Long Fertility Poems
Long Fertility Poems. Below are the most popular long Fertility by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fertility poems by poem length and keyword.
An idea I’ve seen going round
is that the feminism urge
might play a part we don’t suspect,
and not just be a joyless scourge.
That, without feminists knowing,
it’s come to play a vital role,
acting as a giant filter
through the very lies is has sold.
I think it comes down to numbers,
and the trend is simple to see,
hating men and pushing a job
does not lead to many babies.
And every year that it’s put off
the girl’s fertility goes down,
they find themselves at thirty-six,
single and with no kinds around.
Some want them and desperately run
to get themselves a willing guy,
but most of the good ones are wed,
and quality is hard to find.
The internet is littered with
sad videos of such women,
realizing the lies much too late,
unable now to start again.
All because of some bad ideas,
taught to them by shrill activists,
in their teens and early twenties,
too young to recognize bullsh-t.
They did not see through it and chose
to build a family when young,
choosing to see their own pursuits,
now they and their whole line is done.
But those women who saw through it,
weren’t scammed by the ‘empowerment,’
are the ones still having children,
and spending their time teaching them.
And as the decades do roll past
it just becomes a question of who
who will be their standing at last?
The feminist who, at forty-two,
desperately pays for IVF?
Or the mother with four children,
half-shocked she has no grandkids yet?
The feminism filtered out
those foolish enough to believe
that there are more important things
to establishing family.
And the next generation born
will come from those who saw the lie,
better able to resist it
when they grow to live their own lives...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Quantities of time feel nothing.
Calculating, accumulating and subtracting,
days and weeks,
months and years and decades
roll past our eyes and ears
our growing and shrinking stomachs
to leave their strong and weak-grooved rings
of satiation and emaciation
I only feel and remember qualities of EarthTime
co-arising passions and co-gravitating pleasures
or dissonant dispassionate and painful reactions
of fear about time's future survivable qualities
anger about oppressive time's past conflicts
burning hot bright volcano hatreds
adrenaline flowing flashes
uncontrollable as suppressed bliss
only completely invested, immersed,
passionately engaged within a resiliently timeless
moment of deeply resonant quality
too seldom aware of Earth's intelligent co-present
co-passionate
co-binary sacred/organic fertility
of divinely humane grace
eternally synergetic dancing
through rationally measured quantities
of merely mortal metric times.
Sacred qualities of time's regenerate evolutions
long to feel everything belonging once again together,
beyond a foggy lapse of co-empathic solidarity
ReLigiously re-membering our golden era
co-relational peaceful qualities
richly feeding on Earth's matriarchal placentas
when all felt now-ly timeless
and originally right
feeling healthy
nurturing trusted truths
of loving kindness
feeling qualitatively good
and warm-full beauty filled.
Perhaps here lies our deeper measure
of time's healthiest meaning-full quality,
economically cooperative
and politically synergetic
and ecologically co-relational
EarthMother organically breeding
and sacredly feeding ecotherapy
Deep dancing
while surface surfing
through this timeless now
of polypathic potential win/win consciousness
Qualitative feelings positive through negative
emerging from and for and through and in and on and over each now
submerging into past speciating
branching co-passion's pleasure impressed re-memories
and dispassion's painful suppressed memories
Trees of old strong-rooted felt re-ligion
qualitatively comparing
contrasting
our original embryonic nurturing qualities
for richer eco-political sacred health
and less EarthMother dis-organic pathology
through this eternally regenerating now
quality of TaoTime's feeling peace-full
pronoia
win/win ego/eco-conscious co-passion.
Mother Earth
is due for her hysterectomy.
Soon she will lap dance
in a crystal-clear sterility
far from her blood-soaked fields.
She is done with nurturing,
done with death and destruction.
She gave her all,
but that was then,
now the soil is blistering
for want of her winnowing,
her threshing.
Her attention
is upon herself alone.
There is a place
a lit-up stardust dive
where all fertility deities
eventually arrive -
there they
gyrate and twerk
for those
who,
quite by chance,
have dug their way out
of their own graves,
yet even they must pass away,
as she strips down
to her last scant garments
then yowls with glee
knowing
she is free.
She should have been Hera, goddess queen of heaven, the sister-wife of
Zeus, king of the gods; she would have caught him one Friday night tipping
Out while she sleeps to visit one of his plumy wives and over 100 relations.
She would have said, “Sit down Zeus; let me inform you about the laws of
Property settlement and child support in heaven with a concrete poem.”
She would have straightened up Aphrodite, goddess of love and lust.
Especially when Aphrodite was caught red-handed making love to
Her son, Ares, the God of war, she probably would have said, “Now look
Here woman, quit messing with my son and creating all this rumblings in
Heaven with the gods.” I could see some Lanturne poems floating
She would have acted as the sister of Demeter, goddess of fertility,
Agriculture, and harvest, a sister of Zeus. Because she would have
Blessed women with children who need them, and also farmers
With great harvest and crops to feed their families and sustain the
People across the land, by waving a haiku poem in her healing hands
She would have screamed as the sister of Hermes, the crooked cattle-rustling
God; son of Zeus and Maia, who stole his brother, Apollo’s cows, then
Lied, and swore before Zeus, their father, “That even if I knew who stole
Apollo’s cattle, I would not even accept a reward for finding the thief.”
She would have gave her crooked brother, and son of Zeus, a flying senryu
She would have been with Athena, the virgin goddess of wisdom, reason, and
Heroic endeavors; the daughter of Zeus, and Titan goddess of wise counsel
Métis, especially when Athena appeared onto Swift-footed demigod,
Achilles, and told him, “Sheathe your sword and defeat Agamemnon, the
Greek king with words of wisdom.” I could see some wise epigram poems
She was probably counseled by Apollo, her brother, god of music, healing, and
Poetry; the son of Zeus and the Titan goddess Leto. Because she has cared
For the sick in hospital emergency rooms, and has also stimulated us for years
With her poetic muse. She has counseled many along the way and has calmed
Many storms with loving charm. “Hail my sister in Christ—Karen O’Leary!”
Happy birthday angel and wishing you many more for years to come!
In this land remote from the rest of the earth,
a man can live for centuries after his birth.
Mallinson, it is without a trace of a doubt I know
that the High Lama himself is really Father Perrault.
The Belgian monk found his way into the valley.
The lamasery he founded is this place we see.
How can you explain the exquisite beauty all around?
The pristine weather and fertility of the ground?
Where else could a place like this be found?
Mallinson, I’m convinced everything is not a lie.
If you and Lo Tsen leave here, you will die.
Based on the 1933 novel "Lost Horizon" by the late James Hilton
The day fell at its prey since man’s first fall,
To feed poison the dragon hath lifted its head,
Men have fallen into lucrative chasm,
Many ‘succeeded’ perching on the dragon’s head,
A few ‘defeated’ chewed ‘twixt the beast’s teeth.
The ‘victory-markers’ decked themselves with stars stolen
Which ought to be all men’s property shared in oneness.
The ‘star-markers’ began to squeeze their subjects and minions,
For minions take their root for their swampy survival,
And run deep thro’ stony soil unhealthy for fertility.
They sleep on stolen beds sans shame,
Their survival runs thro’ coveted bills,
And they break heads of the honest horse.
Sweet is their rest on the spiky bed of the poor,
Across their domain raise they their statues of the Poor’s sweat.
They eat doctor’s pain thro’ people’s treasury,
Never have they failed to lash at talents for self glory.
Manifestos so sweet strolling at their lips;
Yet sweetest are the deeds done for their families;
Yet most bitter when hung around the Poor’s neck.
They lay roads to their family line;
But dig chasms to the poorest of folks.
Lungs stained with bribes they can’t breathe themselves;
Yet breathing thro’ folk’s idiocies.
They can write stories; but not histories;
Yet what they’ve made are fallacies.
They dance on people’s neck until it breaks,
They build castles themselves in the air;
And for the poor lay roads to survive.
They kick the belly of the sweating toil.
They say they make the hen crow and the cock lay eggs,
Unmindful of their fooleries they dig pit themselves.
Who cares them? For one has to toil and survive;
Yet I hate the politicians for want of honesty in them.
There is this other self; it is a little ahead of me.
It does not look back, only I look back,
I imagine a path all the way to an end.
Of course, it is a conceit to ponder any endings,
we need but to follow the spiral foretelling,
the promise of more.
They say living is easy, I declare that death
is an even greater miracle than life,
a miracle all can demonstrate.
The acorn knows the fertility of emptiness,
how to fill and claim its place in the continuum,
how to depart as a seed once more.
In the end there is no end,
we carry our souls like dead moths
into that secret unknowable,
anticipating a butterfly transformation
one so much stranger than
any token life.
Miracles of GrandMother Tree
begin with her purgative peaceful birth.
For at this time,
so long before her cycling rings of time began,
we see her original seed
and this seed's less original composting environment,
and within this brief timeless moment,
before her benign becoming,
these each appear to decompose
into each recomposing other,
beginning GrandMother Tree's long waging of peace-filling rings,
recording recycling time's historic four fractal seasons
of perennial reproduction
Once begun with consilient fertility,
GrandMother revolves through days and nights
relentlessly deepening creolizing root systems
of nonzero co-relational recreation.
For each new ring
another year of cooperative becoming.
Cooperative thrival,
and only as necessary
competitive survival,
or healthy becoming decays to loss of living
Yet even these degenerative transitions
are not equivalent to springing back to prior springs.
She cannot go home again
because she carries her original home
within her still small skeletal seeds
reincarnating past purgations and ministrations
All while extending further rooting down
ever richer deeper cooperative
health-seeking Win/Win system sensors.
And so, at last,
GrandMother Tree begins to fade from Yangish life
toward Yin-emptying death.
Whether fast, through uprooting hurricane,
or slow, through slowing drying aging defense/offense loss of balance,
her woody organs disintegrate
creating compost perfect for her dormant seeds
and, even more richly,
for seeds of her adult children,
now become intrinsic to
her richly interdependent forested environment.
Her forest floor
each spring
producing metamorphic regenerations
of seeds and benign environmental compost
remembering each Win/Win peace fulfilling communication
GrandMother Tree winds and water
reweaving nutrients of time
in economic co-invested
political co-empathic space
Ecosystem rooting for waging peace,
ever more robustly resilient
While waging defensive war
strenuously defeats dynamic balance,
waging Win/Win peace requires root systems
repeating GrandMother's dharma balance.
The female calendar
The night cosmos opens the earth to moisture,
germination of the moonlight rejoice.
Tenderizing the ground to reach the underwater sight,
mist of luminous Moon light from the pull of monthly tide.
Moon phases of the great cosmic dance,
fertilization in the ovum of darkness to advance.
Circulation of blood and sap in plants,
the mother calendar naturally grants.
More difficult to observe the orbit of the Moon,
then that of the earth around the Sun.
The earth spirit as transformer by protoplasmic intention,
capable of reciprocal relation with all its creation.
It is cosmos to those who know the way,
and chaos to those who lose it by rational stray.
The female live in the lunar circle of body,
becoming and changing the order of everybody.
The secret time keeper and its flowing,
the witnessing of the body growing.
Moon, mind, calendar, menstruation, month,
Honeymoon, fortnight, fertility crunch.
When the paradox splits into dualism,
the act of natures consciousness as prism.
Wilderness edible forests,
to hungry mothers,
became wild undomesticated wastelands
to commodifying and taxing FatherLand patriarchs.
Wilderness matriarchs once Pledged Allegiance to the Sun,
and Gratitude to GrandMother Moon
for both interdependent fullness
and new womb emptiness,
grace-filled promise
of future healthy integrity,
pregnant with promising fertility.
We pledge allegiance and gratitude to our Sun,
One Icon of our First Native Nations and Wilderness Tribes,
reforesting and harvesting indivisibly synced
under and within SkyMother Earth
with liberty to not be unpatriotically bullied
to rescind each democratic individual's right
to equal liberty of mind and heart and body,
and forest wilderness ecojustice
for all GrandMother Moon's health planting
and wealth harvesting children,
Moon-matriotic matriarchs
and Sun-patriotic patriarchs.
Expressing grateful loyalty within
wilderness edible forests,
to and for hungry parents and grandparents,
becoming wildly domesticated fertile lands and waters
co-arising fire-lit atmospheric climates
to cooperatively commodify
and sacredly deify
and co-invest Mother EarthTribe
matriarchs rewombing
maturing matriarchs with patriarchs,
born equally of transubstantiating Sacred SunLight,
Love,
Grace
breeding and feeding
cooperatively owned Gratitude
of sun-drenched EarthTribes.
Could our polycultural history of sun worship
trump mere nationalistic supremacist flagships
for more sustainable healthcare
within patriot/matriot-balancing
multiculturing identity?