Long Incubating Poems
Long Incubating Poems. Below are the most popular long Incubating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Incubating poems by poem length and keyword.
The Humans Terrain
Undulating mountain ranges that cry out for slow release
Ambulating strangers that are covered in polluted grease
Dictating derangers that covet the Golden Fleece
Translating trainers that have broken their contractual lease
Commiserations for the silent ones who never speak a word
Invigorations of the violent guns who deal in the gratuitous and absurd
Continuations of the resilient suns that shine like they have been heard
Obligations for the wires bent for runs that have had the lines all blurred
Contamination of the water sources and slights upon the proud
Observations of the four main horses that come down upon the clouds
Celebrations of the multiple courses that defy the logic of the loud
Condemnation of the armed forces that illuminate a mushroom shroud
Ideological premises that combine to fill a season
Phenomenological nemesis that refine to environmental treason
Categorical messages that define philosophical reason
Allegorical sentences that design an artistic state of glee’s ion
Affluential indulgence circulating around the priveledged few
Monumental divergence insulating the poverty stricken from the news
Transcendental convergence incubating as the profundity is used
Non judgemental resurgence confiscating the subtle shades of colour among the hues
Copyright Elizabeth Moroz 2025
The town I was born into was a grit incubating slum.
It was the worst of places yet had some gruff-faced
high-headed days.
On those few times
(days that did not seek to hammer me down
into the brick and rubble strewn ground),
I would walk like a lord-ling
in my own spit-rinsed and grubby manor.
I would swagger, daring all to cut the throat
of any withering word
or to blast the staring eyes and ogle-mouthed louts
as they came at me, only to ski-daggle or sidle.
In those long hours, in those dank drenched daylights
I would fight knuckle-hardy and win
then wear a trophy cut on my chin
that ached in the stony-breathed air.
I was a tough and scrawny king atop of his small heap
and the town bowed down to me until the next day
when it sought once more
to murder my rough-hewn soul.
I sit in the garden...
but not my usual focus:
(lush, red Lincoln
Roses, nor magpies
splashing one another,
frolicking in the
birdbath, like children
in a rubber pool, having
oceans of fun. No –
today, not larger,
more colorful – easily
recognizable and beloved
by all, but smaller things
join the particles of
of my lately fragmented
view of the universe)
infinitely small things
hang in my mind
as snow crystals seeming
aimlessly confused in
in a glow of street lamp,
frantic for direction on
a windy, snowy eve;
as those random stars
on a beaming night of
cloudy reflection,
flickering in and out of
clarity – I do not find old age
a particularly fond climax
for a life honestly spent,
though admittedly, not
always of service, when it
comes selfless obligations.
At the moment, my senses
travel a path of sunlight,
illuminating what is often
hidden between the
blades of green foliage
or in folds of petals –
I think of how concentrated
life can be, whether small
or large when viewed from
different vantage points along
the paths of seasonal structure
and annihilation – I think about
how all larger things are
made up of much smaller, often
unseen mysteries...illusive specks
gleaming, then disappearing quickly
from sight, their sprinting rays
explosively flashing – but
just as abruptly extinguished
between dawn and a lingering
sliver of decomposing night...
in the afterglow, I witness
rainbows gloriously manifesting
within a spray of fountain water,
absent from view before
awakened my mind to hidden
pockets of animation, and the
potentially seamless folds
in the nature of projected
journeys – some, perhaps,
momentarily sleeping
but never denied a rightful
aspect for fantastic dream…
each, may it be large or small
somehow of great importance,
I search the riddle
of my often
overlooked depths...
dotting my I’s and
crossing my T’s,
in a Free Verse Dimension
writing new dictionaries,
phrases casting off their
shackles and bursting free
from nests of incubating
concentration
– profoundly in
need of
living
punctuation…
When you feel your heart pulsating, just imagine it with your hand opening and closing. The pumps are alive and make you feel human. Drop one finger and the beats are still there and just need a break from the outside influence. Drop another finger and see how it feels like palpitation. Drop the thumb and feel the dramatic change of the two fingers. Equate it to the heart facing major damage and needing surgery. Drop another finger and see the pulses becoming fixated onto one phalanx. The area is tight and unbearable, now drop the final finger. Can you see or hear the pulse? This is similar to the moment the heart stops pumping.
The moment of life begins as a shock. The electricity surges through the DNA inside the belly of the harbinger. It is small; however, the beginning of a life that is ordained to move into forward progression. Once the time starts to bide into the vessel of the egg, a heartbeat sounds. The beat is powerful, a life worth fighting for and incubating for three seasons. Whether the seasons be hot or cold it does not matter, for life inside the great house is relying on the harbinger and the harvest master. Without both the life would either be dead or impaired. Freedom of choice or freedom for life is controversial as only those that are physically alive decide whether life is a life. Hear the beats before you decide. Afterall, would you want the member of the staffed serpent to bring you back from the domain of Hades if you are having a beat? Yes, it can be said that the choice was not yours if you were attacked (by a fool or a known court jester), now the decision is yours to make if this is the case.
I used to be on the right, and then on the fence. Later I moved to the left until I saw the left being irresponsible and not taking accountability for anything.
The moment of life is a shock; well, the closing of the beats show the electricity dying. The warmth of life and the coldness of death come at the crossroads of choice. Rationalize it in any manner; it is still the cold shock of extermination.
Can you hear or feel the beat or are you greeted with death?
No one of us
and all of us together
believe in optimal power within
in total absence of any power among,
without.
Short-sighted political therapy evolves
short-minded economic health is
small-mindedness,
pretending Self and Other and Earth
are not eternally interdependent.
Pain and loss and blindness
cause long-sited suffering,
wrestling with God's absence of fulfillment
Great aerobic exercise,
but let us not fool
or bully ourselves,
or Others,
or God,
and most certainly not Earth
in this her eternally holy Day.
Only competitive assumptions wrestle against health;
while cooperative eco-normic awareness
wrestles with,
side by side,
each challenge shared.
Wrestling is dissonance resolving contention
stretching for harmony
co-arising contentment,
diminishing confusion to
chronic suffering of advent,
just the right amount of pain and ego-loss
for regenerative redeemer rebirth.
Pain, loss, dissonance deny
optimistic accidental history
but may ecologically coincide
with interactive mutually-held hope
that peace with ego's self-justice
ultimately emerges
from each biosystemic incarnation's incubating life
toward further regenerative health
and love
and love of health
and health of love,
then too there is lovely health of wealthy love,
but that could take us in another similar climaxing
dialectically emergent
dipolar co-arising direction.
skin over skin
layers to peel
uncover
mysteries ~
earthbound
heavens dictated
strengthened delicacy
lacy
spirit reveals
as we peel
without zeal —-
colour
patiently waiting
soft fingertips
to harvest (...)
autumn rings pause
wounds gauzed
healing’s a sealing
essence incubating
realisations transcendent
pupils
dilate
uncoverings _______
contemplate each veil
verses to pale
accept every lifting
veins to gain
Love’s filigree e m b r a c i n g
w o r k …
___________________________
Allpoetry : Silver Placement Winner : 70 word Ekphrasis : April 26
[ interpretation of a Zanne Van Bebber Painting 2026 : Private Collection : Copyright Protection : not for Reproduction. ]
What is the purpose of poetry,
and therefore the meaning of the poet?
Beautiful style?
Aesthetic merit?
Artistic elegance or the beauty of its truth?
Is poetic purpose the meaning of its language
or the art of linguistic choices?
Of course it must be both,
symbiotically planting and fertilizing,
creating and cultivating, each incubating embryo,
flowing and forming regenerative language
An expression of intuition
with deduction, co-arising
refined with exegetically known
and felt soul-truth
through eisegetical sieved analogies,
trials and sub-optimizing errors,
evolutions and ecologies of syntax
conjoined within and without
through transcendent values
avoiding prosaic disvalues,
relationships inviting well-being,
principles of languaged left-brained human nature
dancing prancing right-brain's preposterous spirit,
dream-dancing DNA encryption
team-taught description
within each cell of healthy live
is not unwealthy evil.
Poets seed and winnow language,
thought,
understanding and unlearning
misunderstanding,
rationality
and polymorphic transanity,
form and function flowing fine flowering frequencies
comprehensively mentoring
and mediating
Earth's holistic therapy.
Eisegetical hopes and hypotheses disclose Time's exegetical ecology.
Poetic epiphany disguises Earth's logic as mythic teleology.
Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.
But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
organ, nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.
The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,
the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Despair, lose all hope
that’s what the sign says at the gates of hell
and at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center the sign says
Be kind to our customers who are waiting and suffering.
Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.
A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said is
Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.
(alternately titled: Zayda born April 9th, 1929)
e'er since his birth,
his daring do didst not abate
the penultimate most spectacular
concrete incontestable product
constituting biological offspring
developing, fashioning,
and incubating gene nee us,
he unwittingly didst create
encoded whence he got conceived
approximately begat circa
July nineteen twenty eight,
and hence upon April ninth
two thousand and eighteen
cometh denoting exceptional great
ness among kith and kin innate
awareness to take stock and celebrate,
how a series of fortunate events
commencing with a date
to Harriet Kuritsky
(at that time, yet to pledge her troth)
accepting storied handsome fellow,
whose constitution sturdy as "forest" timber
(definition of groom) to be lawfully wedded wife...
until death do them part)
unwittingly marriage didst emancipate
my mother, who met a awful, cruel
and terminal undeserving fate,
which tortured demise, the grim reaper
gladly, gleefully, and glibly
held her steadfast
thru death decreed grate
a permanent life sentence,
she vehemently did hate
and fiercely fought tooth and nail
(unimaginable to me,
thee sole son), how
agonizingly bitterly clearly irate
such suffering wrenched, wrought, wrung
August marriage permanently
cleft by malicious, nefarious,
and opprobrious tongue
no heroic measures, only lamentation slung
upon the livingsocial clinging,
where grief rung
every last ounce,
though thru each passing year
thy mum gone thirteen orbitz
round the sun, that shear
ring raw emotion
still persists in concert with lear
ring grimace of deathly hallows, 'ere
obstinate heart ache lessened now
since papa found bliss
in which to steer the prow
of his four score and nine
aged ship of state row
wing (or more or less peacefully drifting)
berthed in consonant with vow
wills - a staunch spirit does wow!
A difference between co-dependent feel-good rallies
and interdependent revolutions
is also the difference
between Negative LoseLose bipolarity
and Positive WinWin Energy,
dipolar co-arising.
CoDependency is a double-binding
tolerance of addictive mendacity
sharing common grounds of fear and anger and, eventually, hate
with corresponding lack of freedom's non-violent gratitude
further imprisoning future LoseLose lack of love relationship,
co-listening
co-empathy
eco-listening
golden rule hearing
golden invitation speaking
WinWin fullness of integrity,
multicultural interdependency,
our own secular and sacred Original Intent
as we each continue to emerge
from healthy-wealth
of matriarchal co-operative incubating wombs
mentoring interdependent democratic maturity.
A codependent rally
is not the advertised interdependent revolution.