The stars bestowed your eyes
The moon, your cherry red lips
The sun, that light in your mind
Heaven, those gold finger tips
The oceans surrendered your hair
Your form, fashioned by tides
Rivers tempered the spirit
Where patience and love resides
Strength, came from the mountains
The wind, sweet lullabies
Volcano’s forged the Passion
That lives in soul filled eyes
But where, oh where is completion
Makes the pulse race and dart
For this, woman must wait
Till a man, gives her his heart.
Written 7 Oct 2013
The heart of a man thrives wholly
with the respect of a woman whose nurturing
soul is not threatened by his strength
but finds comfort in his protective care.
The love of a woman is won completely
by a man willing to lay bare his vulnerability
at the mere sight of her approving smile
or the touch of her healing hands.
And neither is threatened by the role of the other,
but are wise in the ways of their creator,
in whose infinite wisdom
endowed each with opposite strengths
so they may be equal partners
walking forth solidly hand in hand
as co-conquerers of challenge
and liberators of love.
To be in love with a poet
Is not an easy thing
Try as you might, you’ll never
Live up to his dream
For the poet isn’t content
With love’s status quo
You please and you tease him
But it’s not enough you know
For living there in his mind
Is a picture of the divine
You know that he longs for her
For it's shown in every line
The woman of perfection
Who is not of this world
With raven tresses of hair
And slender arms unfurled
The poet “sees” this woman
And his senses just take leave
For her passion is intense
Her body rivals that of Eve
She is tender and she’s giving
Never asking in return
She waits for him night and day
And it’s for his love she burns
She nurtures his desire
Fulfills his every whim
For she is his possession
Remains faithful just to him
She sees in him embodied
Every single manly trait
Each and every need of his
She’s sure to satiate
Ah…mere mortal woman
Who must compete with this muse
You find that you fall short
And your love’s prone to abuse
For who can dare compare
With a poet’s romantic dream
The siren who sings to him
Who floats on clouds of cream
Poor lover of the poet
Sitting here alone at night
Waiting for him to see you
To turn on you passion’s light
Love him, my sweet, love him
For in the end he’s just a man
That silly muse of his dreams
Can’t caress him, but you can
So win him at this love game
Make the fires really burn
Try to captivate his mind
So that it's for YOU he yearns
Warn that charming seductress
That muse who tries hard to woo
That you have a jealous heart
And you've made him drink your brew
Your body, your soul, your desires
Bathe him in all of these
Not with words but your hands
Make him to do just what you please
For a poet is just a man
Just a simple man is he
Give him all he desires
Then watch his love set you free!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
I laugh as I think of it now, the dire warnings of hell
Nothing could scare me it didn’t matter, on this teaching I never did dwell.
I wondered why one dark night, again begging for sleep.
No fear of death of dying no foolish promises to keep.
It was then I found the answer as I slipped down through the floor
Could this be a dream or am I now no more.
Has death come upon me, I feel the air exude from my chest
Through eons of time yet seconds, maybe days or years at best.
Before me an evil thing but there are no brimstone and flames
“Now we will see this hell you mocked and you will know my name.
You never flinched about the hell threat but you are now here
Not only that I am your father and now you will know real fear.”
He breathed in deep; my skin scorched, it left my body in one piece
The agonies, I must be dead my skin floating in front just like a fleece
My muscles sinews and skeleton were all that I now had
“I thought you were my father I screamed you can’t treat me this bad.”
A thousand legions of devils all came round mocking me
Each breath they turned my way seemed to rip parts off of me
“You will learn to master them but until then you have to pay
You start at the bottom in this work.” then the hounds of hell did bay.
“To inflict the tortures required to give me the satisfaction
You must first suffer them all, that is my attraction.
When you have suffered them all you will know what to do
My work will be in your hands this is my legacy to you.”
“But how can you be my father?” I screamed as the hell hounds tore at me
“My mother was the sweetest woman on earth and all around could see.”
“Ha! I am the devil why would I want a whore,
They are already down here; it was sweetness I searched for.”
“Your mother scorned me, she did not believe in all the hellish games I play
So I showed her my powers and you are with me from this day.
You should have listened to the teachers teaching of my home called hell.”
He waved his finger at me and the screams I could not quell.
Now I wish I had listened and taken an earthly fear
It could have made a difference, I may not now be here.
I take delight in dismembering and gouging out the eyes
Flaying the skin off the ungodly, yet I do it for a prize.
One day I will rule this place then my turn will come
I’ll leave this underworld one day and do what my father has done
I’ll take a woman for my wife the sweetest there ever walked
And pass on my inheritance to the offspring that hell balked.
I woke up this morning trying to remember who I am
To the mirror I looked, am I a woman or a man
Maybe I'm somebody else, just another in my head
Or am I who I am, in my mind I sometimes dread
I woke up this morning trying to remember who I am
Asking why my friends have decided to be in my little scam
All my life I've wondered just who the hell I am
Again to the mirror I looked, am I a woman or a man
I woke up this morning trying to remember who I am
My mind has invented another, being deceitful leads my sham
Maybe I'll find the clues for I to realise my tomorrows
And return the names to the graveyard, but I'll doubt I'll sorrow
In nightshade she rages in fumes
And drives me to the edge of unrest
Inside coal eyes, my breath exhumed
Granting her to stew, I feel pressed.
Dark tresses of fire keeps burning
A passion that ignites a whirl...
This vixen’s scold reeks like a sting
But truth of her words were sincere.
Enticed, I drink the spiced potion
That bathes deep down inside of me;
Possessing a huntress’ grit, she drones
As my pride she melts, heavenly.
My woman is both river and sleet
Her quarter moon flushed with grace;
Eclipsing my will, my defeat
To accept a female's bold ways!
Dr. Ram Mehta's Husbands Are In Heaven.. Contest
by nette onclaud
Young Johnny Walford was a handsome man
He possessed a keen intelligent mind
Yet the life he desperately desired
In the end poor Johnny would never find
Lack of education, coal dusted hands
His heart was set on the Miller's daughter
Sadly one night he strayed with Jane Shorney
Made his life into the stuff of fodder
He was forced to marry against his will
Jane Shorney was now carrying his child
He could not bare the thought of forever
Her screeching voice, made him insanely wild
It was but three weeks into his marriage
Our young Johnny couldn't take anymore
He clubbed her on the head and slit her throat
This was more than they had both bargained for
He took her body, threw it in a ditch
Then he tried to cover it with dirt
In her hand she clutched a piece of fabric
She had foresight to hold onto his shirt
Her body found there with a hue and a cry
Johnny was dragged in chains through the streets
Hanged on the gibbet for passers by
It is said that a year later they would meet
She haunts both ditch and gibbet to this day
Her banshee voice screeches berating him
Poor Johnny would prefer to be in heel
Her words feel like being torn limb from limb
A Shadowlam production. Great topic for a poem Shadow thanks
for inviting me to write this one with you.
She sewed and worked a garden,
did the dishes all by hand;
her wiggling giggling kids
would straighten up at her command.
Her leftovers were loved as much
as was the chocolate cake
she drizzled with that special sauce
she always used to make.
Today they’d call her backwards,
but we knew perfectly
that all SHE’D ever wanted
Was what she came to be.
By Andrea Dietrich
For Michael Smith's THE PERFECT WOMAN Poetry contest
~Mirror in my pocket~
Many years ago my Nana gave to me
A little pocket mirror, and she told me I would see
“See what Nan” I asked looking deep into the smokey glass
“You will see yourself” she smiled, and called me her "lovely lass"
It is a mirror so what did she mean, yet my Nan was very wise
And looking into the mirror, I didn’t recognise my eyes
Is this a trick I asked my Nan, while looking deep into the glass?
No trick lass, just a mirror but take heed of what comes to pass.
I slipped it in my pocket, thanked her and said goodbye
On the journey home I looked into the mirror, and it made me cry
Deep into the smokey glass I peered, but nothing I could see
No reflection of myself and I wondered how that could be.
A woman then looked out of the glass, tears pooled in the saddened eyes
A face that was not my own, it was my Nan to my great surprise
She smiled and disappeared, my own reflection replaced hers there
Shocked and surprised, I replaced the mirror, with tender care.
I reached my home sixty miles away and lifted out the glass
A woman that resembled me smiled, and I wondered what had come to pass
Weeks did pass my mirror became a treasure never left behind
Because when I looked into it, it was of my Nan it did remind.
Then the day, I saw the mirror so grey and full of gloom
I peered into it knowing there was some impending doom
My Nans face appeared, and with tears she mouthed goodbye
That was the day she died, and the day the mirror cried.
The mirror, I keep close, as she did,it means so much to me
I will pass it onto my son when I think he needs to see
To the woman i loved and miss, my reflection changed slow-ly
It’s now the same one looking out, as when my Nan gave the mirror to me.
Time has passed the years have gone, my mirror is smokey grey
I’ll pass it on to my son so he can be ready for the day.
I took heed of the mirror over the years and what comes to pass
I saw that we all grow old and my Nan showed me, with a looking glass.
My grandma had a green thumb
She loved to garden, plant and grow
Didn't matter where they're from
Snatching cuttings wherever she'd go
Her pockets filled with seeds from trips to and fro
Labeling the envelops with names as she was home
Plant variety was something she would know
She also knew specific times when seeds should be sown
Her garden was her solace throughout her hardened life
She planted seeds and grew her plants anywhere she stay
Always fed her family through depression and strife
Many rows of vegetables were planted in her day
Years have passed and she is gone her love of planting seeds
Was passed on through her family who now are pulling weeds.
Jennifer Marie Oliver