kickstarting, wielding
invocation of divine spirit,
thus their sexual relations
forfeit applying prophylactics,
oftimes feeling down and out
when biological fertilization
breeds despair, grief, mourning...
yet no sooner does adoption
appear as the last best hope
the maternal hormonal gonadal
secretion agency, propensity, viscosity....
and quirky unpredictability,
where unsuspecting latent virility
to procreate ironically occurs.
Valkyrians
We live in a time when high education
among the middle and higher middle class
get work in a notable occupation
many are women who find a profession
often within the state apparatus
One can say that the female sex has been
set free, but for what?
There was a time when it was vital to have
children, our very existence depended
on women's childbearing capacity by doing
what nature had intended
With educated women in work position
childbearing is not a must; hence, fewer
and fewer children are born, we may
see shrinking population as a prize for
the thought after, freedom from choirs
from the hassle of the nappies
Women at the top of their profession
nearing middle age, realize the hunger
they had was the need to procreate to
have children, alas, far too late for many
Childbearing must be a priority for mothers
ought to be extolled for the effort to
keep the world going around and around
Sadly, we have lost sight of what is important
Momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday
during month of May
can be traced back
to ancient Greeks and Romans
devotional festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday.”
Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis
(a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught era also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter
paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
childbearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies
such as Hallmark generated a market
(money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed
companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea
of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the vulgar appetite
of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed,
fêted, lionized, revered re:
formed unsanitary
squalid living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where
greater longevity doth hum
bull all because, she sought to regale mum
(mine) deceased after rigor mortis
immediately thereafter her sole son
found himself saddened severely glum,
and uncomfortably numb.
You proclaim that every woman here is a paragon.
Isn't women's subjugation still a phenomenon?
Only a small minority of women might feel well.
Isn't the life of a rural girl here often a hell?
"They're in aeronautics, you say; they're in astronautics."
"Aren't they epitomes in the empire of robotics?"
Thus, you endlessly recount the progress of politics.
I see the rustic girls carrying hard crucifixes.
I've come into existence, having escaped foeticide.
To all, I looked like a piece of debris from a landslide.
They tried to kill me many times, even after my birth.
Could this feather be a heavy burden upon this earth?
My brother looked good to them in sleeping and waking.
I had to work hard to the extent of my back breaking.
He's sent to school. I was not. I had to take care of him.
I had to stand, smile, and say yes, as per everyone's whim.
I work from the time I rise till the time I go to bed.
Most of my life is spent in the kitchen and cattle shed.
How many eagle-eyes of men gape at me each moment!
Within me, I ferment with a yeast of embarrassment.
I wear a veil in adherence to societal norms.
Thoughts of disgraces and rapes awe me like summer storms.
I feel like prey and am unsafe from human predators.
I'm harassed often like a debtor by the creditors.
I am auctioned and sold in a fair called arranged marriage.
Who's worried, even if my spouse is my grandfather's age?
I am a machine for his carnal pleasure and childbearing.
Who appreciates my nature of caring and sharing?
I obey my father, my husband, and my son.
I know; I'm weighed down by the burdens of men who seek fun.
I do not pity myself, yet I live up to my goal.
Though they're harsh on me with their wrath, with love I fill my soul.
Get into Shape Maureen
Scary words for a Square
Or if you are a fat get like me
My head is the shape of a potato
My waistline resembles a Burger
And my bum takes the shape of a Doughnut
Because I can't keep my mouth shut
And I have Pear induced childbearing hips
And my thighs pass for ships in the night
So I can't wear anything tight
For fear of splitting the seams on my skinny jean's lol
And i have to wear a sport's Bra to flatten my bust
So I don't get asked out on many date's
And on-line dating is out of the question
Unless I fail to mention
When asked to describe my body Shape ?
Because I then would have to reply ?
Round a kind of figure of 8
Not so much a Shape
More a Pyramid with uneven side's
Or a Poached Egg attached to a head
You say Shape
I say Clay
Or children's putty
For Maureen Mcgreavy
Get into Shape poetry contest
Looks like a nice day
When my wife has treatment for her legs, I notice most patients are women
who in their youth had worn high-heeled shoes; but what do I know
it could have been childbearing, weakening the bones.
I sit outside a small café; the weather has gone from overcast to mild sun.
Four workers enter; three of them are black, painting the house
for a man who looks Irish but isn’t, he is middle-aged and has curly grey hair
and drinks a pint of ale while painters in sudden sobriety drink water
they eat a stew of meat and beans
On another table sits a tall black man, I think he is a poet, If, my old friend
Jimmy, who has been sober for 30 years, would have said the tall man
was an alcoholic drinking wine so early.
It was a nightmare going to a restaurant with Jimmy, scanned tables
and if anyone had more than two beers, he said they were alcoholics,
I didn’t dare drink in his presence.
Sometimes, Jimmy went on my nerves, was hectic and got irritated
when things didn’t go his way also smoked like a chimney
This working-class neighbourhood is blessed, a place peaceful,
free of racism and the dreaded BLM.