Thee, are my deepest emotions; taken beyond; my control.
Thou do express love; sweeter; than view of sunshine.
One single touch, from you, feels so fine.
No thoughts of your face would ever console.
Desires; that when I see you, I fight to control,
My heart; is blinded by numbers more than nine.
My soul is bound to you with more than twine.
Thee taketh my senses, beyond, compression of coal.
My blustery habits; are taken; when I see thee, with him.
Coal contracts to brilliant diamonds from pressure, we are told.
My heart aches for thou, under the pressure of seeing his kiss.
No brilliancy of any treasure shines; only a full moon goes dim.
My desires are real; though they have no growth; in gold.
Thee, shall be my dream forever, though I shall have no bliss.
Copyright © cecil hickman
It’s a dimly lit, darkly entombed spot
Here sits a lone black weeping willow tree
Night encroached leaving nothing you can see
Its cold, nothing about this place is hot
Not a ray of light surrounds to get caught
Evil basks within the nooks quite empty
She sits, there on a stump she sits flatly
Devoid of emotion, hope isn’t brought
Expressionless she stands with great power
The tree bows right to her beck and call
She stands mighty and tall like a tower
Grove seems to be protected by a wall
All who happen to see her would cower
All she sees is hate, her soul crushes all
* Left over Halloween poem, I forgot to post this, enjoy!
Copyright © Russell Sivey
A granny I might be
A granny I might be
But I can always see
My hair is growing grey
My shape is quite okay
I still love my fashion
I guess it’s still my passion
I always look quite smart and dressy
And very rarely I look messy.
I’m older, but I'm still a lassie
Sometimes me, I do look classy
I would not change a single day
Not ever, not in any way.
How the years they will turn out
Well who knows, I’ll wait that out.
Vera Duggan 13 September 2014
Copyright © Vera Duggan
I’m Virgo, playing music tranquilly
in this self-portrait. The clavichord I chose.
It denotes fine education; the black clothes
I'm wearing prove I value chastity.
Dark as a shadow, to the left of me
is the face of my governess, which shows
I am dutiful. My face fairly glows -
lit with love for the arts and poetry!
See me in this latter portrait, still in black,
a high collar at my neck. A strange disguise
my face is now; I'm nearly taken aback
to see my sagging jowls! How dim my eyes,
and how thin my lips! But never did I lack
for love! I have lived long and have grown wise.
*Sofonisba Anguissola, who called herself Virgo, lived
from 1532 to 1625. She was a female artist known
for her great grace and modesty. I chose to write of
her using the Petrarchan Sonnet to honor her Italian heritage.
The two self-portraits described are from when she
was both young and old. I thought it interesting to
see how she changed with the years. If you copy and
paste my link, you will see several self portraits from
her youth and the two on the bottom are probably
close to when she was in her 90’s!
Please see http://bjws.blogspot.com/2013/01/1500s-woman-artist-sofonisba-anguissola.html
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich
Desperately seeking companionship
Julie booked a cruise on a ship.
She met a very strange man there
with a beer belly and receding hair.
She ate the food and drank the drink;
the plumbing backed up, the whole ship began to stink.
For a solid week they were stranded there
with everyone running around in dirty underwear.
Finally the Coast Guard came and rescued them,
gave them cool fresh water and fed them spam.
Julie was glad to get back home but was sad she had no fun;
she contemplated her plight in life and decided to become a nun.
Julie knew that in a nunnery she would have no fun while there;
by this point she really didn’t care, at least she’d have clean underwear.
Copyright © Jerry Stevenson
How many gentlemen have chased your myth?
How many captains and how many kings?
How many have heard of your legend fell?
How many poets and how many priests?
How could they resist your tender mercy?
They'll never deny the world at your feet.
How many gentle ladies dread your myth?
How many mistresses, how many maids?
How many have known your calamity?
How many nurses and how many nuns?
How could they ever dare compete with thee?
They'll never deny the world your beauty.
How many people, both women and men,
Meet the measure of The Perfect Woman?
*Michael Dom, sonnet for Nette Onclaude's Take Two contest.
**I had thought of shortenning this poem to fit in 'The Perfect Woman' competition, but I could not do that without destroying the original vision. A pity I wrote the poem before reading the competition rules! Nevermind, it's all good! mt_dom
Copyright © Michael Dom
Symphony is playing softly in the background.
He seems to be out more now.
He calls me regularly telling me his whereabouts.
Then he comes home after his workout.
Our relationship is on the up and up.
The heights we reach states we are a perfect couple.
Our talk about the day brings a closeness.
As the clock chimes late, we both sigh for a mental release.
We find each night of intimacy to be quite fulfilling.
This time we have together, we cherish.
Our wedding vows were written by each.
We both play our part.
Our happiness is based on love and trust.
PENNED ON AUGUST 28, 2014!
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker
I'm tired of you becoming just words,
On every page when I write at night.
I saw you as a pretty face at first;
I wouldn't mind if my ink pen dried.
I say it because you're a human being;
These situations are not my type.
I want "I love you" to mean something,
And you stay right by my side.
Honestly, when I write poetry,
The feeling is unconfirmed, undecided, undefined.
You are worth more to me
Than words written down on every line.
I'd prefer to have you in my arms;
Paper and pen will not tear us apart.
©2013 Honestly JT
For P.D.' s "Any Poem Goes #6" Poetry Contest
Copyright © Honestly J.T.
What lies behind those mysterious black eyes?
What happened to our paths why did they become tied?
Nobody spoke to you, why were you alone?
After seeing you smile my heart has fondly grown.
In the middle of nowhere you're from my home town?
This cannot be real I realise with a frown.
Maybe it's time to put these mushrooms down.
Copyright © Mr Jaybus
To a woman
(In this traslation of Paul Verlaine’s sonnet : « A une femme »,
I have retained the rhyme scheme to the letter, I hope. T. Wignesan)
To you these lines in faith must console I address :
A sweet dream laughs and cries in your large eyes through
The purity of your soul which is wholly good, to you
These lines from the depths of my turbulent distress.
Just that, Alas ! the nightmare which haunts me hideous
Allows no respite and furious, mad and jealous continue
Multiplying themselves like wolves in a funeral retinue
Hanging on to my fate which at their mercy they harrass !
Oh ! how I suffer, I suffer hopelessly, so mean
That the initial whimperings of the first man
Banished from Eden a mere eclogue to the cost I wean. !
And the minor discomforts you may endure in comparison
Are like the swallows in the sky on an afternoon
- My Dear – make the beautiful warm September day a boon !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Copyright © T Wignesan
There once was a man who lived in a castle,
Who longed for a girl so he could love her.
He searched far and wide, from Prague to Yorkshire,
But he found no such a dazzling damsel.
He dreamed of a woman of so special:
Kind and sweet and graceful and beautiful...
The type of woman not concerned with Wealth.
And he would rescue her from some reptile
Both great and horrid, a nightmare made real.
Like Tarzan saving Jane from a crocadile.
They'd kiss and their wedding would be ideal,
Full of flowers, jewels, and high style.
But it was just a dream, completely unreal.
Copyright © Del Phil
Written By: D. Collins 10/29/14
She’s so ungodly gorgeous she should be ashamed of herself.
Possessing so much dominant beauty over everyone else.
The air stands still when she walks into a room.
She gives a winter chill to hot days in June.
She is nature showing off with near perfect design.
An anomaly created only once in awhile.
She’s ungodly gorgeous with tantalizing traits.
The envy of all women and their persistent hate.
She doesn’t wear make-up. Her hair and nails are real.
Her pearly white smile really enhances her grill.
She has a body that took the form of an hour-glass.
And, a personality gleaming with unparalleled class.
All traffic stands still when she’s in a public place.
There is instant paralysis in seeing her lovely face.
She’s ungodly gorgeous compared to others I’ve seen.
Without doubt, she is the Goddess we see in our dreams.
Copyright © Darrell Collins
I ride the wind on passion’s mighty steed
A Warrior Princess filled with hungry eyes
I take what pleases and I fill my need
My mane is raven black; see how it flies
I know desire’s lusty craving flame
And beauty is the weapon of my choice
I take as captive him with mystic name
A sultry siren with seductress voice
My captive I lay down beneath the tree
I ravish him all night and get my thrill
He’s bound and helpless though he’s been set free
He longs to do my bidding and my will
I smile up at the stars and sigh with glee,
For Warrior Princess name befitting me
Those of you who have been here for a while will remember the Warrior Princess title! It started when one of my students told me that I remind him of Xena, the Warrior Princess. I wrote a poem in that Persona and then another poet, Richard Lamoureux, wrote a poem honoring me. Here are the links for both poems for those of you interested in going back in time. Well...She rides again! I'm feeling invincible!
My Poem: http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=487921
Richard's Poem: http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=495978
Copyright © Eileen Manassian
Wherefore gaze thou from yon high balcony,
O fairest Juliet,--search thou for one
that loveth thee 'neath heaven's burning sun,
that son of Montague--'tis felony!?
Thou lovest him! True. But loveth he thee!?
'Ere long thy love for him wilt be undone
by poison and, alas, thou wilt be gone
and we shall mourn--both houses!--yea, all we
and Montague! I beg of thee, instead
be mine: for I'm thy kinsman, Capulet.
Be mine! and, like that Romeo foresaid
I'll worship thee as divine,...and forget
that thy wayward heart almost left me dead
hast thou eloped with him, mine Juliet.
02/01/2014, "Juliet" Contest
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen
To love or not to love a woman? Which
is better? To love and love well is good
so long they who love love without falsehood
as their twain hearts so compel and make rich
love's treasures. As friend, she's best: never switch
a lady-friend into a lover, should
her all precious friendship and lady-hood
be injured and make her a hateful witch.
But, alas, to love God is best! Not I,
but the aims of this life and Destiny
make it so that men like me must decry
love's ambit for a life of poverty.
But if I could choose, I'd be more content
as love's disciple and caged exponent.
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen
I have tilled the soil Lord
brought forth manna for the world
dug trenches for young seeds
instead planted my little girl
she was just learning to sew
starting on her very first quilt
begged us for a proper education
my heart beats with guilt
how shall I understand
the message thou has sent
trying to remain strong and erect
my spiritualism has been bent
but my wife is steadfast and true
she's with the devil's parents glorifying you......
Bob Shank-Oct 10th, 2006
Dedicated to a pained Amish father
Copyright © Bob shank
High upon a platform, she dwells among two spheres
Her people mumble strange like chants, that rumble in salt air
The wizened Seidr woman, beyond her fertile years
will hold a staff, against her knees, in regard above her peers
She sits upon the platform, while the people sway and dance
Her eyes are glassy, semi-closed, her mind is in a trance
She is filler of the future's sound, while seeking out the vast
She brings to Fjords, the fish they seek, by believing in the past
Her voice is as a whisper, she heals and guides them home
Her song becomes distant wind, that fades until it's gone
Among the barren wasteland, it cackles in the cold
Her power is a mountain, found, of spirit frail, yet bold
As she sways her words like little birds, that are carried in the breeze
there are talking sounds, as if from crowns, released from winter trees
For the contest sponsored by Shadow Hamilton "All Things Norse"
Copyright © Carrie Richards
If interviewed on the subject of the sonnet
What man has brought me endless cups of tea?
They’ll say I’ve got a Queen Bee in my bonnet
The male groupies will not type my poems for me.
What golden mother lives without inspiration?
What sister can be truly herself, and tackle
The canon in the patriarchal cold, the purgation
Of miles of libraries with the truth a hackle?
The worst thing is that there’s no male muse -
I don’t feel the marginalisation or the neglect
Quite as much as the possibility I might lose
The reader in the absence of his call-collect -
And I must be very careful with my man -
I lose a husband if I kiss a fan.
by Rosemarie Rowley
Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley
THE UNREPENTANT VIRAGO
Named for a man, my treason’s not my own
My tantalising tales tame his temerity
As I cling to the cliff-hanger
Of my own biopic, my to-be-tested verity
He claims I am inevitable as the ocean
And my head will roll, be beached upon the sand
And he will come and take me by the hand.
I will scream loudly history’s muffling cry
Show female slavery, oppression till he wonders why
The goddess in him was quenched, and died of thirst
He thinks then that I will be the first
To bandage up his Achilles heel with Elastoplast!
Published, I’ m not damned, but live with gumption
I’m here to fix his arrogant presumption.
By Rosemarie Rowley
Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley
Furiously giving into a man
is the worse thing that a woman can do
when she knows she's right. He will think he can
get away with anything. Telling you
he's the boss and makes the rules from now on.
Last time I checked women had their own mind
thoughts and opinions. They don’t need, "I'm gone,
because your not my sweet old mama" kind
of speech. They need you to admit your wrong,
and tell them no matter how hard you try
that you will never be right. Sing a song
if you have to, just don’t make your girl cry.
Just remember that when you think your right,
your not. The woman always wins the fight.
Copyright © Tiffany Cordova
See! Air is spotless. I give you its blood!
I impose Poetry´s Knife where you post
You who slept to kiss all and any Tod
A Prince for your home as a foolish host!
You had nerve to pull Arms against my Man
This Viking Armada waits your shoreline
It´s you who tried my song to scan
Go song! To Athen, London, back to Rhine
And when I wrote your Name in chilly air
I called you things you never really heard
Yet my melody hurts down to a hair
I´m no longer my tribe´s and line´s nerd
Sweden was a powerful Viking land
I take a blood-stained shield at my last stand
Copyright © Lis Lovén
THE AMAZON MEETS THE GREEKS
When life was thick with possibility,
Before the written word and the weighing scales,
Your definitions held too much probity
In the rich seamless embroidery of our tales.
Our vanished mystery, which your history sealed
Up in the libraries of the planet’s scar.
So what way to better wield a shield?
You men just skirt the theory of war!
Words became deeds – there were forests to lop!
Hard iron entered body and soul
I cherished my child as a cosmic tear-drop
Bound to osmosis in the ocean’s roll,
And took the sword, and chopped my source and dower
Because you underestimated female power.
(c) Rosemarie Rowley
Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley
To subdue passion and to veil her soul
She dresses cravings sweet in bland disguise
A righteous life to live does take its toll
And brings the tears unbidden to her eyes
A woman bowing down to culture’s norm
Must be demure and coy, not fierce and bold
Forbidden her desire in wanton form
And so the flame dies out and life turns cold
Yet deep within her heart the embers lie
Their savage smolder felt through tortured night
Her sensuality she must deny
Though from her play and sway it shines out bright
Her soul succumbs to this hypocrisy
A woman vowed to "moral" chastity
In parts of the Middle East young girls are still circumcised to prevent sensual cravings....I've written a poem about this for Richard Lamoureux's contest a while back. His contest was entitled, Girl Rising...and my poem was entitled, "Not too Late for Tears." This poem was written for another contest, but I did not enter it. I deleted it and am now reposting. It makes me sad when people don't understand the restrictions woman face due to culture and other factors when it comes to issues of their own sensuality. I wish people would be more understanding.
Copyright © Eileen Manassian
Beauty is only skin deep
Enhanced by some sound sleep
Adorned by jewels and gems
Unusual like salt coated rims
Tender magic women with black eyes
Internal beauty in their wisdom lies
Fine lashes hide mysterious ways
Unaware men gets ensnared in that gaze
Love’s beauty that a woman wears
Wonder she creates by her cares
Our world is enriched with thousand smiles
Many for her comfort piles
And as this simple saying scroll
No one more special than a beautiful soul
Copyright © Tahera Mannan
Being an Aries woman, I enjoy freedom
To follow my hobbies, have little changes now
And again, let life get me down very seldom
Somehow through my birth date optimism endow
Could this Zodiac Astrology chart be right
It list enthusiastic as one of my strengths
Maybe really don't understand my inner light
Possibly something along way broke my wave length
Courageous is on list as one of my strengths
A person with mind or spirit to face danger
Or difficulty without fear, could this be right
Don't see myself as this but a cringer
Maybe one-half of the strenghts correct good
Work on the other half to line up I should
Contest: Zodiac Zones
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Written by: Sara Kendrick
Copyright © Sara Kendrick
How the memory of her sluttish face
disgusts me. What on earth was I thinking?
My time lost in her sickening embrace
was loathsome, rank, gross, foul, vile and stinking.
O why gave I myself to one so whorish?
(I know why. But it's pointless.) Young, naive
and mislead, I failed to divine her game--
so hell-bent was I to casually receive
her. In hindsight, I would undo the past
and live forevermore as a virgin,--
pure! In that there's no shame. Oh, but the waste
of not waiting was my too fatal sin!
Since love most foul came at such terrible price,
I'll not repeat this error--not even twice.
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen
Some say I am a strong woman
Some tell me I am a brave woman
some think I should be more of a woman
Some will tell you i'm a good woman
While some think im not much of a woman.
Or at all like any woman they ever knew,
And that I could be so much more.
But all I am is a woman
All I am is my woman
I am the woman I can be
Not the one I should be, could be, would be
Not so much more, too much like, or nearly so.
Copyright © shacorrie harvey
Am dreadful for that man
Who once took my womanhood away
Leaving me weak and submissive to his way
Thus becoming a woman powerless over him.
In a tingle of last painful memories
I see myself doing his food, his bed, his clothes
I know in this day am not so different
But in this period of time, I see a woman
Powerful over the man.
I carry the load of being an African woman
Knowing deep within there’s a woman who
Has not yet found her inner free self…………
And so with tears of pain
And a strong amour towards the man
I shall be back to enlighten,
And change that woman ………the man’s sweet slave.
Written between 2000-2003
Just the young thoughts of the young mind
Copyright © njeri hunjeri
There’s an old creaky mansion before me
One with a sole light in the attic free
With a red door in the extreme entrance
One that’s filled with webs of a spider dance
Under a full moon by an empty tree
Stands a witch, owner of this house I see
With black cats to fulfill a dark wild curse
Light forms around her hands looking adverse
Then a cat forms into a handsome man
Full of evil, this being has a plan
Fog encircles the two standing around
As quick as a wink he disappears down
Her goal is partly done, her evil work
Is powerfully enhanced by this murk
Copyright © Russell Sivey
She stands alone against the nightscape
Silent and still—like a portrait of serenity
Painted by death’s cold hand. She dries the tears
From her face. The virgin mother, full of shame.
This weeping woman has turned away
From the crucifix, a vermillion figure
Under the cerise skies. Shapes lay stagnant
In the water’s echo. The evening gloom
Creeps in, to loom over the moor. Swathed by
Leaves, twigs and dirt—the hue of burnt embers.
The slit throat of dogma bleeds empty.
Her shawl stained with lost reverence.
The moon watches the woman from afar;
Above the crucifix, behind the clouds, she glows.
Copyright © Samuel Lee