Long Foetal Poems
Long Foetal Poems. Below are the most popular long Foetal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Foetal poems by poem length and keyword.
Germ of essence.
Human blob.
Shattered eggshell to the chicklet hatched.
Interlocking family of a kingdom.
Beget or begone? Antigone!
Pouch bearing mammal with no issue for her milk a plenty.
Enlightened species on
a zodiac sign.
Propagating genus wild and free yet stillborn.
Wet nurse in a pregnant phase but still a child at hearth or so it seems.
Meadow grazing Macropod fazes antipodean observer all the while.
New arrival signage whose laboured footprint chills on every impact.
Courier from catacombs, fateful torch aloft, flambeau at a glance where toddlers cheer, sonnet form heraldry ablaze with kindling verse.
Human destination thread that spins a hopeful tale.
Cave of legends halting site persevered by household zeal.
Stalagmite, stalactite, granite grey day gulag’s natal spasm.
Troglodyte who once did tramp upon a uterine tunnel trading in survival for relief.
Embryonic creeper stuck on dry wall canvas.
Border crossing cradle cordons off a check point, never mind the cost or inconvenience.
Acorn random toss, mighty oak seed trap between a leaf and fallen log.
Flower pollen stigma,
never seen as shameful to the fertile mind.
Tree of life penumbra casts a limelight shade.
Concepts pulse the mind like nascent parabolic kites that stymie outcome.
Genesis of brainwave.....
nurtured by insightful minds and marble carver tomes.
Olympic status offspring, budding Einstein player on the ball.
Thought, the inner urchin magnet probing deep inside magenta labyrinths.
Wheel of fortune‘s mumsy shadow
ova.
Masterful philosophy storing foetal logic on some growth cell’s wellspring fountain.
Infant augur embers fan their winter flame regardless.
Birthright , birthstone,
birth pang, the reproductive organs of infinity whose algebraic series has no final chapter scheduled.
You may see me out on the streets
Lying curled up in a foetal position my sleeping bag in a shop doorway
Trying to get a few hours sleep here in my latest home in cardboard city …
I never stay more than a few nights in one place
can never really settle; these streets aren’t safe
You may see me out on the streets
I’m sitting on the cold damp pavement with an empty coffee cup in my hand
Hoping for a coin or two so I can have some real food in my aching belly
Still you hurry past, trying to avoid making eye contact…
Believe me, it’s so degrading rummaging in the litter bins like a wild animal
But some days it’s the only way I can get any food to eat
The biting cold and wet weather is my worst enemy
I can never get warm even when the sun shines
This is no life, just a way of surviving another day
Guess you think I’m a waster, a dirty tramp
You walk on by; judge me without knowing what lead me to life on the streets
Bet you think I’m a druggie or an alcoholic
I guess most people seem to think that
They see my filthy clothes, straggly hair and grey beard
Just five years ago I was like many of you
I had a career, a beautiful wife, and two lovely children
Spent many months away from home fighting for my country
But then I got sent to Afghanistan…
I saw scenes no man should ever have to witness
I was traumatised
Forever suffering flashbacks of the faces of those innocent people
The children, oh those children – made me think of my two boys back at home
I couldn’t cope any more, had a total mental breakdown
I was a broken man …
My wife could no longer deal with the mood swings , the erratic behaviour
The Army did little to help –
discharged me on health grounds, then basically abandoned me
Now I’ve lost everything … my wife, family, my dignity
Many of the people you see on the streets are like me …
We all have a story to tell, but no one gives us the time of day
Passers-by avert their eyes and hurry past like we are invisible
Your eyes may tell you one thing… but please don’t judge me
Because you don’t know me
There came a knocking
At the door
Which stirred me
On the floor
Circled up
In foetal
Comfortable
In my position
Upon the
Cold hard floor
Sitting
I brought my knees up
To rest my chin upon
And wrapped
My arms
Round them
Looking
At the door
Was it a dream?
That I heard the knocking
Thinking furiously
About the wanderings
Of a sleeping mind
Against the familiar
Cold hard floor
I couldn’t recall
Any knocking
In the wonderings
Upon the floor
I started rocking
Rocking
In my position
On the floor
Staring
Looking
For more the knocking
Upon the wooden door
If it didn’t
Have birth
In the psyche
Of my mind
Then it must mean
That the knocking
Is life
Of its own
On the other side
The door
Just the thought
Made fear grip me
Sending chills
Down my spine
To spread out
Like lighting fingers
Across my world
The cold
Hard floor
I gave thought
To my reaction
And wondered new
Reaching out
To settle
That thumping heart
That fear
Had brushed against
And stopped
A rocking
Upon my floor
Looking
Searching
For meaning
Upon the wooden door
Knock
Knock
Knock
Fear
It rushed again
Sending me a scurrying
To the wall
Away from that door
Holding it
To stop
My world falling
As best I could
While I crouched
Against floor and wall
Wishing them both
To box me in
Protect me
From the knocking
At the door
But my world
It didn’t change
It remained
The same
Except the thought
That life
Was knocking
The other side
The door
It was oddly
Exciting
As it was terrifying
The knocking
At the door
It sent me searching
Again
Do I have it in me?
Those aspect’s
That I will call upon
To get me
Off the floor
To creep
To the door
Do I have the courage?
To open it
For a new me
A new life
On the other side
The door
Well there’s this place that I see in my dreams,
A place full of darkness and ear piercing screams.
Screams you have never heard before,
Screams so terrifying you won’t want to hear them anymore.
They make you want to run; their fear amplifies your own,
But you can’t run because this place is now your new home.
The only glimpse you have of hell and the terror it imposes
Is just for a second, just before the door closes.
Believe me it’s not a big party, where everyone’s having a ball,
No, it’s like a rubric cube, metal boxes housing the great and the small.
In a foetal position you are stuffed in this thick steel square box,
With a door that squashes you in, that has a six-digit combination lock.
You may believe in the party and see the devil karaoking your favourite song,
But it’s stuffed in a small box with loud screams going on and on.
At first you pray and plead to God to forgive.
But in vain you pray amiss, because you would not believe
Then you will question God and ask why?
Ending in you cursing, hoping God will let you die.
I had a glimpse of this from the glass tube I slid through,
Into a darkness so thick you could almost chew.
Is the tangerine tranquility
of divine signature—
a chlorophyll sanctum
for kindled minds,
where identity softens
into its sovereign form.
Uniqueness glistens
like diamonds in agate woods,
flowing like a brook
through silenced seastorms,
casting resilient ripples
of peace in chaos.
Kaleidoscopic hues
lather liberation
in lilac breath,
woven through rose-glazed silk,
layering thy self
beyond binary divides.
Weaving a raspberry mirage,
condensing orbits once defined,
gravity kneels to lucid silhouettes —
where polarization, veiled in vines,
drifts through phantoms of shadowed memes,
labeling itself among quiet captives.
Appearance deceives—
a haunted massacre,
gnawing at edges
of borrowed illusions,
trapped in the coffin
of jinxed confessions.
Still, I yearn for that foetal light—
a harlequin armour
on mannequin soul,
held by the thinnest threads
of clairvoyant defiance,
tethered to becoming.
Dusk drapes the horizon
in crimson hush,
penning butter-paper dreams
into the murmuring breeze,
where buried silence exhales
fractured fragments of valour.
Seed - scattered strewn or downtrodden.
Grain stuck on passive flytrap mucus.
Wild life biomes ripe with open sesame.
Frantic birth pangs stiffen their gestations as green leaf ferments bubble underneath.
Mother of all wombs, diva pulse or fertile runner bean.
Maternal youth.
Eternal youth.
Bamboo shoots that wave their infant tassels
in a windmill vane.
Future plant life leveler a wobbly wellie earth crunch.
Squelching noises tower over brown air pigment mulch.
Sweet pea treasure’s
plot or topsoil script, ploughman’s pen an agri-birthmark issue.
Acorns cling to feather beak and claw with migrant species casually dispersing airborne clan.
Pity the poor bacteria as they bear their own strain.
Mediators in regrowth,
life cycle go betweens who skirt around infinity.
Pregnant life force signage points at blossom, branch and blade.
Father sky, whose azure blue tarpaulin watches blithely as we earthlings bloom like algae.
Captain chlorophyll, the sunshine nabbing pirate rules the waves.
Sugar dazzle booty on display for fortune hunters everywhere.
Placenta of the rural outcrop overstretched.
Nourishing, replenishing yet prematurely procreates its progeny.
Compost layer genus code emulsions where thorny splatters worm themselves inside.
Gene pool mirror drapes its vibrant colour wash on foetal lime bow and arrow twigs.
A prism to some rainbow tint or shaft.
Muddy waters percolating sluggishly through all those clay born matrices below.
Our natural breeds now wet nurse turf ground offspring.
Nutrients absorbed by network carriers- sprout and stem WIFI eco-mates.
Elevator of the undergrowth in embryo.
Going up going down.
Timeless womb your time will always come.
Posted 13 th August 2021