Long Infertile Poems
Long Infertile Poems. Below are the most popular long Infertile by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Infertile poems by poem length and keyword.
He was still breathing,
but they did not hear his sighs.
His heart was shivering,
but they did not see it trembling.
His body was on fire,
but they did not feel the heat.
His tongue spoke,
but they did not know his words.
Her perfume still lingered,
but her image was now a distant silhouette -
a figment of dark pigment, haunting his mind.
Maybe infertile seeds,
were the reason for her vulnerability.
Maybe his adolescence,
struggled to understand her delinquency.
There was no explanation for the voices,
as demons had disturbed her existence.
Nobody understood.. Not even he.
Who was confused to why she let them in.
He always remembered vividly,
he could not stop her blood from flowing,
nor did his kiss of life save the day.
Songs from that era,
haunted him for decades.
Too bitter to shed public tears,
he constantly cried in his sleep.
Till the day he forgot to cry,
motionless, he felt nothing.
If only he had listened to his conscience:
Because right from the start,
she was born to break his heart.
Simple musing
Silent One
5 March 2018
A broken promise, demoralized man who is incapable of being true,
A thoughtless coward, oblivious clown, this is what I think of you,
A woeful chicken, a runaway guy is how you're now portrayed,
A selfish critter, a prideful morsel is the reputation you have made,
When flesh spoils in a slaughter house the smell of you comes to mind,
For your manipulation has made you completely colorblind,
In your mothers soil you were the bad seed,
As you grew up we realized you were just a weed,
A fragmentation, with no revelation is who you really are,
A scab that stopped healing, the beggar who keeps on stealing, now just another scar,
A predicable cycle, a sick little mess, a hidden agenda that isn’t well dressed,
A miserable liar, disposable fool, too bad you weren’t like an infertile mule,
Just like a wolf, you would consume your own,
For apparently humanity was something you were never shown,
Just like wild animals that abandon their first litter,
You fit right in, you unoriginal quitter.
By: Sabina Nicole
Written:9/29/11
Contest:Angry
In ye old days of yore on Malaga's dreary shore
An untidy castle rimmed by salty moor
Housed a lonely, oft-drunk matador
In briny marsh grazed no sheep, but wild pigs three score
Staggering oft around soggy, muddy estate in boozed, dazed state; prating conquistador
With fitted bed sheet he dodged each, wild, voracious boar
On one fateful eve a rabid boar did his flabby posterior gore
Now ambitions stored, bedded his dreams, salved his sore
'Til one morn, a damsel in distress swooned at his door
Bereft of virility, but saddled with tales of chivalric lore
A hearty tonic the prone maiden he did pore, and spouted tawdry tales galore
Unentranced by availing circumstance, his rambling advances she did ignore
Intoxicated by her lovely essence, her father's residence did implore
Confounded by his incessant inebriating pleas, she fell to the floor
Mistaking her bended knee as fealty to be, he let out a drunken roar
Enraged by his licentious intentions, she yelled, I will not take any more
Mind numbed from numerous droughts, he heard, I am your whore
Giddy, his infertile, limp shaft tried into her sweet mound to bore
But his drooping shaft could not breach her silty core
Frustrated the horny goad reversed positions. riding her till both were saddlesore
Finally breaching the chasm, his spent rod found reeling a chore
But her tapped well gushed and she yelled encore
Now understanding his riding days were over, he cried and swore
His ripening virgin unsatiated bade his pallid pilot her canyon explore
Now contrite, he explained fertile streams no longer from stagnant fount could pore
Giving due penance, purged the dross, and from her steamy vat tore
Forevermore an unfit paramour, jilted matador; who no longer his tainted cape wore
Drought Orphans
Homeless clouds,
Orphans of drought,
Tattered
Wispy shreds of
Misty tapestries -
Infertile,
Rain spent
Vagabonds -
Solstice
Silent sighs,
Dry foundlings
Drifting aimlessly -
Stray itinerant waif
Clouds
Float on tuneless airs
12-8-22
Contest: Writing Challenge – Yalto Form
Sponsor: Constance La France
Syllables checked with www.howmanysyllables
Here’s the story of a witch, good instead of bad.
No matter that she’s ugly as a troll.
She loves children and their innocence.
Protecting children, therefore, is her goal.
Unable to bear children,
the mother of the Troll-witch visited
a witch who gave to her two flowers:
the second one to eat was prohibited.
First the mother ate the pretty flower
and a daughter beautiful she had.
The mother, hoping for a son,
ate the second flower; that was bad!
The Witch-troll came about because
her mother did not harken to the witch.
Therefore, a witch herself the mother bore,
but her troll-like daughter was in kindness rich!
She loved and lost her pretty sister when
the trolls did steal her, and she fought.
She killed them all with a wooden spoon,
but getting back her sister she did not.
In ‘63, Hellboy came to her
for help when children gruesomely were killed,
the Troll-witch gave to him the wooden spoon.
The trolls turned into stone; no blood was spilled
I really like the Troll-witch, for
infertile Norway mothers need not mourn.
She gives them each a lovely flower, so
children beautiful to them can be born.
April 11,2023
For Robert James Liguori's 'The Women of Hellboy' Poetry Contest
Sandstone erode into dust harks history's fade
Effected by events, weathered
Crept century torture administers eventual taint
Withered time drives incessant
Battered slate roof removed promotes damage
Cold rain and blazing sun hurt
Cyprus seeds challenge infertile dust, establish
Passage through gathered dirt
Co dependent pieces redefine a weary structure
Fed full on counterpart stength
Capability maps character, freshened functions
Exchange worshipped sentiment
Protected rod trunk tree intersects better entity
Deep dug roots, a chasm shielding
Tumult inevitably threatens to reinstate tentative
Pledge prevails, reliance appealing
Dedicated to tasks, support and every day bolster
Ruin renewed by flaura's courage
Offers availed are automated, mutual responders
Hold each firm in order to flourish
23rd November
A mental landscape of shifting sand dunes.
an intimation that something may be worth writing,
A scrabbling creature crawls bedraggled out from
a saturated darkness.
A Scarab beetles shadow takes hesitant form.
Watch as words ripple above infertile ground,
see how serpentine they flow.
Yet another poem about Creation is arriving.
Adam is sewing pants out of banana leaf's
for Eve.
The young man is jealously aware,
that the googly-eyed monkeys
are eyeing her nubile libido.
Early days in the Garden; Eve is making
mud cakes, they have yet to figure out
how to eat manna.
The scarab beetle, has resorted
to scratching hieroglyphics,
for words alone are no going to complete,
this arid revelation.
Something may be worth,
transcribing - maybe.
Perhaps this envisioning
will find fresh water in a dry place.
The white page has a blank face for a reason.
The moon is punched into the sky,
half hidden.
Under this mid-summer half- moon
a tree is carved from a block of wood;
this tree effigy is of course rootless, infertile.
It is the height of Barbie, or Ken, as shapely,
as slender, and easily held in a hand,
as the ax of civilization is held in the hand
as it swings...
The moon knows I am looking for its mystery, what is left of its mystery in this 21st century.
How I cannot see the robots roaming
its surface, and where two space explorers
stepped, long ago; how I can only see it is an ancient spirit- less decor' of the celestial
sphere. I stand looking up, at the moon,
it always catches the eye...
. For so long the ground has warped
. depressed about my frost frozen feet
. For so long the sunlight
. has not glazed
.within the R E S T of trees and
.roots deep infertile om
.For so long IN solitude did I
. find sleep uncared for
. within the P E A C E of the church
.yards keep undisturbed
.For so long not until this
.night regret did inward
.seep to me and mourn
. within the ground a old
. soul lies asleep alone.
.For so long but now it’s
.~Hall-o-ween and I may rise again to moan.~
.~ For within the grave nothings as it seems ~
/////////////and there is no going home.///////////
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I have a proclivity to be lengthy,
But in this case, I will do it succinctly.
This is the saga of an infertile bunny named In Grating
Who was run out of a meadow for not procreating.
He had the temerity to act like he did not care,
Which made him pretty bold for a quite-so young hare.
If you do not realize how serious was this,
I can assure you, certify, and attest.
That this poor unfortunate, with no real rest,
This young man bunny with this little defect
Was not brought back or given any respect
Until his well-loved cousin, a fellow named Barrow
Needed a transplant of the barren Bunny’s bone marrow.
They brought him back in, rescuing him from a tent in the ghetto.
They stroked him, and petted and gave him the keys to the meadow.
The best part of this saga, the part that makes your heart sing.
Is that he met a bunny nurse name of Widow Irene.
He noticed her right away, through a tiny aperture in the door,
She was beautifully built, gorgeous, and more.
I have to tell you, he soon picked up on her nuance and glance,
That she was ready to take him home, and give him a nice private dance.
Irene already had sixteen bunnies, and a pile of money.
So the Infertile bunny, became her delighted lifelong honey.
Written 10-26-2018 8 Word Challenge – 9 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Words: proclivity, attest, saga, aperture, temerity, barren, nuance, marrow