the damp night chill,
in her favorite chair.
Old and tired
Eyes, once bright,
cast a milky stare
blind to all
but distant memories
and moments carved
treasured wooden dolls
faces and form
now whittled away
Lines and furrows etch
the frail countenance
struggling in vain to see
a fast approaching
Daylight dims as twilight fades,
and lurking in the corner there,
A Dark Shadow
smiles. . . . .
as the old woman waits
Copyright © Gail Roberts | Year Posted 2014
A girl around 13, sitting at a kitchen table of the home where she baby sits,
is waiting for the woman of the house to finish getting ready to leave.
She is startled by two brazen hands coming surreptitiously from behind her,
fingers and thumbs beginning to gently squeeze her prepubescent breasts.
Frightened and aghast, the young girl stays transfixed and says nothing.
The man’s wife calls out to her husband, and the fondling abruptly ceases.
The girl knows something is wrong, but she doesn’t want to give up the babysitting.
She enjoys the children and likes earning money on her own.
All she can do is fervently and silently hope the incident will not reoccur
as she continues, on and off, to watch the children of that disgusting man.
The girl’s mind and body mature; by age 17, she is coming into her own.
She has been reading, watching, experiencing, and . . . . learning.
Once again, in those later years, she has the occasion to watch the children
of that man whose invading hands had long ago so repulsed her!
As he drives her home late at night, he reaches out for breasts now much larger.
The girl is waiting for it. Shaking inside, she summons up her small bit of courage.
Pushing his hands away, she calmly but assertively declares:
“Leave me alone. You can never do that to me again.” She now realizes
there are not always others that can help you. No longer a scared little girl,
she's a woman who can take care of herself. I know because that girl was me.
For the TRUE Meaning of Being Adult Poetry Contest of F J Thomas
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
A lonely tree stands in a field
Branches entwined in one
And as those branches come to life
They reach up to the sun
This tree with all it's energy
just like a woman so it be
It's branches swaying in the breeze
just like a mother's offspring, these
And so the lonely tree does age
The human kind out living
But we all end up just the same
Our flesh to earth be giving
And thus our lives all end the same
No matter what we be
Some have long lives, some much less
In life's sweet mystery
Copyright © Vera Duggan | Year Posted 2014
Fake Words – Zamreen Zarook
God have given us mouth,
Not to speak to north and south,
Tongue is given under an oath,
So it’s our duty to protect them both.
Girls chat fake with boys,
Having a notion that the boys are toys,
They often make varied noise,
Thinking to keep a trap on handsome guys.
Boys are also human being,
So it’s not possible being clean,
Things varies in the way they are seen,
So positive thinking will make you keen.
Boys’ minds are pure,
As it is pure bio,
So don’t try to pour vino,
Which will take decades to get cure.
Copyright © Zamreen Zarook | Year Posted 2013
A granny I might be
A granny I might be
But I can always see
My hair is growing grey
My shape is quite okay
I still love my fashion
I guess it’s still my passion
I always look quite smart and dressy
And very rarely I look messy.
I’m older, but I'm still a lassie
Sometimes me, I do look classy
I would not change a single day
Not ever, not in any way.
How the years they will turn out
Well who knows, I’ll wait that out.
Vera Duggan 13 September 2014
Copyright © Vera Duggan | Year Posted 2014
Summertime…they say the livin’ is easy,
Flowers growin’ and the sun’s sittin’ high.
They say your Daddy’s rich and your Momma’s so good lookin’;
So hush now pretty baby…there's no reason to cry.
One of these days, you’re gonna rise up smilin’.
Take a look around and think you’ve got it all.
You’ll have your Momma’s looks, all your Daddy’s money,
And all the boys in town at your beck and call.
Summertime…Yes, the livin’ is so easy,
Laughin’, singin’, havin’ so much fun.
No time to stop and think about your future
And what life will bring when Summer’s done.
‘Cause Summertime, it don’t last forever.
Breezes cool and the leaves begin to fall;
And in your quiet moments, you'll sit and wonder
How you came so far, but have no love at all.
Summertime....They said the livin’ was easy;
Ain’t it sad how fast the good times fly;
And now, your Momma’s looks and all your Daddy’s money
Another sweet, warm Summer’s day they cannot buy.
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
Barely a glance she makes at the oval mirror.
Everyday she's the same, so why even bother?
A dab of sweet perfume is all she needs.
Unnatural coloring will never grace her hair,
Those sparkling eyes cannot be enhanced by mascara.
It is only a natural blush that touches her face.
Finally, a simple piece of jewelry will do, nothing more.
Underneath her skin lies true beauty to behold.
Lip gloss could not brighten that still confident smile.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2015
Feel me standing there
on the draw bridge
that stands stubburn and erect
over the rushing waters blown by the wind
back and forth.
I listened to the crows
posted on gargoils designed
of eightenth century Gothic architecture
singing their death songs,
when the sun is setting in the far.
The voices of women passing
startle me with a feeling of sorrow
I can't breathe, I am dying.
Feel me, can you feel me rot away?
Slowly but surely rot away
as time passes with ease,
and taxi cabs take smiling, intoxicated faces
to wayward cafes, oh how they screech to a halting stop
and wave to me to get in.
"No thank you, I'd rather walk." I say to the smiling faces
highly intoxicated with the thought of the birds and the bees
rattling around in their empty minds.
Then they drive off, into the city lights and turn a darkened corner.
I look at the rushing water
and feel myself rot away
slowly but surely rot away.
Can you feel me?
Can you hear me?
Can you see me?
Feel my heart thump with slow paces
that manage to keep up with fast melodies.
Of songs that play in your mind
only the ones that make you sigh
and think those one days in Spring time
as you walked over the draw bridge
and paid no mind to the water underneth.
I hear no more talk of you and me, I hear no more talk
of the good old times we all shared.
Time has passed, as I take my last breathe
and hold my chest and shead a tear.
Feel me, can you?
If you can, put your hand to my weak heart
and feel it thump away with every second wasted
on useless items.
Now, see me a man of one time greatness
reflect his life with a reflection in the water below.
How I sigh and cry and breath heavely,
as I feel myself rot away.
The voices of woman pass me by.
Tomorrow is a new day,
for the smiling faces in taxi cabs will go home
and soak their raging hangovers with cool, wet rags.
As I still stand on the draw bridge singing with the crows,
feeling myself rot away.
Can you feel me without you, rotting away?
I surely can feel myself rot.
Such a heavy word, "rot"
So vulgare, yet a great description of me,
I pull out a shawl you once wore and I kiss it.
As the wind gusts and the sun rises and my shadow
comes to meet me, the wind shall take my last memory
of you away.
And I shall weep no more.
Then what will I do? Shall I walk the streets
and think of you.
Yes you, still rambling all throughout my head
like a lose screw.
Can you feel me? Feel me rot away
feel me think about you, and all your works.
Can you feel me?
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
Bows in the pigtails, bows on the dress
swinging her arms, loving all the sass
bouncing and beautiful, rounding and rue
we flow into the coming days, of kissing Sue.
Sue is immortal, holding her babes,
loving her man, cooking her meals,
wanting for the beyond, entering her days
slowing and slowing until she sits more than swings.
And there you find her bowed back all alone,
waiting for a call, wanting everyone back home,
kisses so remote, we wonder how they disappear
until we find warmth with the one who calls us home.
Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper | Year Posted 2014
What I do to deserve this heartbreak,
this horrid and unnatural pain,
this cleche of events that strike me simultaneously
as the time ticks away,
and as the grinning faces pierce a whole through my soul
and my heart turns pale and slowly beats.
My heart is torn in two,
and I cannot find the doctors to stich me up.
I ask an old man,
how does love go about,
he smaked me in the face and went on.
The pain and the sorrow,
it is too much to feel,
too much to gain in one serving,
When I eat, I taste posion, not passion,
familiar faces turn grey, with ruby eyes and sharp fangs
they hiss at me, like a cat to a mouse.
I don't understand why I deserve this.
I am a good man,
who loves with open arms and a big heart.
With every hug I give,
I recieve a knife of betrayal in my back,
I feel the blood ooze from my open wounds,
suicidal tendencies roll through my mine,
but I quickly throw them out,
because Mama didn't raise no coward.
I see the blow, I clench my fists
and swing away,
God cries wanting to stop this madness,
Death laughs and soon joins in,
people join in and punch away.
I lay there on the concret blood everywhere,
my heart torn out of my chest,
each with a thousand knives stabbed in it,
as it slowly beats,
I lay their on the pavement,
looking up to the heavenly skies,
and as it starts to rain droplets of hope
I ask myself,
What did I do to deserve this?
Then, I shall close my eyes
and rest for awhile.
Inspired by all the betrayal and heartbreak I've faced, by so many cowards who didn't want to recieve my love. People I had thought who were my friends, came with invitations of humiliation and hate, and now I see who my real friends are; this pen and paper... Have a good day.
P.S. No one should ever be shown this much betrayal and heartbreak. I wouldn't even wish it on my worst enemy. Have a good day!
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
She looked like an angel
Sitting there in her bed
Everybody loved her
She had a great sense of humor
They say I am like her
I am very honored.
She was my dear mother.
She was a very sick lady.
She had tuberculosis and stomach cancer
She left me and this old world at the age of forty-five
I was age five
Mom I love you and I miss you.
Copyright © Susan Schebe | Year Posted 2013
When colors flow
From your shining face
I draw your imagination
I invent words
To write about you
The prettiest poems
I create lies
To make you living in dreams
The most beautiful name
The most wonderful soul
The purest heart
The sweetest voice
Everything is gone
Except your magic eyes
And I and the rest of your memories
A minute or flower
A second or smile
You are between the minute and flower
You are between the second and smile
You are a glance of my age..
Copyright © Naji Almurisi | Year Posted 2013
Things get bad, then they get good again.
You can write yourself angry.
You can write yourself sick.
should you write yourself sorry.
The world, to me, is many things:
A canvas, a movie, a place to store
everything you are and will ever be,
but never a bell jar.
As long as your hands can shake
and your voice can quiver,
never close the door.
Love the ground under your feet,
and your only sadness
will be that a blanket of sky
can't keep off the cold.
Smile with every breath you take,
and you'll realize that,
no matter how much you weep,
you will never fill an ocean.
Look inside your heart:
There's answer there.
deep in an oblivion of night,
there is a light somewhere.
It may not be much light,
but it's brighter than darkness.
If you seek, you will find
yourself always involved in
and as long as that door never closes,
whatever something will be enough.
Copyright © jes russick | Year Posted 2013
Story of Afghanistan
The barren land of my birthplace
Green at times but screening a rocky face
Known for thousands of years for its warrior race
Let me tell you the truth,
No one really wanted this “space”.
Up until two lions began prying around
Initially, just fooling around
Afterwards, casting off their cannon sound
Resembling the 6th night of an infant’s fête
Building their castles, and so began the burial grounds.
The lions pledged to crush the other
With a master plan
Dividing the blood brothers
Such was the instruction of the queen mother
As the clans clashed and killed one another.
The chiefs were swallowed by the promise of gold
The mullahs were swapped for the hollow soul
The seniors by the fire recounted and foretold
The purpose for the lion’s vehemence
This story definitely in time will unfold.
The old grew timeworn
Waiting for their young ones to return home
The teenagers free born
Screamed out of their mosques’ domes
Come and join us in this struggle
Faced with the crusaders of the Church of Rome,
But little did they know,
No one will return but the maimed men to a funeral home.
The sturdier lion won the combat
But what has become of my Afghanistan
The wolf in a sheep’s disguise
Has spoiled my jade paradise
My heart denies it but I may have bombed my youthful chums,
This is now a global land-dwelling for bums and slums!
The lion wishes to be unveiled this time
So he promises to take the last dime
After all it pays to cooperate in war crimes!
He roars in a deafening cry
I bring Democracy to this land
With loads of cash in one hand
A whip in the back hand--forgetting the long years of perfidy
I now declare and demand
This is the new Promised Land.
A woman of this realm is exposed with a promise
She is liberated by democracy
Famous on national publications like the story of Pocahontas
She’s affirmed independent and agreed to arise out of the darkness
As the saga is read to the United States Congress
And anticipates the lion’s hunger
Waiting for the day when she will be veiled, unveiled, and then veiled again
Not by ordinary men
But by inscription of law.
Thank you for sealing the decree!
Copyright © Roya Zereh | Year Posted 2013
Walking in the meadow of life on that summer day
Where she always loved to be at Una walked along the steady stream
As she picked up the white Lilly flower and put upon her hair of gold (princess of love)
And the daughter of a dander king
Una suddenly turned her head to the old orchard tree and begun to sing roman lullabies of joy
With tears of affection shed for the god who lives above the skies
At that moment she gazed back to the stream
And there the lion stood so tall just like a king eyes wide looked to una
As she went toward the mighty lion he went to her and utter'd thee words
I am a creature of pride with nothing to hide I am pure of heart true of courage with a mask of savage a mane gold as our hearts-
She became very happy and intrigued
As she laid her gentle hands on upon the lion she spoke these words
-I love thee lion and by sun and moon I love thee freely as men strive for right;
I love thee purely in my old griefs and childhood's faith
There a tiny lamb appears right next to her and the lion
So small and graceful like a gift from god above
The tiny lamb followed them further into the enchanted meadow sky as crystal blue and the wind is calm they drifted off strung into the world
To bring new love joy and courage to the world and spread good faith
Copyright © Brian Otoole | Year Posted 2013
I am stubborn and undeniably clumsy
My life's not perfect,it's kinda messy
My hair is curly,I have no comb
I wear no make up,don't get me wrong
I am not a bad girl,just not the typical one
I can laugh like an idiot or sometimes like a moron
I am not girly,I have my own style
I don't know what to call it but it may take a long while___
To find a word that would truly describe me
Most people just see me as 'happy go lucky'
At times I can be very fashionable and chic
But more often than not my fashion sense can be very tragic
I can wear flat shoes,sandals and high heels
But my Converse shoes says best of what I truly feel
My civil status says I am single and 28
And I do not care of what society dictates
On how a woman at my age should dress and act
On what a woman at my age is suppose to expect
I am a free soul and that's what matters to me
And I do not care if you hate my philosophy.
Copyright © cresyl joy bajen | Year Posted 2014
I have an addiction...
It dont matter what time of day it is my addiction is there...
Not always in the literall since...
But it is always on my mind...
I lay my head down to sleep at night thinking about you...
I sleep dreaming about you...
I wake up thinking about you...
Your always on my mind...
No matter what I do my addiction is always on my mind...
Even if your not the last one I talk to before I lay my head down to sleep...
I still lay my head down thinking of you...
I just cant get enought of you...
No matter what my addiction is there...
My addiction has a name...
Her name is Shelby Nestle...
No matter how much we text or talk on the phone...
Its never enough...
I cant get enough of your beautiful eyes...
I cant get enough of that beautiful smile...
I cant get enough of kissing your soft lips...
That feeling I get inside when our lips touch...
Or holding you in my arms...
This is a new addiction to me...
Never have I been this addicted this quick...
It scares the shyt outta me...
But then I love it...
You are my new addiction baby...
You are my...
You are my own personal drug...
I cant imagine and addiction stronger...
You are my addiction...
I wouldnt even think about trying to break this addiction...
I wouldnt go to rehab for this addiction...
I like it to much...
YOU ARE PERFECT JUST THE WAY YOU ARE
Copyright © jaremy mount Jr | Year Posted 2013
I am a widowed woman of significant age.
Not unable to keep house, cook or bathe a child,
no dancing for me those days seem over,
but, yet - I can paint a picture or go fishing,
with the best of them.
I am strong yet vincible, not young,
I am a widowed woman of significant age.
Copyright © Marilyn Williams | Year Posted 2015
As my parents aged
I was always close
these were the people
I loved the most
Now without them
to see each day
comes my way
A husband aging
that forgets my name
seems nothing here
is quiet the same
As constant care
is required each day
my mind aches
for days of play
Memories of yesterday
come calling at times
I am a strong woman
I will be just fine
Copyright © chris hardy | Year Posted 2016
Simple numbers have never captured mine eyes,
Useless variables mortals equate;
And while her years boast broad scents, matured signs,
She’s the richest wine of my taste.
I could pluck our talks from these kept pages,
Verse the intrigue of her mere presence,
While causing this charm to voice for ages;
And as I laugh with company, heaven is sent.
But in this calm joy, there are flaws she owns.
These young eyes may be all the warmth she needs,
I could be filed away, entitled alone.
This chapter must pass, and our flirt must leave.
Although I’ll never catch her quantity,
The yearnful youth will always recall thee.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2016
Only Eve is a madam,
who is known from Adam.
Copyright © Volodymyr Knyr | Year Posted 2014
Ever since the creation of mankind
Life has puzzled the human mind
Has anybody ever questioned its origin?
Poets, philosophers , sociologists are still behind the margin
The first man's companion were darkness and solitude
God created Eve to fight this nigritude
Living together they populated the world
For their children to say their word
Made up of three stages
man spends life through different ages
Childhood, adolescence and oldness are the main frames
That fit in the games
Why do we cry on our arrival?
Because life is not a carnival
It is rather a mission
Where everyone tries to maintain his position
Juts like a coin with two sides
Life looks easy inside but tough outside
But whether head or tail
The ship has to sail
Copyright © Azad Boodhun | Year Posted 2015
On the curb of the alley she sat
Admiring the old Steinway
Noticing the worn finish and eyes focused on the ivory keys
For years she played in the symphony
Bringing an ethereal quality to each masterpiece
She walked over to the antique Steinway and began to stroke the keys
Crescendos and decrescendos and two part harmony
The passersby were enraptured by her humble qualities
A carpetbagger now with barely enough to eat
Many citizens stumbled upon her private concert as she closed her eyes to play
Rehearsing the most sophisticated sonatas
As though this was a Carnegie Hall day
At the end of her first performance
As the imaginary curtains began to draw
The audience of passersby began to clap their hands
As her heart rate began to fall
Her heart had grown discouraged over the years
As she was replaced by someone younger
She fell into poverty and deep depression and learned the song of hunger
Her day was complete
Her life came full circle
As she played her last concert piece
A band of angels came to collect her soul as her spirit was released
There is a moral to this story of the old woman and her piano…
Live each day of this life as you are strumming the ivories
Of a magnificent concert piano
Copyright © Gwendolen Song | Year Posted 2014
Limerick : Once this Wily Woman from Franco’s Spain – 6
This Wily Woman went on the rampage
New Year’s Day Seventy-Six* start of new age :
Marriage beds soiled with verve
This woman first to serve
Free-Maisons’ Afro-Asians free of charge !
• Adultery was a criminal offence punishable under the French Penal Code before January 1, 1976
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2013
a widow is my landlady.
Chubby and kinda motherly
she cooks for me.
We drink on the weekends,
and the hot stuff begins.
In a see-through gown
she comes into my room and goes down.
I can’t resist
the passion in her hot kiss.
Horny and all perfumey
she rides, wildly!
We ride the powerful waves of ecstasy.
Tit for tat I like it like that, sexually.
A cougar that will not be denied
before she is satisfied.
Hot and sweaty
we rock steady.
I feel her coochie grip,
As she bites her lower lip.
She turns red
and throws back her head.
we are blown out of the bed !
This story is from the past.
Copyright © Willie A. Buchanan | Year Posted 2015
I tried real hard to hide them, underneath a cotton canottiera
I was an awkward girl of thirteen and the boys well, they could be so mean
They taunted me with no mercy
“I can’t go to school no more” this was my battle cry
She knowingly took me into the five and ten and helped me shop for my first bra
The next day at school, I sat a little straighter
Walked a little different
Talked a little louder
And when they suggested I play slingshot
That was the day I knew I hated them boys;
Lucky for me I outgrew my hatred
The day Lucio suggested we put our desks together
And study math.
April 16, 2015’
Meaning of Canottiera: Italian word for undershirt
Copyright © Mystic Rose | Year Posted 2015
MORE THAN A WOMAN
She selects wool and flax
And works with earge hands,
She is like the merchant ships
Bringing her food from afar.
She gets up while it is still dark;
She provides food for her family
And portions for her servant girls.
She considers a field and buys it;
Out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.
She sets about her work vigorously;
Her arms are strong for her tasks.
She sees that her trading is profitable,
And her lamp does not go out at night.
In her hand, she holds the distaff
And grasps the spindle with her fingers.
She opens her arms to the poor
And extends her hands to the needy.
When it snows, she has no fear for her household;
For all of them are clothed in scarlet.
She makes covering for her bed,
She is clothed in fine linen and purple.
Her husband is respected at the city gate,
Where he takes his seat among the elders of the law.
She makes linen garments and sells them,
And supplies the merchants with sashes.
She is clothed with strength and dignity,
She can laugh at the days to come.
She speaks with wisdom and understanding,
And faithful instruction is on her tongue.
She watches over the affairs of her household
And does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children arise and call her blessed;
Her husband also, and he praises her;
Many women do noble things but she surpass them all.
She is much more than a woman.
Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2015
The summer’s heat made me almost swoon.
Here we were on the last day in June.
Two weeks had passed since I wore my cap and gown.
I spotted a woman who had just moved into town.
For a boy at the young age of eighteen,
everything comprised a usual summer scene.
What attractiveness she possessed! I could not help but stare.
I swear I saw her wink at me while she passed through the sultry air.
I was all alone later that day when she walked up to me.
She said, “Hello, I am new in town. My name is Audrey”.
This woman was older than I, and must have held a mystical force.
She was enough to make my ship begin sailing well off course.
This lady told me she lived alone and went through a divorce.
We walked over to her house, and then we went inside.
Audrey took my hand and showed me she had nothing to hide.
I was a boy when I saw the sunset with my eyes.
The next morning, I was a man when I gazed at the sunrise.
Many years have passed, and Audrey is but a memory.
In a single night, this woman made me reach maturity.
Robert Pettit for Frank Herrera's Coming of Age contest
Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2012
Poetry Day #4: Australian Sonnet
-end of the story-
An old woman sits in the rocking chair and smokes a pipe,
For silence and smoke will be the only things to fill the room.
“Hello there, young one, you want another story, I assume?”
Patting her knee, for she tells her stories only when time is ripe.
The little child nods and sits upon her knee, eager ears ready,
As the old woman’s lips tap at the wooden pipe once more.
“I’m glad you’ve returned, so I shall tell you a time of before.”
The child smiles as she begins her tale, her voice steady.
What a grand person the old woman was, telling such a tale,
Words flowing from her lips as if they were the sweetest honey,
The child drinking it eagerly, as if it was worth more than money.
Time passes once more as the story takes the child without fail.
When the old woman sees the child asleep once more,
The old woman closes her eyes, her pipe falling to the floor.
Copyright © Frisk Carris | Year Posted 2016
Social issues elevate politics into the ring,
Whilst a loving family frees your interest thing,
But all people need the state and NHS,
Which step in to assist when life is less.
But everything deepends much upon legislation,
The law, its acts and clauses are foundation,
Its wordings either narrow you into a lark,
Or respect your essence and dignity in hark.
If you are the storyteller expected to win,
The ear of the great who accounts for your sin,
Your module is no problem to your friends,
Or to your colleague who her hand to you extends.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015