~ A Jealous Woman In Love~
Since I barely slept I felt ill as tears blinded my vision
heart broken burning with desire to see him
to hold him to kiss him love him more and show him that strong will
through my eyes to make him understand
I am a woman and should not be judged because I am jealous
I am a woman deeply in love how can I not be jealous
I am jealous of his sheets caressing his body when we share our bed
I am jealous of his hair being part of him all day when I am not with him
even his eyes when he sees the moon instead of me
I am jealous of his phone feeling his breath or using a knife and fork to eat
as I only wish at the time to feed him and caress his lips
Oh! I love him so much that I became jealous of his shadow
so jealous I drowned in my thoughts like a fish thrown on the shore
by the raging waves trying to breath to survive without the oceans
For the contest of Andrea Dietrich
a poem For The Honor Of My FAVE Poetry.
Therese Bacha ( Win No.1)
Kill a smile with a kiss
The demise of it will visit you in your dreams
Never will I let you
Drown in a pool of angry thoughts
I will be your unexpected smile
Every time I bring u roses b4 valentine
A wet poem I would recite for you
I would make you my 1st rhyme
your heart-beat will rhyme
Twist my beat box
Into a love song
A cartoon I would paint in your heart to keep you smiling
Your twin smiles I would define in vernacular
Though I speak no language from Peninsula
My parents will define your beauty as African splendor
Black mother nation
Smile please smile
The strength of a woman
Is not in her tongue
Or the length of her hair
Or the songs she has sung
Control is not found
In the clothing she wears
Or seduction she offers
Or the child that she bears
Her honor and glory
Comes not from what shows
Except her reliance
On God that she knows
For God gives her power
Beyond height and length
And makes her much stronger
To display her strength
It’s there deep within her
And flows through her being
Revealing a boldness
And strength we are seeing
For man cannot crush
All the things she can do
For she is a woman
And warrior too
Wrinkle, wrinkle on my face…
Couldn't you have found some other place ?
What made you furrow between my eyes ?
And all those creams, they are nothing but lies….
When I look in the mirror, all I can see…
Is a silver haired person staring back at me….
Then there are the lines , which run down the sides of my nose…
Running in circles, round my lips, down my neck and into my clothes….
Speaking of clothes , isn’t that where the wrinkles should be ?
Is nature playing a trick on me ?
Or is this a sign “ old “ is sneaking up on me ?
It seems only yesterday I was a young girl .. and had my whole life ahead of me…
So simple..so free……
Which don’t take me wrong I have enjoyed my life’s ride…
And there isn’t much in my life, I haven’t tried….
But it should would be nice if I could just see…
Myself with one less wrinkle…when I looked back at me…..
as silver moon
is the woman of mine.
tender and lively,
swift and keen
flowing and silken.
light and vivid colors,
which takes me
come argento di luna
è la mia donna.
La vita illumina
Tenera e vivace,
rapido e penetrante
fluido e suadente.
Luce e colore vividi,
che mi prende
Day by day we pray to stay alive, ladies, the face of this world is slowly changing, no longer do we need to hold our heads in disgrace, and it’s about time we take our place. No longer let us be connived, nor let us forget the silent cries in trees that our sista’s souls are still hangin’, see the true in others denies rather waistin’ yourself complaining. Nor keep us from strength to stand by man, strength to leave if struck by hand, no more bruises upon our face for we also help to make this race. No more scars upon our souls for only marked with beauty moles and let our stories be fortold for we are women who behold, a key to inspiration and moral pride, coming out of our hide, Gods rules are to which one should only apply, but most chose pain to keep inside, left alone and died. Your elimination of God’s creation, we are but faith to this nation. Men of ignorance we are sick of belligerence, cuz we prove intelligence, cuz where there’s no woman there is no man strong and on this land we belong as distinct and separate persons walk along. Before your ignorance get the respect that you so vainly seek, practice what you claim til' all things you do or speak shall in reality be the same, nor let us be so eased to blame and give us our well earned past due fame, all musical and sorrowful stories contained. My people, make me proud to know your name and I’ll return the favour by doing the same.
For all men whom think us fast, remember the good ones always finish last, we women are still raped future and past so personally you can kiss my ... In us your babies wombs all your life fluids we consume, to mothers growing up too soon, to those mommas babies and daddy’s maybes.....REMEMBER, when your round to actin' shady, we are the ladies of this land, women with pride we stand, I am a WOMAN and for equal respect, I would do it again!!!
God And Woman
I did not want anything from The Almighty
Sacrificed untouchable realization
Which is symbol of myself
And dedicated emotions, silence.
I did not demand anything from the woman
Allowed her into the corner of my mind
Which is the center of bleeding
And presented my intuition.
The Almighty and the woman repeatedly call
Destruction in my lonely life
It's the ability to do more by them...
Who tears behind the mirror?
Made me who I am
My hardened heart she took
Tenderized it with love
Took my salty tears
Turned into joyful tears
Who sighs behind the mirror
Sighs in memory
Memories and feelings
Hardships she went through
To feed my whole stomach
The woman pulling back her mucors
Does so in fear
Fear that ill not be what she hoped
That teared woman
Crys in fast and prayer
Crys for my dark self
Cries for my future
That woman crying
Tears down her body fluids
Hopefully that her anger and disappointments
May atleast flow out with them
Her body almost running dry by now
That woman calls upon God
GOD atleast make him better
That woman cries for me
That woman cries for her lineage
That woman cries night and day
How I came to be
To be what I am
I don’t know how
A slave of the world
A slave with one work song
A song entitled failure
The first stanza of calamity
The last stanza dead man where I am heading
Looking at her cry
Twists my brains
Is this what I am?
Is this my purpose to the world?
Is this the man the world wants?
Is this what God spent time Molding
Is this what the bible describes?
Just for her
Just for her I take my life back
Just for her God I stand strong
Just for her I say no
NO no no this is not me
Come mummy take this handkerchief
I don’t wannna see those tears again
I love you mummy
All right, here is the scenario and the how. Defeat the deceit she believes to be
hers, abandon the bond between us, with re-established trust admiration and lust
must appear. Bring me a woman that has made mistakes, bring me a woman that
can appreciate love. Allow the grace of my space be music and fire, offer me in
peace solitude to display my desires. Allow the pens flow in rhythm with the stereos
display. Fire in dance lifts morbid ideas in each instance to date. I will behave in
paradise, that is if they never surprise my glide. I know this really cool place at the
mountains base where we can get away for a few days, the grass of noon will creep
below our feet bare beneath the sun of June. Now we no longer must linger in wait,
the time allowed for slide past debate is lost on my mind. My side, the right, slid left
releasing the shake of my hand in invite. Freedom yet remains the stake, though
money is no longer illusion. I wish to say something on this occasion upon which we
now celebrate, as long as Christmas has wreath I will have wrath and wreak havoc.
You see love, mastering the art of conversation does not mean you control them, it
means you are in them. Speak or fall, seek allies and meet demise, simply satisfying
me with surrounding may eliminate inquiry. They are all so pretty with their smiles,
so sexy with their denial yet none are beautiful. The three core parts of woman that
carry the absolutes of truth: the eyes, the mind and the smile. For these attributes I
offer dream and choice of my serenities. Let it be aggressively possessive,
astonishingly perceptive, apparently personable, awakened passion paints a
portrait of a poet.
She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads,
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep,
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back,
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler.
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard,
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.