Busy getting ready to go to a meeting
I was looking through my closet for something to wear
My 20 year old daughter, Shereen, was in my bedroom
Showing me her new clothes
I marveled at her
What a body
What a beautiful woman
Her curves were to die for
Her thin waist set off her other assets to perfection
Such a womanly figure
Her black raven hair fell in big waves to her waist
She commanded attention
Her pencil thin skirt set her curves off to perfection
What a beauty!
I loved showing her off to the world
Just that day I had told her
She was a living goddess
Rushing to get ready
My mind was on finding something quickly
When her words totally threw me…
This paragon of beauty said to me:
“Mama, I was just looking at you earlier today.
You are so sexy
You have wonderful curves.
What you were wearing really set them off nicely.”
This 47 year old overweight woman
I looked at my daughter
Who is brutally honest
The one I turn to when I need an opinion
"How was the solo I sang in Church? Did I go off key?
Does this color suit me?
Am I being unreasonable?"
To all my questions she'd answer with truth, not mincing words
She'd call me on some actions that she thought were "childish"
"You're overreacting, MOM! Stop being a Drama Queen!"
And here she was saying...
"You're so pretty, Mama!"
Because I know she doesn’t hide the truth
I felt like my heart would burst
It may not seem like much to you all
But those words….
Filled that hurting place in my heart
That little place where insecurity has set up a home
Where walls echoe of coming age...and lessened desirability
That place where memories of who I was
Mock and jeer the reality of who I am
Deep in my heart
The words settled in
And for a time
Chased all the ugly away
and gave me back my glow
exuding out in my stride
and they way I carried myself
Those words reminded me
That age is an attitude
That the inner woman
The INNER woman doesn’t change
She is ageless
A few words….
But what a big gift
my daughter gave me today!
I know it's hard for men to understand the sheer agony a woman goes through when she realizes that time is passing her by. That certain age where menopause reminds you that fertility is a thing of the past and beauty is slipping away. Men don't understand....They just get better as they age...more handsome. The ravages to a woman's heart are extreme. Seeing white pepper your hair....changes to your figure...little wrinkles around the eyes. It hurts, but we need to accept it with grace. I never thought it would upset me so, but I'm trying to cope and it's all the lovely comments I get that make me able to go on. Just this evening, I got another such boost when a family friend who is visiting my brother from abroad said, "Hello, Pudding" when he saw me! What a delightful comment! :) I'm, sweet, jiggly, and yummy! ;) It's all attitude...and I got plenty of THAT!
I’m really not a jealous person. I am happy for those who are fortunate in life. If I see a lady who has a beautiful family that loves her, I am happy for her. When a guy pull up in a fully restored ’57 Chevy convertible, complete w/ vanity license plates reading “AHH YEAH”, I’m happy for him. I have met two people in my life who have won large lottery jackpots, and I was very happy for them. Even when I see a drop-dead gorgeous exotic looking young woman wearing Chanel and four and a half inch Jimmy Choos, I am delighted for her. Seriously, I’m just not an envious person by nature.
Yesterday, my tire blew out. While I was waiting for my husband, I went into a local pub. A nice girl, Jenna, started a conversation with me. She was missing all four of her front teeth! We somehow started talking about dieting, and she told me that it is impossible for her to gain weight. She mentioned she weighed 102 lbs. and that she would love to gain at least 5 pounds but just couldn’t. She complained about how her metabolism was just “too high.” I’m sitting there with that old country song playing in my head...“A metabolism too high…What’s that mean? It’s like too much money, no such thing.”
Ironically, it happened to be karaoke evening. Once the festivities started, I clinged to the hope that my DVR was working and recording American Idol so I could watch it when I got home. “Big Matt” was up first singing George Straits. He was actually good. We all clapped. Next, it was Jenna.
I watched Jenna sing. In a world where if most of us had the misfortune to lose even one of our teeth, we would not leave the house unless it was to be fitted with our Davinci Veneers, this gal was poised and confident. She sang beautifully.
I found myself actually envious of this young woman. Not, however, for the reason you think. I found myself envious of her confidence. Despite her appearance, she sang with passion, poise and enthusiasm. Even missing all four of those front teeth, she could get up in front of that crowd and dazzle us all with her nice voice and pleasant demeanor.
As my husband came to my rescue, I left smiling.
I left smiling knowing that there are people like Jenna in this world.
I left smiling knowing that I do give people the benefit of the doubt.
I left smiling knowing that I do always look for the best others.
I left smiling knowing it is possible for me to be jealous of a young woman who is missing her front teeth.
The old woman sews
Marking each stitch
The whirring of machines
Whirling and whirling
Round and round
Of another time
Of a night
When she was afraid
To speak to a boy
Sitting next to her.
As her busy fingers work
She remembers more
Of that summer night
A blue cotton dress
With tiny ribbons
Lace curtains gently
Pulled by a breeze
Drifted out through opaque windows
While musicians played a rhythm
Of their own
And shadows pranced
On empty walls.
Waiting that night
Why no one
Her to dance.
On silver sails
She knows that today is now.
And yesterday was yesterday
Finished with her work
She catches her breathe,
Straightens her hair,
And turns off the lights.
Pausing to look back
Into the darkened room
Shadows return her glance
With a gaping stare
Adjusting to the darkness
She begins to recognize
Familiar shapes taking form
Satisfied that all will be the same
When she returns
She closes the door.
She holds onto her purse
For a traffic light
That has already
A smile crosses her face
As she remembers
When the boy
Became her husband
Children were born.
And the years went by
In a brown bag
Neatly folded in two
Is a blue chiffon dress
Almost like the one
She wore years ago
Only this one
Is for her granddaughter
Impatient for no reason
To go nowhere
The crowd pushes forward
But the old woman lingers
On the corner
Savoring the moment
Glad of memories
As a busy world saunters by.
The pricking sun starts to hide
when the stars unfurl their cloaks
The darkness starts to creep this evening
Oh I can feel my spirit rising
I stayed at the corner
And concealed by the dim
As I waited for them
With a see through dress
it reveals my fresh taut breast
and flaunt my crescent hips
Prowling, peering, peeping
like the voyeur moon
Scanning these passerby men
with a filthy eye
Ops, I spotted one!
"Pssst, pssst, pssst"
is an enchanting invitation
from this lovely siren
And I receive a glance
With a wink of an eye
he give in to mine
In my bed I prepared
sheets of smooth linens,
rose spattered floors
like a shattered virgin,
Sets of burning candles
weep my husband's leave
but their lights celebrate
my burning desires
He perfumed me with his breath
He oiled my body with kisses
fluids dripping in my flesh
Giving and receiving
Warm bodies colliding
Flesh against flesh
as this fire we unleash
Riding to pleasure
till we reach hell's depth
I'm a flesh huntress
who craves for flesh
I sling sweet talk
and bait my body
I need not snare
for that is man's desire
Don't dare to escape
As I cast sin's net
This poem is inspired by proverb's immoral woman...I am not pointing to a woman in
general...this is just a particular woman whom I also know....the point of view here is
For thoose of you who may not know.
Just call me gonzo I write the absurd for life is insane and sometimes
it takes a madman to speak the truth so very clear.
I write for the broken vacant faces that have lost all hope.
To the dreamer who's well is slowley running dry from everyone
telling him to stop wasting his time.
I write like a endless highway fueled by whiskey and wild women
every adventure leads to pain but life is pain and i love in spite of it.
I thirst for every unseen mile the desert my brother it's people dwell
in the spirt of the west the opium parlors and brothels spirt still linger.
I write with a hint of danger and a promise of disaster.
Im a blues player whos trying to out run the devil.
Im a outlaw riding to cross the border a woman looking to the
empty range for my return.
I write because I breath in a world were the creative air has gone
The bottle sits apon table and I welcome any strangers company
I just rather that stranger be a warm woman instead of a
unfriendly amigo who is a little jelouse.
Write to be more than just part of the highways landscape.
Some may call me crude crazy insane some even vulgar and
liar and thief.
But aside from thoose compliments.
No matter what you may call me.
Dont ever forget to just call me gonzo.
I know a woman so brave and strong that married
her sweetheart and made a new home.
They were determined to make a good life,
so he joined the Marines and went off to fight.
They lived in countries so far away and had two
sons during their stay.
Then they came home and settled down,
somewhere in North Carolina, a military town.
One day the news came he had to leave for awhile,
although she was crying, he only saw a smile.
He called her as often, as he was allowed,she
sent him packages that drew a crowd.
Then the news came, he had been hit, a roadside
bomb, and it was real bad.
Her eyes welled up with tears of fear, hearing the
words she hoped never to hear.
Strong and determined to find out the facts,
her husband was severely injured in Iraq. She told
the men that had come bearing the news that eve,
this man my husband, who just happens to be
a Marine, is my whole world, and has always
She made certain his care was very good, and beside
his bed, this brave woman stood.
She left her sons in the care of her mom, and
told them both, soon you can come. I know now,
God gave her wings, but from us they are hid.
Up on a hill there was an old house and in it lived Abigail, a young lady without a spouse. One day her doorbell rang and she went to the door. There stood an old man, his head to the floor. He appeared scared and weak so she let him come in, for if she didn’t it’d be a sure sin. The old man smiled and gave his thanks, and she said, “Not to worry, there’s no need to thank.”
Abigail and the elder talked for quite a long time. Sharing story after story, and soon drinking wine. The two became very good friends and laughed, and laughed ‘til night came to end.
When the next day dawned, they went for a walk, down at the pond they decided to stop. It was frigid and misty, but they enjoyed the stroll because their friendship was warmer than the wind’s dreadful cold. As they stood in front of the calm, cool pond, Abigail asked, “Where do you come from?” The old man laughed a deep, dark laugh, “I come from the boneyard, the place of last breaths. I am the man, which many name Death.”
The creeping old man then pulled out a knife and slashed Abigail’s throat before she could fright. Her life left instantly, her body grew cold, and the elder’s smile sparkled like gold.
The pond was hungry and the old man knew that Abigail’s corpse would have to go soon. He tied a brick to both of her feet and tossed her away into the deep. As her body sunk into the watery blue, the elder stood there and felt renewed.
Back on the trail the aged man went. Not a worry in mind, no remorse ever meant. He did what had to be done, to the grave his soul belonged.
The elder approached another ol’ house. He rang the doorbell and waited, innocent as a mouse.
A Woman’s Worth
By Nate Spears
Her purpose in this world is hurting
She’s never been a designed of perfect
But she is a mom, so she’s super
Then roll up her sleeves ; and
Take care of the kids; and
Making it a home
For a beautiful family to roam
Building wonderful memories
Becoming a woman of worth
Keeping her faith through Christ
Keeping her pace through health
Keeping her sanity through managing
This is a woman’s worth
I’m giving you
Despite of all the stress
She receives her family with open arms
Through all the mess
She’s a fantastic mom
A wonderful woman
Deserving a round of applause
Plus a standing ovation
For always being an American sensation
That held this continent down since day one
Since the Plymouth Rock landed on us
Thank you for her giving
Thank you for her living
Thank you for her children
This is ,
A woman’s worth.
I can’t change/You can’t change/We are Two separate/ people with Two separate hearts when did this road shred apart/
I can’t force this love anymore/ I am lost in deep thought / Emotional pain hurts/ but when you Add mental games/ and a teaspoon of lies/ It’s just ugly as a newborn cries for help
This broken heart lingers woman/ I am tired/ Trying to piece this love hate relationship together/ it’s so torn in pieces I can’t pinpoint the location/ we are too far apart / Now longitude and latitude can’t place us together/broken hearts/ Frustrating tears/
Now it’s two separate lines/ two different directions/ do you see my reflection/ reflect off this glass mirror/ Now look at my torn face as sweats falls off my face/ Tears in my eyes a whale can swim/ It’s frustrating to find a answer/ At first I couldn’t sleep/ lonely night became very dark / but now start to feel like Morning’s are my best sunshine
By Nate Spears
Published 2013 in “Death OF A Rose” By Nate Spears
A lost woman the mirror reflects
Young; and it’s apparent
I can see it in her eyes
No focus and childbearing
Just ass, legs, and thighs in mind
If she knew better
Learned better; and
He would show her a better way of living
Instead of dealing with cowards
Seek a man with moral and merit
He’s stealing your joy
He’s bringing you pain
Removing your youth
He’s playing games
The truth at heart is
Reality should be your first thought
Loneliness is not your fault
It’s a part of life for most
Don’t let it destroy your values
You’ll find a true love to treasure you.
SHE WAS HIGH, AND SMELLING, RIPE OF SEX
WHEN SHE WALKED INTO THE CHURCH.
IT WAS EVENING SERVICE, BUT STILL, THE AIR WAS HOT.
HER BLOUSE WAS OPEN, HER JEANS WERE TIGHT,
BUT HER SPIRIT WAS SEARCHING FOR ANSWERS...
SHE NEEDED RELEASE FROM HER BONDAGE, OR HER SOUL WOULD ROT.
UNSURE OF THE SOURCE, OF THE POWER THAT LED HER...
THAT SPOKE TO SOME SUBCONSCIOUS NEED,
TO SALVAGE THAT PORTION OF LIFE, NOT YET WITHERED AWAY.
SHE REMEMBERED THE YEARS AS A CHILD, SHE WOULD LISTEN
TO PARENTS THAT READ FROM THE BIBLE.
THE PARENTS THAT TAUGHT HER TO TRUST GOD, AND TAUGHT HER TO
SHE NOTICED SOME CHURCH FOLK, WERE LOOKING HER WAY,
THEIR EYES FULL OF COLD CONDEMNATION.
EXPRESSIONS THAT THREATENED TO PAINT HER WITH FEATHERS AND
HER GRANDMOM ONCE TOLD HER THE PROBLEM WITH CHURCH
WAS CHURCH FOLK...THAT SURE LOVE TO JUDGE
WHO SOMEHOW FORGOT, THAT CHRIST SAID,"TO COME AS YOU ARE."
SO WITH THAT IN MIND, SHE MANAGED TO SMILE
THE SMILE OF A SINNER WITH PURPOSE...
THE SMILE OF A WOMAN ACCUSTOMED, TO TREATMENT LIKE DIRT.
HER SPIRIT WAS DRIVEN AND FUELED INTO FOCUS
BY PAIN AND BAD CHOICES SHE'S MADE
SHE WAS SEEKING FORGIVENESS IN CHRIST, SO THEIR LOOKS, DID NOT
THESE CHURCH FOLK WHO FELT THEMSELVES RIGHTEOUS AND HOLY
WHO FELT IT THEIR DUTY TO JUDGE HER...
WHO ALL KNEW THE WORD, BUT SOMEHOW FORGOTTEN ITS TRUTH.
COULD NOT STEAL THE JOY AND THE PEACE NOW UPON HER
A CALM SHE'D NOT FOUND, IN THE WORLD...
A REBIRTH OF SOMETHING SHE'S MISSED
SINCE THE DAYS OF HER YOUTH.
SHE WAS THERE TO PRAISE "GOD', NOT THE PEOPLE,
WHO WHISPERED AND POINTED HER WAY,
HIS DOORS REMAIN OPEN TO "ALL", WHO WOULD SEEK TO COME IN.
THEY'VE BECOME TOO RELIGIOUS, TO BE ABOUT GOD
THESE CHURCH FOLK, WHO CALL THEMSELVES SAINTS...
NOT RECOGNIZING THEIR JUDGMENT, THE MUCH GREATER SIN.
THIS WOMAN WAS TIRED OF LIVING HER LIFE, IN SINFUL DARK WAYS OF
AND CHURCH FOLK WOULD THINK, TO SHUT HER OUT, TURN HER AWAY.
WELL THIS ONE MADE IT IN, BUT HOW MANY WILL NOT
SHUT OUT...BY THE PERFECT, SELF RIGHTEOUS...
HOW MANY MORE OF OUR LOST SOULS, WILL CHURCH FOLK, BETRAY
Betty was bonafide crazy. She had shot her husband after a night of drunken quarreling, and was in the state mental hospital instead of being in the slammer. She'd shot the louse in the stomach and he had lived, fortunately for her. I never tired of hearing about Betty's attempted escape and eluding of the police in the aftermath. Over the river and through the woods she ran, but not to grandmother's house, sadly; she didn't know where she was going; all she knew was that she HAD to get the hell outta there.
Down a steep embankment she had tumbled, right next to the highway. As she attempted to orient herself, a car slowed down, it's lights blinding her as she tried to pick off the brush, debris and twigs that clung like glue to her hair and muddy nightgown. The car stopped, two cops sprang forth and yelled, "FREEZE!". The jig being up, Betty did as instructed, was cuffed and read her Miranda rights. She never bothered to elaborate how she wound up in the loony bin instead of staying in the pokey, but I can only imagine it was due to her obvious derangement.
Betty was a hoot; funny as could be and an excellent card player. She had long, shaggy salt and pepper frizzy tresses that looked more like a Halloween wig than an actual coiffure. She was well into her fifties but seemed much older with her deep smoker's wrinkles and heavy, sunken eyes, like a soul that's known too much wear, tear, pain and heartache and aged prematurely. On more than one occasion I questioned her actual insanity, but on one night, when the moon was full and all the crazies were, admittedly, much more maniacal than normal, my doubts about Betty's "playing possum" dissolved. It's true, you know, what they say about a full moon and the impact it has over the mind; I've witnessed it first-hand too many times in different psych wards to discount it as "old-wives" folklore. Nurses never fail to mention when there is a full moon; they know it to be true as well.
I don't know what set her off. I was enjoying a game of rummy with Angela, a paranoid schizophrenic with a penchant for identifying supposed conspiracies within the hospital, when I heard Betty screaming furiously and cussing up a hurricane. Well, something didn't suit her, obviously, and she was having none of it. This is when I began to wonder if Betty was not part "Bionic Woman". Next thing I knew, she wailed like a banshee, took off sprinting down the hall at incredible, breakneck speed that defied her rather plump figure and stubby legs, and drop-kicked the heavy, locked steel door that barred the exit of ward "Grag". Nurses hit the panic button and made urgent phone calls which signaled the goons and heavy muscle to race toward our ward to subdue the unsubduable. Soon as Angela heard the nurses all in a frenzy, she yelled, "CONSPIRACY LEVEL UP! TOP FLOOR!" ("Top Floor" being the ward that housed the most violent or dangerous loons.) Paranoid schizophrenics are such a suspicious bunch!
As Betty raced by, Angela immediately stood up, cheering her along, chanting "GRAG STYLE, BABY; YEAH!". In total astonishment I watched this Wonder Woman drop-kick this barricade (which was most definitely designed to keep us confined) in total kung-fu, samurai, ninja style with such force that it burst wide open! Talk about jaw-dropped incredulous! By the time Betty the She-Hulk nearly drop-kicked her way to freedom, the goons (as the big orderlies were dubbed) descended upon her, but she fought with such ferocity that for just an instant I thought she might break free, given that she had picked up a nearby chair and was using it to fend them off with the skill of a lion-tamer (or so I mused). But poor Betty was helplessly and hopelessly outnumbered and the whole incident must have happened in the span of maybe two minutes, but time has a funny way of slowing down and stretching in instances such as these, when the eyes and mind are trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. She was tackled on all sides, but not before one of the stooges took a whack upside his empty head. Nurses rushed forth, syringes in hand, and gave Betty the usual knock-out serum of hefty doses of Haldol and Benadryl (don't ask me how I know this!). Then, as was the procedure in all such cases, Betty was strapped down on a gurney and wheeled away to the "Quiet Room" where she was to be closely monitored by some muscle.
As one of the orderlies passed, carting the drowsy Betty past us, Angela barked one of her customary insults of, "YOU SMELL LIKE ASS AND NACHOS!" which never failed to tickle me to no end. The excitement over, Angela and I went back to our game of rummy and she accused me of cheating when I won, flipped over the table, and stormed off (but she always did this whenever she lost.) Ah, Angela; what I'd give to play rummy with you again!
A few days later, after a two week stint, I was finally released and never saw or heard from Betty (or Angela) again. Whenever I see someone fly into a rage, I am often happily reminded of Betty, Super-Woman of ward "Grag". Why was I there? I'll never tell!
I was alone
Travelling Interstate 80
Following the route of the early Western pioneers
2900 miles across the midsection of America
Stretching from the East Coast to California
In Utah home to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
The land becomes flat and straight
Large signs on the edge of the road
Warn drivers about fatigue and drowsiness
Tired and hungry
I drove on
Watching shadows move in the sunlight
Day turning into night
On an empty highway
Finally I stopped at a place off the road.
An old woman showed me around
On a warm evening
Life is a delusion she said
There are terrible people out there
You ought to be careful
Cause you’re young you know.
The room was small
Fan cutting through the humid air
Telephone ringing in an empty room
In the shadows
She pointed to a spot
Where an old man died
We kept the shabby couch she said
Too expensive to throw out
We’re as practical
And frugal as the Mormons
So we kept it.
No sense in thinking about it any more
The more you think
The more mixed up you get
Besides it’s wide
A bed for two and very comfortable.
I tried paying for the room
She looked in my face
Searching for something
Then down at the crumpled bills in my hand
Wetting her fingers she counted the money
I don’t know if you kids have everything
Or you have nothing
Time and experience will tell
Then she handed some of the money back to me
I don’t need that much
Beside it’s only money Son
That’s all it is
Life is short
You hold on to it
You’ll need it later
I looked puzzled
We all have our secrets.
I was up early next morning
When the old woman appeared
I figured you’d be leaving soon she said
Yes I replied
Going to look for family out there?
No just myself
Lightly touching my arm she said
Don’t be afraid. You’re young. There’s always been magic in a young heart
The roads are clear this time of morning.
Ride straight and you’ll do fine.
The engine revved up
I was moving at 60, then 70, then 80
Windows wide open
Wind pouring in
Not another car on the road
I was alive
I was free
The morning belonged to me.
What beauty is to me
It's the walk of a young woman in heels
The swing and sway of her hips
The uncertainty of her steps
The vulnerability in her eyes
As she feels all the staring eyes
Devouring her beauty
There is nothing more charming
Than the little girl look in her eyes
As she enjoys the attention
But at the same time is uncomfortable
In the role of a seductress
What beauty is to me?
The sweet woman smell as she approaches
Nothing in the whole world
Either natural or manufactured
Can even come close to equaling
This overwhelming potion that says love
In no uncertain terms, the message comes at you
Loud and clear without a word being spoken
As males of the species
We are uncontrollable under her spell
What beauty to me?
© Jack Ellison 2014
Behold, one day was a woman who was found in possession of many men. Good men, enamored by some other concubines and some married. And in the year 30 BC the law was harsh and severe. And the woman was taken to a prophet who was in the region to be tried and sentenced to stoning.
The wise heard all the witnesses, the men who were involved with this woman claimed they were attracted by its impurity and its spells, the wives of men who lay with Magdalene really wanted it to be stoned.
Then the sage asked: where is the adulteress? And all pointed to the ground, with stones in hand ready for stoning, toward the woman who was in tears. And again the sage asked where the adulteration? And all again pointed to the woman who was on the ground crying.
His tears fell at the feet of the thinker who stopped for a moment and said to the crowd:
"When each of you pledged to love each other as a sign of respect for the Creator at least stopped to reflect on the consequences that the adulteration of thought would lead to their own destruction teaching?
What did this woman beyond just love?
I see in their faces adulterated by the expression of a thought that leads to hatred and seeks the destruction of the next as to what gushes misunderstanding.
Who really had adulterated the divine purpose? One that gave the body a sign of love for others or those who changed their initial purpose in interacting with the creator?
Then so be pronounced the sentence. He who does not have it in your face adulterated the true purpose of love that judge this woman for the crimes that have been allocated to it, ... "
And one by one all left without even a stone was thrown.
Author: Max Diniz Cruzeiro
How would the master: "Love one another as I have loved you"; "Love God above all things and your neighbor as yourself"
Day in, day out… I’m here
softly walking down
the corridors of your mind
a seductress in search of the room
where you hide your heart
The train of my sheer gown trails behind me
my bare feet hardly making a sound
yet my scent…..
my scent alerts you to my presence
to reaches you in pulsating throbs
and you turn the lock...
leaning heavily against the door
of the secret room
which bears your heart
but I know...
you want me
I hear you
and move in your direction
standing outside the door
where you stand guard
protecting your dearest treasure
for you know
once I find it
you will be mine
I hear your heavy breathing
you sense my presence behind the door
you feel me
you shut your eyes
to block out the vision
that forms in your mind
clad in only wispy red lace
you smell the scent
exuding from the cleavage
where my perfume scented fingers have been
the place your face
longs to be
I read your thoughts
and I sense
victory in sight
alluring, calls out to you
“Let me in…
I only want to please you
Let me love you
Don't be afraid"...
You cover your ears
to drown out the dulcet chime
the rhythm and rhyme
of my words
making your body move
I use this time
to pick the lock
with keys I have stolen
from one of the other rooms
fantasies of me
in your arms
in your bed
my hair flowing
all over your body
as I bring delight
fantasies that need to see the light
each fantasy a key
Yes, the largest key works
I turn the lock
and the door slowly opens...
I step inside this forbidden room
where resides your heart of hearts
you have moved away from the door
in the middle of the room
you fall to your knees
in your hand, your heart
safe, protected, secure
“Please,” a ragged whisper
“Let me be”
Deliberately, I make my way to you
Swaying with each step
My hands on curvaceous hips
my hair cascades down
my eyes take you in
a wanton smile on cherry lips
using every womanly grace
you try not to look
you try to turn away
I never fail
I stand before you
fingers under your chin
I gently raise your face
your eyes plead
my hair flows down
along with my gown
there at my feet
the feminine scent of me
your eye traveling
where dreams have only been
I whisper in your ear
my breasts against your chest
my breath against your cheek...
I've come for you, you see...
To set your cravings free
Unleash your fantasy
Your seductress I’m meant to be
Ah...yes.....make sweetest ever
t *V* o
For Justin Border's Art of Seduction Contest
When Miss Lily Jane Bobbit arrived in that Alabama town,
jaws dropped; all eyes were riveted on her.
The ordinary street on which she lived would be no longer common,
for Lily Jane now graced it with her presence.
Not everybody liked this sassy lass.
The girls in town were jealous and some folks were bemused
by this lovely and precocious child with long, dark silken hair
who, fashionably attired and immaculately groomed,
walked and talked like some sophisticate!
Ever the lady and the epitome of southern charm,
Lily Jane was often mocked behind her back.
Due to her solemn demeanor and unusual directness,
she seemed starkly out of place in that small backwater town.
Yet not a soul who met her would remain unaffected in some way
by this woman who inhabited a young girl’s form.
Wise beyond her years and blessed with intuition,
she had a moral compass the bigots were unaccustomed to.
She would not back down to the bullies who would shrink
when reproached by Lily Jane for bad behavior.
Defender of the downtrodden, she shone with the righteousness
of one who sees no color; she was just!
And in her eyes, everyone was equal beneath the skin.
Both tenderness and mercy she extended to the meek.
After all of this, there was more. Miss Bobbit had a dream!
In the quiet hours of her afternoons, she’d go to her back yard,
where neighbor boys might spy on her from behind the fence.
In such moments, her dream unfolding could be observed
as Lily Jane lithely moved her slender body -
swaying, bending, and pirouetting across the grass.
She dreamed one day to go to Hollywood, but not just for dance.
Another talent glittered in that girl.
Lily Jane could sing, and she performed one night
before her townspeople in a talent show for the community.
When she started singing, everyone grew silent.
She sang of dreams and of never giving up on what you want.
With her beauty and her angel voice, she exuded iridescence.
Mesmerized, not one person could deny that if anyone could do it,
Lily Jane would reach her highest star.
I now conclude my summary of this woman child,
a character of fiction, Miss Lily Jane Bobbit,
who was brought to life by the marvelous imagination
of a master storyteller named Capote.
I’ve met many people in my lifetime,
some who exhibited one or more of Lily’s strong qualities.
Since truth, they say, is stranger than fiction, I like to think
there exist other people peculiar in their goodness,
lighting up our world as did Lily Jane, the iridescent.
*See "about poem"
Hostile Times II
By Nate Spears
Busted love is my Crystal Ball's fortune
My heart hurts in a torturing way
Nothing ever works in my favor
I lower my head and pray
Confessing to God
All I have to give
A 16 year old rebellious daughter
A 13 year old son that’s dead
My father is in prison; so is the one of my two kids
Is this really a way of living?
I didn’t have a choice from the days beginning
Would have a given me a chance
Walls of barriers bearing on us
On this earth we stand
Refusing to let go of this curse
If no bill is signed by Congress
My unemployment runs out next Thursday
Now I contemplate what’s next?
Sex dollars or Creflo's Dollars?
Be an honest woman; or
Be a fool that’s starving?
When pushed to the limit
All governors are discarded.
Hostile Times rains upon us
Other nations joins the honors
The Elite makes me vomit
There’s plenty of resources among us
God have mercy and let it trickle down on us
Rather than become degrading
In this pew
I choose prayer
Becoming Sunday Mornings best
Washing away my pains that become abreast; with my chest
Bringing in a new day,
For a better way
In these hostile times we live in.
It was a cold and rainy night.
The stars were shining bright.
It seemed as if the world was at a pause and not a person was in sight.
I sat quietly in my car,
the sound of music I heard blasting from a far.
I opened my door,
stepped out slowly and looked around.
Now suddenly the music stopped,
not a word is heard, not even a sound.
I turned my head, looked over my shoulder,
I saw a woman running.
She was wearing a white gown.
I couldn't help but wonder why this woman running
flaunted such a frown.
I followed her footsteps,
I listened for the sound.
Running through the darkness,
one question came to mind,
Who would leave this woman?
Who would be so heartless?
How can someone leave her when she is so obviously distraught?
Abruptly a sound was heard.
I came to a stop.
I listened closely.
It was a gunshot.
Now fearful I stood.
I began to run as fast as I could.
I ran so fast, I could hear my heart beating.
I came upon my car and noticed a woman bleeding.
She was gasping for air.
Someone had shot her and left her to die there.
It was as if they didn't even care.
She reached for my hand,
whispered softly to me
"never trust a man"
At that moment her hand dropped.
I knew her heart had stopped.
I looked at her white gown now dripping red.
I I cried to myself and pondered what she had said.
This could be me.
I could be lying here dead.
I will remember her words always.
They will haunt me for the rest of my days.
This moment I will never forget.
No man should ever be such a threat.
This was the day my life would change.
From this day on I would never be the same.
The lesson I learned here,
never have such fear.
Fear that will keep me from being free.
I learned that I can be happy just being me.
uncomfortableness, and hesitation arose that you might reassess a possibility for friendship or.... whatever with me.
A disappointment set in place in the event that based on some facet of my being (inexplicable flaws within this corporeal human male), forecast that an about face (booked on charges inherent in this googly eyed, earth-linked, kool hotmail of a yahoo) would be un liked!
Juno what i mean?
In retrospect, no matter that this average boyish chap desires enjoyment, he admits that ordinary punctuating various stages of development difficulty coping found him msn (miss sin, missin, missing, et cetera) on ordinary interpersonal experiences!
No matter yours truly usually finds me each morning, noon or night conjuring up maximizing temporary residence on this planet earth versus bemoaning those futile and essentially counterproductive mind games sans could a, might a, should a, would a...
today = the moment to cherish, enjoy, help others, ponder the remaining years
since fruitless to expend tears
for suppressed emotional, financial, grammatical, hormonal, physical, and spiritual angst
that roiled mine inner sanctum - mainly from decades in the past
which unseen scars with humor this fellow (who by the way likes you) wears!
Notice the sly inclusion of my comment per -- affinity, desirability, rhapsody for you
although just but a mere inkling prevails about an ye taelje john thru
a rather contrived manner - albeit an online adult oriented website - amongst a slew
which yields to this bipedal hominid a scant few
initial responses - as if a ghost app paired in the recipient email - going boo
which unwittingly seems to turn the ivy blue!
So...no matter a constancy of follow-up electronic communiques occurs from ye
bringing tears of joy, that nobody can see
while simultaneously delivering digital glee
a reality check restrains proclivity and predilection to let thoughts run wild and free!
Immense and immeasurable mounts in moi little rock
inducing an electric arc for myself to kin neck embedded in all this schlock
for a sixth sense arises that this holme body strongly suspects yar self
to generate sunny watts as an s spy she lee Sherlock
but, reticence to gush with ebullience reins in a cascade
of utter delight washing o'er this less than satisfactory mwm
who as a boy and youth happened to b a frayed
of his own shadow - while walking along the boulevard of broken dreams
listening to the sounds of silence on a green-day.
Thus => the following from one
Cerebral being ™ in the am and pm
This ordinary human
Finds himself a mystery
Within the terrestrial
Firmament and frequently
Feels in a feverish pitch
At his existence
That seers the temple
Mounted upon this slender
Frame - wrought by the
Combination of genetics
In tandem with exercise
Which latter helps to
Sublimate the coiled
Tension wound tightly
Like an indestructible spring
Without a healthy medium at large
To channel emotions fraught within
Me might find demise
That would rent asunder literate fellow
And thus annihilate without a trace
One true valued father of two us special
Lovely lasses as just another statistic among
As the world turns (indiscriminately oblivious of the harrowing days per one simian), an agreeable, amiable, edible, immeasurable, likeable, pleasurable, sensible woman (such as yourself - predicated on a gut level intuition) goads more seriousness to share
Plaintive unheard heart strings o mine that wail
Displeased with this marriage fraught with travail
As if in a maelstrom whip-lashed vessel without a sail
Yet - averse to lambaste or rail
Against abby (whereby we pass like two ships in the night) who married this male
When each of us happened to seem more similar
And thought each ourselves to fail
At any endeavor, though now confidence
Buoys my heart while she doth ail
And exemplifies attitudes, beliefs, efforts,
Idiosyncrasies, pathos that life does rot
Ill suited to Matthew Scott,
Whose bon vivant manifesting faith in him
Perhaps from herself deferring many domestic
And child rearing tasks not
Of course being boasting - even when scissoring the umbilical cord
As a now beaming papa, whose daughters
Blithely ignore "mother" a lot
Thus necessitating this quest
For a counterpart to offer succor
To eden (age 16) and shana (14 on february 4th, 2013)
Yet accepts that i must dispel any dreamy fantasy even this ours - a mere jot
At this juncture knowing full well how unwise to set myself up for disappointment
By thinking and rushing like a fool,
Where angels fear to tread
Though "chutzpah" i got!
U r slowly filling my mindscape with joy
Thank you so much - for accepting without complaint how atypically words this writer wannabe
Named Matthew Scott Harris dozen ploy.
The old woman argued relentlessly, her case.
Resolute, she raved in her conviction;
two thousand and one reasons were there for her to be mad.
Eleven was given to questioning eyes.
It was September,
and Bernice brought home the bourgeois man,
and the two fell
from the pedestal
they held among friends in the big city,
(the city) a melting pot,
now a city in affliction.
Bernice’s brown eyes combed the neighborhood;
two boys, with open arms,
played aero planes;
Across the street,
the rug pilot laughed his ass off
as if mocking the bourgeois man,
and his woman hid her face in rags …,
in degradation –
but her sad eyes openly mourned her son’s suicide.
Grief of that magnitude brings offense,
and the bourgeois man was red with wrath,
and he abhors the old woman
with every inch of his being.
Racism was reversed.
He avowed by God to ruin the rug pilot,
and the people that loved him consented.
Hearts were left to wonder
what makes men so cruel.
The reasons for the old woman’s rant was explicable,
and of the grounds for the revenge
the negros conceded,
in only one instance.
Revenge was foreseeable,
and the spirit breeds more phobias.
The Stranger and the Photographer
By: Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
Sunshine in his eyes
A smile on his face
Dust on his hair
And on his eyebrows
Like a lone ranger
From outer space
Who crossed the desert
Riding the wind,
Not a horse!
And after his journey,
To rest his head,
He found a place.
Everyone was talking
Laughing and joking
And with their laughter
Filling the space
But alone he was sitting,
Drinking and eating,
In utter silence,
Minding noone else.
Like lightning and thunder,
On a hot summer day;
She suddenly comes,
To shatter his silence,
And cross his way,
"I'd like to take a picture,"
She said with a smile,
"Of you, If I may!"
Waited for no answer,
Took a picture,
"Thank you!" She said,
And went away.
Then turned around
And said with a sway:
Mind you stranger!
If destiny wants,
She'll have her way,
Your path and my path,
Will cross again,
Somehow, somewhere, someday!
All by myself again,
peering through my open window.
I watched a familiar solitary, silvery moth,
diving, flicking, rising, falling, haphazardly flying,
drawn to my hot naked luminescent porch bulb.
No longer threatened by his mere erotic presence,
I methodically snapped off the switch.
He slipped back into the darkness,
just as he had done last night and the night before.
Once more I regained control but will he return?
Will he bring others?
For "CHOPPED II" contest.
Of all the kooky Coo-Coo's in the nest, Charlene by far was my favorite. Poor Charlene had virtually lost her mind after the sudden tragic death of her son, and because of that, and in addition to her hilarious antics, we were all quite fond of Charlene.
She was an African-American woman, somewhere in her sixties I supposed. Hoary, snow white hair, diminutive in stature, not lean but not heavy, and entirely unpredictable. A fellow smoker, she would always accompany the rest of us out onto the patio where we all grumbled about our mental problems, b!tched about the staff and exchanged war stories. This was always my favorite time to share with Charlene because, without warning, she would often suddenly break out singing gospel songs as if we were in church and not the loony bin. Charlene would sing her heart out, and though not the best singer in the world, I found this erratic behavior endearing, because she would often not only carol "negro spirituals" but also many songs I knew by heart since I also grew up in church. And this was not just singing; it was like she was in actual church, arms waving and dancing around, as if the spirit of the Lord had abruptly invaded her animated body. Stomping, stamping, wailing, flailing: singing her little heart out for us. It was an awesome spectacle to watch, to say the least.
I clearly and vividly recall the day my parents and best friend came to visit me. As I was showing them around the place, which was actually very resort-like for a mental hospital, and introducing them to my new crazy friends, out from nowhere came Charlene with a paper cup in hand. She was "vroom-vrooming" all over the place like she was driving and steering a car. She even made screeching brake noises as she rounded corners, frightening the more sensitive patients in her wake. My parents and best friend, and those of us on "the mend", could not restrain our laughter. While Charlene "vroomed" past us, I yelled at her over the car noises and said, "Hey, Charlene; whatcha doin'?" and, without skipping a beat, she yelled back, "Can't you see? I'm driving my new Porsche!". Needless to say, we were all doubled over with laughter.
In all my time spent in mental wards, this is by far my favorite and most cherished memory. It turned out that Charlene actually lived in the same town as me, and I would often see her in the grocery store where I worked (after I was "all better"). I always said Hi to her and called her by name, and she would just look at me in bafflement and hurry on with her buggy. One day she finally asked me how I knew her, and I whispered in her ear (as not to embarrass her), how we had met in the hospital, and she took me aside and whispered in a conspiratorial way, "Oh, honey; that was a baaaaaaad time!". I just gave her a friendly, reassuring pat on the back and smiled, to signify that for the time being, we both were better, and that's all that mattered. Al Fin.
I saw your pain compressed in
Tourniquets and plungers.
Memories condensed to tears.
Cooling your hand holding bottles.
Dripping in puddles that flowed,
With white wind down glass tubes.
When you pressed for it,
I asked you;
Why you wanted too
So badly –
Maybe you did not hear me.
Then I asked -
For the attention?
But you were done talking.
“The affection is still free”.
I should try not to waste sentences.
At the hour of mid morning,
I remembered when I first saw you.
Walking up the sidewalk,
And I thought to myself:
Yes, I would - So I did.
Smiling ghosts made perfect faces,
Dancing off cigarettes on my front porch..
Yours ran to catch you.
As I watched with mine,
You walking home.
I pass a year and you in a store,
I heard you don’t cry the same,
Not like you used to.
You looked happy - I guess,
Or maybe it was, I hope you are.
She is so typical
For most part difficult
I never really could grasp her in such way
She just wants me to some how stay
She comes to my man cave and makes me obey
Shy she was and now I am scared
In such way I almost cared
She thinks she can do everything for me I swear
She makes me guess everyday but I keep on believing
Because it is fun to give her a kiss, while she does not know when she is sleeping
She stresses out but I will tell her my love for her keeps deepening
So for the most part I just keep her close to make her smile and me
When I do things I do it for her it is always a key
Call me romantic or call me stupefied, but it makes her so, so, sooo, happy
My subject for today's poem is Charlize
Yup! You guessed it... Charlize Theron
Now she is what I call a GORGEOUS woman
I'm drooling as I write
Oh crap! All over my keyboard!
Now I'm an adult male, usually in control of myself
BUT there's only so much a man can endure
A constant image of Charlize on my desktop
Is to say, at the very least, extremely distracting
Spell check is constantly alerting me about spelling errors
I pride myself in my self control
BUT Charlize makes me do and say naughty things!
There are many gorgeous women in the world
But she has to be just about THE MOST
Gorgeous women that ever there was!!!
© Jack Ellison 2015
Gazing at the evening sky,
as though watching a soap opera,
her bosoms partially bare,
she waits for a superman to help her
on her two feet again.
She has danced with strangers
for long, taking glasses of wine
with them; men who only want to know
her in bed, rather than know her name,
where she lives, what she loves,
Gazing at the stars glowing in silence,
she waits for a special man to save
her from her own destruction.
She waits for superman.
(NB: This piece was published in Leaves of Ink.)
Beautiful I am
© Content Copywritten
I remember thinking that I didn’t fit the image of what society deems beautiful
I remember I thought my beauty was not beautiful
I wanted to change my hair
I wanted to change my skin
I wanted change my nose
Above all, I wanted to change my neck, because I thought it was just too long
Fast forward to today and learning who I am, Zamir, a daughter of Zion
I know I am Beautiful and made to please my creator who formed and shaped me in the womb
Beautiful I am
Made to praise you
Beautiful I am
Made in your image
Beautiful I am
Wonderfully and Fearfully Made
Beautiful I am
Growing into the woman I am now
It took me some time to realize my beauty
Forgetting that outward beauty doesn’t make me who I am
Beauty is vain but a woman who fears The Most High shall be praised
Beautiful I am
Made to praise you
Beautiful I am
Made in your image
Beautiful I am
Wonderfully and Fearfully Made
Beautiful I am
Most High you created me just the way I was meant to be
You shaped me in the image of you wife: Ruwach Qadash
What’s done in heaven resembles what’s in earth
My beauty is inward and shines outward
My purpose is to please you
I desire to be a vessel used for your glory
Beautiful I am
Made to praise you
Beautiful I am
Made in your image
Beautiful I am
Wonderfully and Fearfully Made
Beautiful I am
“Oh my, the weather out is real nice!” Said the Papa Turkey.
“Hey Mrs. Gobbler get the kids. Lets go for a nice Fall stroll.”
“Line up now. Listen to your Ma.”
The rafter of little poults wobbles by like Russian stacking dolls.
The gaggle gobble around the apple orchard,
pecking at fallen bruised apples and protruding worms.
Smoke comes from the farmhouse. A woman is hanging clothes on the line.
The farmer emerges from the woodshed carrying an ax.
“Hey Papa," said Mrs. Gobbler "look at the ole coot all bare-chested."
You have a better pair of breasts than he does!”
The Farmer's pace quickens, as he nears Mrs. Gobbler.
She flies laughing onto a branch an apple tree
which overhangs the duck pond. The kids scatter.
Papa does a running take off from the dirt path landing on the Farmer’s bare chest,
pushing him and his ax into the pond. Mrs. bombs the Farmer with dangling apples.
The kids pick up acorns and pelt the farmer in the head with them. There he sits surrounded
by bobbing apples and flaoting acorns, spewing water and wiping the hair from his eyes.
“My, my, my” says Papa Turkey.
“Sure does look like a tasty Farmer stew! Too bad we don’t have acorn biscuits.”
The woman drops her laundry basket and falls on the ground laughing.
“You Ole fool!” She says.
“You better try the chickens! This year the turkeys have your number!”
“But watch out for flying eggs! No yolking!”