Like A Girl
I play like a girl, I hit like a girl
You say I throw like a girl,
And, when I run -- I run like a girl!
All that plus more, enjoy this one size fits all
Who and what I want comes from being strong
Classy and fabulous,
THIS is my song!
I've been told, cut to size
The world dark and gray, when life becomes an insult
Take heed when I speak my mind,
I am tough, outstanding and beautiful!
Move ahead --- say it twice, I smell nice
A taste of Cool Water and Justice Perfume
I have a non-stop multitask fixation
Like a woman, everything about me is hidden
Magic and alluring the only joy in sexuality you'll need
I'm empowering this moment!
Endorsing Myself, with a certain sorta mystique
I deliver an independent will,
don't ever underestimate my physique
I am a caregiver, a female who won't give up the fight
I remain firm and believe all women have equal rights
I walk and talk Like A girl
wearing heels Breaking the sound of Annabel
Like, Mona's unforgettable smile,
I stand tall Like Miss Liberty
I am, Betsy Ross, America's #1 designer
Harriet, who escaped slaver-y
Like Theresa and Mary, I'm here to give change
I am, Hilary overwhelmed with determination
A leader -- A Goddess, I burn like Joan
---Cleopatra in the room
---Calamity Jane's wild side
Emelia's, won't give up heart
I am Anne, with a secret hidden spot
Susan B, with the right to vote
Emily who writes deep and pretty
The sound In your eyes aren't listening!
You imagine I am weak -- not strong enough -- brave enough,
You call me different and difficult!
Still, you want my warmth -- my love -- my attention
I am not less, I am more
I am a woman -- I frown -- I cry -- I hurt and yell at the universe
Nevertheless, I make a difference
Like a girl, I smile
A smile never seen or felt before, both defined and undefined
Your heart will ask and implore for more
Like a girl, I'll drive you wild, looking pretty "You're In Love!"
My Self confidence comes from who I am deep inside
Everything I've become follows the makeup on my face
Bare and nude, I am the Madonna flowering the mood
At the end of every day, I have one other thing to say
The Next Time You ask me to cook and clean
Because you think, I belong in the kitchen
You better believe I'm doing it my way
LIKE A GIRL
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015
I suck at dying poems
Chemo poems, Metastatic Cancer poems,
Hair falling out in the shower poems
And I told a half truth
When I told you I could write you one
In less than six months (It's been eight)
I apologize for being so late
I wanted your poem to be pink and graceful
Like those ribbons
I see all over the internet
Filled with cheesy generic rhymes
That could get me hired by Hallmark
I just know my metaphors will start melting
And that my similes will get all soft
I guarantee you the rhyme meter will be off
I went to Google
And the typed in the word 'happy'
Three billion things came up
Not a single inference to
Breast cancer, hair loss
No redirects to mastectomies
The only thing research could teach me
Is that a good day on chemo
Is when your stool doesn't come out tar Black
And has no blood in it
Or when your urine
Smells better on Wednesday
Than it did on Tuesday
Sleeping less than 12 hours
When 24 would be better
Still I refuse to finish this poem
Without something bright and hopeful
And I know I'm doing a horrible job
America has more poets
Than it does alcoholics
And Pot smokers combined
And you chose me to be
Your Breast Cancer
Trusting me to write a poem
About the biggest battle in your life
And don't think
I didn't notice your Facebook activity
Had decreased by 88%
In the last three months
And you aren't really
Coming to any more of my poetry shows
Ever again. Are you??
But we still have January, February
And how do you write
A Breast Cancer poem
With no references to breast
(I get embarrassed)
That would be some kind of Oxymoron
But even if you had one breast
Or no breast
or if you had less hair than I do
I promise to look only in your eyes
And never ever even notice
Or even think about it
And never for a moment
Would I feel sorry for you
Yes I suck at lying too...
But I don't suck at loving you
Or at hoping you wake up tomorrow morning
With no Cancer at all
And that The Eiffel Tower will be right outside
Your bedroom window...
And I would be right there with you
Holding your hand while we look down on Paris
And you can impress me with your French again
And if I ever make it
To the Pulitzer Poetry board
I might lose a thousand points
Just for this poem alone
And my hopes for the prize will be smitten
And some old person with white hair will say
That this was the worst love poem ever written
Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2016
My view on seduction,
is that what you're asking me?
my thoughts on loving a woman,
that's what you want to know?
Have you ever seen the image of a woman
in the ocean while walking along the beach?
You know how the shape is all there but void of definition.
You know how the shape is sort of broken,
how the lines are not distinct.
I wonder if that is what we men
have done to women,
they who we treasure most.
How often do they have to hide as a replica
in order to protect our egos.
To take a back seat because we have a need
to drive the car to be in control.
So if we don't allow them to be whole...
but you know what else,
what if they are perfectly defined
the fault is in how we view them.
What if that is them
we have no role,
no blame to assume.
What if that is exactly the way they want it to remain,
shadows of different intensities.
What if they want to be a series of reflections.
What if the ripples in the water are of their making.
I want to hold a woman.
Hold her completely defined.
learn more about her everyday
because I hold her like a book I'm reading.
I will tell you this
I don't have a need to know everything.
If she wants a locked room
that she has the only key to,
that makes sense to me.
Still I want her heart, her laugh, her tears
I want the feel of her flesh and I want her defined.
I want to see her not just her likeness.
I want her smile
I want all the expressions of her face.
So you're walking along the beach.
The relationship is new
for the most part
you are with her facsimile
but if you look down
you can see her feet,
not just her impression.
I can build from that.
She is steady
she is with me.
You want my view on seduction?
You have to accept
a basketful of contradictions,
you have to read the book
accept there will be constant re-writes
you have to at least see her feet from day one.
If you want to make it to the top
you have to start at the bottom
there are some great stops
on the way up.
love between two people
You wouldn't treat your career lightly.
Get it right.
Make sure she leaves footsteps along the beach.
That is how you seduce a woman...
...listen to her
...be interested in her career
...her wants, her needs
...don't talk a good game
Sponsor Justin Bordner
Contest Name The Heart Of Seduction
I understand this is a extremely different view
of seduction and might not fit what Justin
is looking for. This is his contest and I wholeheartedly
respect that. For my taste this poem is very seductive.
In it I share what I believe it takes to seduce a woman.
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
Dead Winter Stray~ By: Poet Destroyer
Nearby paces, Combatants lost under the cemetery walls,
“Blessed Men and Heavenly Remedy Women of Ages,”
Feelings of dance at the beginning of nightfall,
Scenery of fire, sadness passing this history page,
In that distant curve, somewhere nears the sundown stream.
Far away from the vision of mortal eyes,
A child plays as beautiful and pale like the sunrise.
She plays on the coast this beautiful but pale, sun raised child.
Pursuing nature, in a hushed angelic lucidity,
“In hushed angelic lucidity!”
Fragile fastened, to those adequate bones.
Profound deepness beneath the snow winder dust,
Below the memoirs of her floating vessel,
Reminisces of water drowning down rivers and streams,
A shattered female kneels in salvation.
An anvil so heavy it troubles the mind.
Lost in profoundness, in what might have been.
What was, for a moment in this period?
The grimness of her weak vessel dwells.
A lifeless winter strays around.
An album so old and dusty,
A christening gown not ever embraced.
Infinite, the woman and pale child of sunrise,
Soften footfalls beating out the torments.
Countless nights seeing the day of unspoken headstones,
Feelings of dance will never rest this heartache.
Eternity, in a dance of unconditional need,
Their hearts unite as one...
A closing of mother and child…
Dead Winter~ By: Catie Lindsey
There walks Warriors in that graveyard,
Holy Men and Medicine Women of ages;
at night you can see their Spirits dance,
setting fire to history's pages.
In that far corner, up by the stream,
far from the eyes of publicity,
she plays on the shore, beautiful Raylene,
catching poly-wogs, in silent lucidity.
In silent lucidity.
Brittle now, those fine bones,
deep beneath the snow drifts of winter,
beneath the memories of her body afloat
down rivers and streams of Remember.
A broken woman kneels in prayer,
a heavy weight on a burdened mind,
somewhere deep in what could have been,
what was, for a moment in time.
The grayness of her frail body lingers,
in a dead winter of the unborn,
on page forty-nine in the family album,
in a baptismal gown never worn.
Together they dance,the woman and the child,
their soft footfalls pounding out the sorrows
of many days at a worn out headstone,
many dances to come, many tomorrows.
Together they dance, The Woman's Dance,
their hearts as one...
the woman and the child.
~By: Catie Lindsey~
(for Catie's: Re-write contest..)
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012
I still look for her.
In the middle of the typing and the traffic
and the deadlines and the bills,
I look for her–the girl, who believed
her bare feet could outrun the moon.
She ran like a boy. She wasn’t trying to.
Her strides were not intended for similes.
No, she ran the way she always did
When she wanted the wind to dance
With the ungraceful tangles of her hair.
Her gestures, careless,
Were not meant to fit in boxes.
She knew she was a girl; she had been told.
But she didn’t have to know that one word
Was the gravity that would keep her in line,
Inching from one label to another.
I still look for her.
In the dusk and the shadows
And the starless sky, I look for her–
The girl, who believed in magic and
Ghosts and faeries and monsters.
She didn’t have to know the shackles
That came with age, the chains
That would bind her to the reality
Where monsters don’t hide under the bed,
Sometimes the monster,
It’s in the daylight
With a sharp tongue and a sweet smile.
I still look for her.
In the sunlight and the mirror
And the eyes of strangers,
I look for her–the girl, who didn’t think poetry
Lived in the ink or the page or the vocal cords.
She held poetry in the tips of her fingers,
And she felt it each time she touched
The surface of water and made ripples,
Or when she traced the contours
Of her mother’s face.
She made poetry
Like it was meant to be–felt.
I catch a glimpse of her sometimes.
In the Goosebumps, in the butterflies,
In the sweaty palms, in the flutter of the heart,
In a daydream, in a shooting star.
But she’s fading, fading because
Now she knows the moon isn’t following her
And poetry made by hands, felt but unspoken,
Unwritten, can be forgotten.
Copyright © P.I. Alltraine | Year Posted 2015
I invite you to join the perfect womens club
The application is sitting on the desk
The following will not determine acceptance
Certainly not breast size
Education will make little difference unless it's used wisely
There is no one to compete with
Acceptance is almost always guaranteed
What are we looking for you might ask
Have you cryed?
Does your heart possess the capacity for love
Do you sing along with the radio
Have you smiled, really smiled?
Have some of your dreams come true?
Are there still dreams waiting to unfold?
You can be shy or outgoing
You don't have to be anyone else
Flaws are important
They are what make you unique
Doubts and confidence
Forward and reserved
Doing the best you can today
It's okay if you have failed
Are you still smiling?
It's even okay if you are crying
You just have to be you
No need to change for anyone
If you want to change that is okay
You will reinvent yourself many times
Perfect in imperfection
A proud member of the Perfect Women's Club
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013
The scent of your feelings clings
To the fabric of my dreams
It never leaves….it lingers
The scent of your feelings
The fragrance of gardenia
When you are tender, sweet
Gentle and serene
Tranquility showing through
In the gardenia scent of you
Seducing scent of jasmine
Surrounds you like an aura
Promising opulent luxury
Of flesh upon flesh
With you in control
Leading me deeper
Into the scent of your fantasies
Tantalizing, teasing, tempting
Endless jasmine ecstasy
Sensual and satiating
Is the jasmine scent of you
Perfumed in Damask Rose
Giving off the scent
Of inner turmoil
You are brooding and troubled
Needing to be reassured
Held in the strength of my arms
Quieted by my love
Till dawn’s light
When your safety is assured
And your scent finds release
Along with that of mine
Honey suckle perfume
Your need to nurture
To let me suckle
At your breasts
Your perfume speaking
In words my soul hears
That you live only
To care for my needs
Your perfumed hands
Soothing way the aches and pains
Of my rough and busy day
Honey suckle promises
Of womanly affection
In waves of comfort and light
I taste honey
Nectar that sweetens my lips
For I know it flows for me
I know I am nothing
A poor lost man
Without the fragrance of honey suckle
Wafting over me
When there is venom in your eyes
Sparks fly all around me
And I know a storm is coming
A scent foreboding
Indicating the imminence
Of the unleashing of thunder and lightning
Torrents of rain
The scent of angered passion
I sense it
I smell your brewing storm
I’m unleashed in the elements
And yet….I know
How to harness your storm
How to bring calm
How to let you vent in my arms
Beat at my chest
I silence you with a kiss
Your arms pinned
The anger passes
Left on my chest
Leaves me shaken
In the aftermath
Of your storm
The perfume of surrender
Absolute abandon to my will
The sweetest fragrance
The tenderest emotion
A wilting flower
Waiting to be revived
Tenaciously wrapping around my body
Knowing its source of life, love, and happiness
Your scent moves me
Brings out my desires
To please and reward
To bring color to your petals
By my life giving stream
Lost in this scent
The most beautiful of all
The scent of surrender
The scent of your emotions...
Clings to my being
A perfumed eternity
In your arms
For Anthony Slausen's Scent of Your Soul Contest
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014
Does the past really matter?
Does it set you free?
I’m absorbed in the sin,
That is surrounding him and me.
Lost in the curiosity,
Cold to the touch.
Drenched in the poison,
With my dignity in his clutch.
Feeling like I was cheated;
I chose the evil instead of light.
I traded in the sunshine,
For what lurks in the night.
I disobeyed his orders,
I gave up security to be unsure.
I went against the warnings,
Gave into darkness instead of remaining pure.
Once my bed was made of soft grass,
But now it is made of stone.
Was plump from all of the luscious fruit,
Now I’m starving to the bone.
My curse is one of circumstance.
The punishment a crime,
I’m stuck inside this dampened cave,
For the rest of time.
My world came crashing down,
The grief has not subsided.
My heart broke completely,
When my sons collided.
My misery a token,
From the abandonment I earned.
Upon the time spent in sorrow,
There was a lesson to be learned.
Have I found the moral?
Only in time we shall see,
For all I did was eat an apple-
From the Knowledge tree.
Copyright © Alyssa Waters | Year Posted 2013
you are a storm;
you were made to be chaotic and awe-inspiring. To scream your emotions in wild wind, to rally against injustice in your path, turning away with scorn from those who bind their hearts with lies in a gentle wind. Who grind their teeth to hide the storm behind their eyes,
But bear in mind,
my little beast,
that though they may leave you behind, you will never be confined or resigned to a fate that is defined,
by how well you can contain the tempest of unrest inside your heart. And promise me this,
that you will never smother your beautiful storm, and transform into a life form of quiet neutrality, to hide behind a mask of normality to smother the brutality of your fierce mentality, because you
are a storm, little beast.
And you were made to be heard.
Copyright © Katie Ch | Year Posted 2015
you probably don’t care what my name is
I am a woman.
I was born so you can
tell me that my skirt is too short
get me to pay attention by calling me lil momma
tell me that I was asking for it
pay me less per hour
take away my basic rights!
First of all,
that’s not why I was born
I was not born for YOUR
consumption or use
tell me my skirt is too short
get me to pay attention by calling me lil momma
tell me I was asking for it
pay me less per hour
take away my basic rights!
oh my god.
oh my god.
she is being SO naughty right now!!
SHE IS SHOWING HER…
“the crowd gasps,”
here's the basic run down
on what i'm saying,
SHOULDERS ARE NOT SEXUAL!!!
IT IS SKIN!!!
and her bra strap?
it’s not like
victoria let her secret out…
IT'S A BRA!!
everyone jumps at the fact when they see a bra
the bra isn’t alive
it’s not scary
it’s not a nasty looking dog
and they should be everyone’s best friend.
“NICE ASS BABE”
“YOUR SHORTS ARE SHORT, LET ME PULL THEM DOWN FOR YOU”
“HEY HONEY, WHY WON’T YOU SMILE FOR ME”
these are some catcalls i’ve experienced in my life
one, i am not a dog
so don't whistle at me
two, believe it or not, these are not compliments
repeat after me:
catcalls are NOT compliments
three, do not catcall
it does not make our days better
it is rude
it is also illegal
in a few states
so she was asking for it
so did her dress say
it doesn’t have this little voice that sounds like this
asks for her to be sexually assaulted
i think thats your little inner douchebag voice telling you
with a girl
well if you decide to get some with that girl,
you can also get some jail time
about 97 out of 100 rapist don’t get any punishment.
drug dealers get more time in prison than rapists
people who have drugs actually want it?
My name is Cali.
You should care what my name is.
I am a woman
and you shouldn’t have a problem with it.
Copyright © Cali Carlson | Year Posted 2016
We come to you soft.
Swaying back and forth.
You hear music,
as my body dances toward you.
You seek trust,
from these darkened eyes,
as they stare right through you.
They add all the mystery,
a man is in search of.
A flick of the tounge,
like we are tasting you from afar.
We posses the forbidden fruit,
your body so badly hungers for.
With skin so smooth.
You begin to run your hand
down our backs, and around our waste side.
Now you have fallen to the temptation.
It is time to taste the fruit you so long for.
begining to rub across your fingers,
You become relaxed.
Working our way to the neck.
For this is the place which pleasure starts.
Wrapping our bodies around you,
we squeeze the life from you.
Copyright © gilberta kime | Year Posted 2007
She sits alone..
Everyone has said their final goodbyes
To her husband of sixty some years
Her seven children have never known
Or at least never mentioned..
How she never smiled
Just day to day
Did her job
Like the old man said
Bring me my......
Now there across the room
His roll top desk
Head always hung low
Eyes never meeting his
Lifts her head
Rolls back the heavy top
She's dusted a million times
She touches the things unfamiliar
Keys to the truck she never learned to drive
A checkbook she didn't know how to use
Legal papers she knew nothing about
His favorite cigarettes she couldn't smoke
His stash of booze she despised
Sat in the chair that was no longer HIS
Was this feeling loss?
Copyright © Donna Jones | Year Posted 2013
His bleeding heart
Was flustered from that torn parchment
In their leeching chapter
As if “friendship” was aggression’s bull
Running through crowded cemeteries
Under quartered, sapphire moon
He sipped pitied shots of century-old whiskey
With a dusty glass of pomegranate w(h)ine
“Why isn’t she coming back to me?”
“My heart will make empty declarations until her return!”
As he childishly latches onto recycled yesterdays
Praying for God to give him
White picket gate’s access code
Writing lavish, debt-ridden sonatas,
In whiplashed curiosity,
On why she chose to forget him
Unbeknownst to decrepit author
Return the favor
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013
Upon the wind sheltered hillside,
the sharp tang of metal and the sting of salt air lay
over a field of blood-red poppies, no Flanders Field.
At years fall, fields of rape roll like waves,
in the harshness of winter-sleet, stray boulders bow,
like the backs of mothers, and daughters sowing.
Their nails torn, ragged, and bleeding.
They bleed by the moon, and son, upon the fields.
No white crosses mark their passing.
For hundreds of years, and crops of rape, barley and wheat,
small hands, soft hands, and soft thighs bleed.
They bleed daughters, and sons.
They birth the fields by consent or rape and in the fields
unadorned by silver stars or purple hearts, they writhe.
Today, as May's sun wakes the blood blasted pasture,
each precious drop blooms, a heroines soul
acknowledgement, the poppies yield.
*Just 1 of the verses in my new book The Hurricane by Prolific Press
Signed copies are available though me.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
She's the one who carried you in thy womb.
Every day she counts until you grew.
A happiest moment she ever had,
Is when she first touched your little hands.
She's the one in charged to everything.
Twenty-four-seven,her duty never ends.
Do the house chores,nanny and cook.
Doesn't receive salary for her hardwork.
She's the one who kept tears in the night.
Just to assure a family will keep in sight.
She endures all heaviness this life has bring.
To keep her children away from fears.
She's the one gives unconditional love.
Forgive our sin, no matter how it hurts her heart.
She has a bag full of smiles.
A hug and kiss is all that she wants.
As she gets old, please love her back.
Repay her hardworks and multi tasks.
Take care the way she did for us.
We'll be a mom too,and do what she does.
~~ Dedicated to all Souper MOMs~~
**HAPPY Souper MOMS DAY!!!! **
Copyright © Aiyah de Torres | Year Posted 2014
She held her mother’s hand
As tears made their way
Down the face called
“Exquisite, beautiful, charming”…
The face that had been her comfort
She could not absorb the pain in her words
If I could only feel a little of what my friends describe
That feeling of”…she sighed
They say it’s like…like…
The beating of a drum..faint at first and then
Beating louder and louder until…
Until you want to explode with the strength
of the vibrations
Tingling all over”…
She covered her face with her hands
“Instead…I try to imagine it as we lie together…
Hoping I can please, can satisfy…
Talking about private matters
Was difficult in her culture
Now, home on semester break
She heard her mother share
The horror of that night
When as a child they held her
Kicking and screaming
Exposing her most private parts
Cutting away the center of desire
The essence of her womanhood
That had been cloistered
In the folds of safety
She squeezed her mother’s hand
This woman whose every move
Made men stare
Exuding sexual charm
She was the epitome
Of every womanly grace….
Yet...unable to feel the fluttering
That some time ago
Had slowly awakened in her own frame
Her mother’s tears
Now fell from her own eyes
She bowed her head in shame
Wanting to blame
Her grandparents for following
The stupid traditions of their world…
Thinking it was best…
Her mother enfolded her in an embrace
And rocked her
It’s too late for tears now"…
“I’m so so sorry, Mama,” she whispered,
Her mother reached out to wipe her tears
“Feel sorry for your father
I see the pain in his eyes…
Knowing that I cannot feel what he feels…
Often, he won't approach me, but I entice him
I dance for him”…
She smiled…caressing a memory
“He stole my heart
The moment he looked at me with those eyes
How I wish he could see, the fire of his eyes
Burning in mine."
It that moment, it took shape
The career that had remained
Unborn…in the womb of her mind
She would be the voice…of every little girl
Who had ever screamed in pain...in shame
For the little girl her mother used to be
For all the others that were to come
So they wouldn't have to grow up
With eyes that reflected pain instead of passion
The pain she now witnessed
…in her mother’s eyes!
No, it was not too late to cry…
Her tears now would be tomorrow’s tears
Of some woman’s tender and sweet release
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013
Into your Hideout
The ruins of my mind
The bombed out places so so unkind
Lost you in the haze of hells fire
Bombs making humanity expire
I have dreams they call out as nightmares
You are running away from your fears
Amongst such destruction and horrors
A borrowed bicycle your only escape
Yet here I am, and you know not the truth
I am alive, and running, just as you
Through the ruins of this city so destroyed
I am chasing you, and screaming, stop my love
Stop, arête no more need to run
The enemies and nightmares ran out of guns
That day when the sky rained barrels and bombs
Wounded, I survived, our love kept me alive
In the deepest of dreams, I hear your screams
Love please know soon, we will be in the sun eating ice-cream
I will never stop my endless pursuit
Of finding you my love, my wife, my meaning of this strife
I shall find your hideout in the depths of hells fears
We two shall resuscitate our hearts, humanities fools
For all the terror, the war and hate
One day me and you shall smile at lovers garden gates
My blood is yours, my veins joined to your soul
No soldier shall stop us, from our hopes and loves ultimate goal
When I sit caressing your hair in the shelter of hidden despair
The hideout no longer needed
Us lovers, together, finally in gods sun and the fresh air
Dedicated to all the innocent victims of the horrors in Syria
I would like to thank a fellow poet, for her support, encouragement and exchanging of ideas, Casarah Nance. I was discussing how often music inspires my writing, and was sharing some favorite songs with her, when this idea came up.
At the same time, tonight we had a workshop on www.baffn.biz #Poetry room, and I would like to also thank Tim, Casarah, Jan, Maverick, Halil, Samantha, Armand, Keith and Joe for the wonderful comments and suggestions. Great to see poets encouraging other poets. That’s how it should be!
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
20 lines, 10 syllables in each line
Playful is the seed nurtured in freedom
Brave is the fresh bud learning to explore
Wise is the flower blooming exotic
Perfectly flawed in God's heavenly eyes
Salt etches destiny dipped in love's dew
Written in deep feminine fragrance ink
Fondly thinking fruit of selfless passion
In the nicest and most loving warm way
Butterflies begin the dance inside joy
Each and every pulse propagating life
Listening to the heart skipping flutters
Regal beauty before these eyes jewels
Emotions kiss you are the breeze above
Blowing upon these sails moving forward
I am singing second heartbeat as you
Sharing visions of our divine future
Raising hope beneath surface of darkness
Wonderful lady onto you light shines
Courage filtering through chaotic thoughts
Your instinct is the blanket giving warmth
Co-written with Liam McDaid
Copyright © Angeline Haikutwinkle | Year Posted 2016
A ghostly image of a Soldier
stood in the background, as
a Mother with a babe in her arms
stood by a grave site.
She lowly whispered, "Father
this is Your Son. Son this is Your
Father. He gave his life so that
others might live."
Being a Woman and a Veteran I realize that women die and leave behind families.
I wrote this poem before Women were allowed into battle.
Copyright © shirley smothers | Year Posted 2009
The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.
Copyright © Nikkia Roberts | Year Posted 2014
*READ ALL BEFORE COMMENTING*
Lord forgive me she says she is on that sophisticated wine and dine,
she says her lips are sweet, hips full bliss enough to put your mind at ease.
Damn girl where did you get those degrees.
She feigns knowledge, pledges abstinence but lets loose to the first fool she sees
Then pledges again and lets loose and the cycle continuously, continues in a loop of ignorance.
Strange you are, a woman you are,
so when will you take a stand, and understand your lips and hips...
momentary satisfactions. The ratings of your visage an illusion which fades over time.
Rude... me... no, truthful yes, knowledge is a blessing the king you seek is not
dwelling in the slums in where you hum your tunes
Lord forgive me she says she is on that sophisticated wine and dine,
she says her lips are sweet, hips full of bliss enough to put your mind at ease.
I won't beg, I won't cry so the more power to you girl, cause ignorance is truly bliss
Copyright © Guy-Adler Dorelien | Year Posted 2013
Thousands living in fear
For they knew Hitler was growing near
In Poland her career would soon to be
As she helped scared persecuted to flee
Gas chambers were yet to come
For not all heeded the warnings of this young one
Compassion and determination
Made her the first in reporting the War of all Nations
A thousand horses and a thousand horsemen
A thousand tanks, her story found both ink and pen
Hollering of the invasion to be
Her worth all would soon well see
As German troops invaded Poland
Her report the first of World War number 2
The first female War correspondent so new
Setting the stage for all the brave lasses who followed through
Days long ago when a woman’s job just wasn’t so
She led the way, helping thousands begin a new pathway
She was the model for those who came after
She never quit, until death's battle
Her beauty had faded at the age of one hundred and five
Her moxy and determination they stayed vibrant and alive
She sipped champagne to the very end, one oh five
A tear for the lady, whose bravery defeated an evil campaign
Clare au Lune
For all tiss worth
You were and angel
Brave on the front lines of truth
Rest in peace, divine, for all time
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
Archetypes flash straight from a pack of Tarot cards
anti-terror Jing Jang synthesis with neuro-spiritual precision
implants explosive animation from the deep unknown
like a taro rootstock growing wings to fly with found suspension
Stereotactic stereotypes archetypes semi-circling soothing storm clouds
thunderbolts and enlightening darkness are my enema of anxious anger critique
of the mono-morph collision of the scalpel shadow ‘Prozacian’ nemesis
neology of ‘animusity’ of ‘newfoundlandel’ comprehension
Dialectical complementation rises higher and higher culminates in
ethereal transcendence where collective personal unconscious
presents my animus in wishful thinking and projections as
soft and gentle revel rebel raising entropy in tender conservation to escape from
Dogma categorically demanding artificial classification replacing with dimension
flow and rivers stagnant pools of stream of consciousness evading
sexist fragmentation disenfranchising marginalisation assigning male
and female emasculated o-variation where seminal origin implantation
Precedes nurture socialised indoctrination assignment of celibate promiscuity
My animus refuses to accept in emotional rejection whether Jung and I read
symbols from the same page or not of masques façades and liberated self
where academic artistry split hairs and personality for the premise of debate
I am a rebel and claim no higher lower ground of superior distension
He or she who animates friendly animosity is right and incorrect whatever
common ground belies the provocation I propose but possibly my
presentation of what others mean in kindness is too neutral neuters psyche
While anima and animus illustrate conclude a symbiotic destination
the starting point of this and that left right up above and side by side
is far too circular an argument when we should start not end in union
Male and female are constructions of disparity of power and repression
Archetypes are not therefore I am
11th June 2016
Animus-Anima Part II—Animus – Poetry Contest
Sponsor Tom Quigley
Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2016
My soul pounds with rage.
This heart has been scorched,
by your burning words.
My soul gasps for light
By your hands of pain.
I bare the mark of shame.
Your touch has maimed my body.
My mind drowned out my screams.
Blow by blow,
Shamed so low.
Never did you know how,
Your hands of pain marked me.
Copyright © Gypsyof Essence | Year Posted 2013
Cigarette burns dot the seventies green vinyl chair and a floor television doubles as a table with a lamp and figurines. A six foot two inch three hundred pound strong man made the small room look like a doll house. I watched Big Daddy roll Prince Albert in a can on cigarette papers many times and he was precise, meticulous to make sure not to waste his precious costly addictive indulgence. I got the nerve to ask if I could roll a cigarette this evening and to my surprise he let me despite mawmaw’s protest. I was able to roll the paper without spilling a leaf he smiled and I felt I had accomplished something great. Life is simple in the summer time world of leisure and no school. Big Daddy stayed outside from dawn to dark and worked the fields of corn, beans, tomatoes and okra. His old John Deere tractor made a "pup, pop, pup" sound when he drove down the road to our house. I could hear him coming a mile away and ran out to greet him. He had an idea that women were women and men were men when it came to working and he didn’t allow a woman to help him with the dirty work. A woman was to have pretty clean hands and delicate pale skin in his mind. Any other man said that to me I would give him a verbal lashing. But I overlooked Big Daddy’s faults he had a kind heart and never wanted to hurt anyone. He was generous in trading his vegetables and harsh if someone hurt his family or tried to cheat him.
Sunday morning he rested and put on a suit and went to church never did he have his bald head uncovered except in church. He had a dress hat for Sunday to wear on the way to church. I miss seeing those fancy hats and suits. A third grade graduate knew how to dress and respect the lord better than any college educated wealthy man. He wouldn’t smoke at the church out of respect.
With the man’s dress hat
Copyright © Doris Culverhouse | Year Posted 2012
Two Women, Similar Yet Different
Educated yet could not prevail,
School of hard knocks,
Similar Yet Different.
A lavish life yet unfulfilled,
Appreciative of what life brings,
Similar Yet Different.
Ignorance lacking accountability,
Responsible yet naive,
Similar Yet Different.
Egotistical taunting artfully,
Craft fully expressing discontent,
Similar Yet Different.
Crocodile tears yearning notice,
Noiseless hiss of strength,
Two Women, Similar Yet Different.
Copyright © M Nudelman | Year Posted 2011
Barricades.. built out of strong brick, but flimsy cement -
Strong force, but weak purpose.
It was ironic, she thought.
Society had set up four confining walls,
and yet was an unlocked door just there.. mocking,
beckoning those with the nerve to throw it open.
She was sure of it.
It angered her, these biased convictions.
She wasn't let to school. No work. No freedom.
And why? Why not, rather.
Simply because she was a 'she'.
But she would show them, she notioned.
She would show the world that the suppressed would rise,
and break through the boundaries preset for them.
She would show them that the women of the world could revolutionize it,
that they could achieve what they were deemed uncapable of.
She would tell them,
and she wouldn't stop until her voice resounded beyond the four walls of the world...
Dedicated to all the women reformers of the world!
Copyright © Sneha RV The Literature Lover | Year Posted 2016
There were scars, he would never see.
A part of her so broken, that it will cease to make any sense.
She has a story that he will never hear.
It will never be told to anybody.
Enclosed in her heart, sealed from the world and beyond.
She entitled herself to a burden so dear to her,
that she could never share it.
And it clung on to her as dearly as she clung on to it.
He will never know what she survived.
What made her heart ache,
when Othello said-
A liberal hand. The hearts of old gave hands,
But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts.
It will be eternal mystery,
so as to what her subconscious part of the Freud's iceberg holds.
He sees her as she behaved herself,
and he claims to have understood her
and takes pride in his human skills.
But What is understood?
When there are layers
as many as the days in her life that she wears.
He will not know what memories his touch and his words trigger
in her aged brain,
storming her to a place very melancholy.
But her skin wouldn't give in and her words wouldn't fail her,
and the world inside her will never be unleashed.
The days when she hides and cries to herself
will always be her secret she will keep from him.
When she cried for the reasons she denies to herself.
He will love her.
He will love the illusion he perceives.
He will love her but her plagued soul
will never be the part of the illusion he chose to see.
She will be loved.
Yet she will not be.
Copyright © Meenakshi KM | Year Posted 2016
They are the beign of my exsistence
But I'd gladly get cut just so one of them could kiss it
When I'm around one I stop in my tracks I get so submissive
I'd like to smoke them like some gonja weed
and if you drug tested me they'd come up in my piss
When I'm underneath one I am in instant bliss
I wanna scratch them all like lottery tickets until I find the winning pick
You know what the scariest part of all of this is?
I'm not gay. Although I do stray like all dogs go to heaven
I love the way she looks at me.
She shows me things with her eyes that the mirror has never shown me.
I receive compliments from women better than I do men.
You see because women rarely compliment.
Men will tell the ugliest girl she's beautiful just to get it in.
Some people look at me like what I'm discribing is a sin.
But I'd say it's beautiful.
We only have one chance to do it all in this world.
So why not live it the way we want to live?
I get shivers when her fingers touch my body
She's perfect for me and her touch reminds me.
Its not just sex its mentally, physically and outter body.
While I was here I thought I'd let you know about my hobby.
Copyright © Shahana Jackson | Year Posted 2011
Stop for a moment
And look past my face
Ignore the smile
And look into my heart
For it is there
It does exist
You just never bothered
To see it.
Lust in my eyes
You think you see
Look through the windows
And open the door
The joke that I tell
The wink that I give
The hair that I brush
Is not me.
Barriers I make
I put there to stop
People like you
From bruising my soul
You see what you want
And not what is real
Inside this bright wrapping
One who can feel.
You say stupid things
Like I am so pretty
It’s my parents I’ll thank
I owe you nothing
What I see in the mirror
Is of flesh and of bone
I don’t need that
I want to be loved
For how I would you
Not the car that I drive
Or the clothes that I wear
But for the care that I hold
And the passion I feel
The want to caress
When you walk through the door.
So before you approach
Please ask just one question
Is it me that you want
Or just my reflection?
The first would produce
A most bountiful love
The second, this mind
Just might be too much!
Copyright © Nicola Byrne | Year Posted 2016