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
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
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!
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
I felt your hand between her hand and mine,
Your breath I've tasted on these lips I kissed,
A shadow falls amid the songs and wine,
And I am desolate from all I've missed.
For though the night is but for passions spent,
Her breast upon my chest so softly lay
And in the comforts of her charms and scent,
I think of what I've lost from loves decay.
Oh how I've tried to put you from my mind,
To place our memories upon the pyre,
But as the morning breaks I only find,
The hunger for your touch and my desire.
And in the dawning light when tears are shed
I think of you my love and bow my head.
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.
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
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
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.
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
She walks with a limp, it’s not a fable
She can’t walk normal, she’s just not able
She will always move along in this way
Her limp leaves her lame every single day
She moves along with a closed umbrella
Uses it as a brace, something extra
She meanders along down the cold street
She walks along with the cane near her feet
Down the old street she walks into a shop
Hearing each step as she moves with a flop
After getting her things she moves along
Walking back to her abode with a song
No one sees her but no, she’s not insane
Woman just walks with a limp and a cane
TO BREAK THE WITCH'S SPELL
Suffer you not the bidding of a witch
does not she call from out of dark and death
to put in you, from head to toe, her pitch
as pain you feel, unto your final breath?
To break the spell, one time be all alone,
shut in your closet door and close it tight,
denounce her spirit, make her logic known,
to be her dying day, and final flight.
Then pray she knows, as certain as she dies
in agony, for every sin she's done,
her death will be, from whence she never flies,
and pays the price for what was once her fun.
One death she'll die, but through eternity
Unless her spell is cast away from thee.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
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
(For Ukadike Chimma)
That day I was but walking on my path, full of self-confidence,
heading towards a purpose I had set from my residence.
My humble head bowed low, I pressed forward in a haste,
yet I was mindful lest I outrun my chance to court a waste.
Leaving behind the sights and all that my back had brought
to face what my way’d unveil, I prepared even to be fought.
Forcefully my head was raised, for something had beckoned—
it was an irresistibly pretty figure I saw or so I had reckoned.
I gave a pause, poised to find what the distance would unfold,
little foreseeing I would enjoy defeat from what I set to behold.
The more it advanced the lesser my endurance and my strength.
I trembled: it was the first adventure facing me from this length.
I am a young soldier though, at home, in a haste, I’d left my wit,
and now struck helpless by her soothing hit, I am no more fit.
Have mercy, spare me, for all my skills I have lost or unlearned,
or take a wink to look away while I address the desire I discerned.
If I am blessed to accomplish this task, I shall be more than glad;
but If I fall casualty to the defeat of the challenge, I shall be sad,
for I have never before retreated from a duet of this kind all in vain,
yet if I can use up all I have left, I shall not care to manage a gain.
Now she’s near so it’s time I waved her a stop to give my best,
since I’ve got two awesome things—this task and a school test.
To pass one and fail the other (or miss one) is going to mean a crime.
God, help me here with overwhelming words as my tongue I prime,
because I must not exhibit a repelling style or make a worse blunder
and be displeased with my waning military spirit if we’re put asunder.
Do you understand I can’t make out why I stand under your charm,
because it always takes place the other way round without any harm?
The ethereal lure radiating from this unblemished skin equals the cost
of your doting parentage, the root you grew from that mustn’t be lost.
Now you grow, grow and grow, while skeptics marvel as you soar tall
from the root of this tree that you must garden and see it doesn’t fall.
If you can disorientate me in this manner while I forget to remember
what I’m capable of, you deserve kudos from January to December.
Because of waywardness my tongue should give way to my clever pen
which is mightier than the sword and be the spokesman of wise men.
It adores the spotless teeth you flaunt as a sign of mildness and peace;
appreciates the dazzling light in your eyes that reduces one to a piece;
and promises to smear your plumb cheeks with deserving delight
by ensuring that you beam with dimples like the stars in the night.
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.
Maya met her Socrates
public examination of her life
and writing down her hypotheses -
female blackness a caged bird's life
singing often, singing she arrived
from uncivil lessons on civil rights
to stand-up straight and thrive
in beauty - with rhythm besides
Marguerite Johnson is dead
but Angelou will arise
to see life wondrous instead
with dark-brown soulful eyes
mourn not that her life is passed
celebrate that it was expressed
© goodguysoul 2014-05-28
I love me black woman
whom God created from the sand
the black woman that I adore
she has my eyes allure
she's my first virgin born and pure
I bade in her wisdom, power, acceptance and I am sure
She's definitely the one
that has given me a special son.
I love me black woman with vision
she's ahead with an incredible mission.
i love me black woman with passion
the quality of her blossom that I cannot ignore
in my mind she has never been bored.
I love me black woman from the very top of her head toward her bottom feet.
I love me black woman all the time
wouldn't dare trade her for a dime.
I would have write the more ,but there wouldn't be space
to describe how much a black woman worth.
She's the mother of all earth
given a gift with an unbelievable birth.
Who wouldn't love a black woman
in such case is ignant.
to abuse a black woman, I dare not
She's my black woman beautiful within and out
she's all that I 'm bout
a black woman a red rose to be
I can't help myself but see
that a black woman is all that
Precious, fragile and magnificently phat
I love me black woman.
The temptation of unholy pleasures,
Measured acts of malicious attraction.
She whispers vows of violent destruction,
The scent of venom drenches the flesh. Her
Voice is solemnly sanguine and savored
Her voice is moist with haunting whispers
Unending reminders I utter in whimpers
Permeating through my daydreams
I feel fixed into the stone and filth
Salaciously she devours the hearts
Of soured boys—their insipid, wilted parts.
I’m a student of obsession, under her expertise.
She smiled at me as she turned to leave,
“Do you now see how terrifying I can be?”
Curtal Sonnet Sequence
A woman should be gentle, always kind
Yet he held her down to rape her again
Removing the smile that once seemed to glow
The joy of love had long since left behind
A fragile doll that knew only of pain
Who couldn’t see a way or place to go
At his hands her body crumbled to dust;
Inside her voice was calling, soft and low
It kept her mind from going past insane
And she knew she could and she knew she must
They say the battle is won; we can rest
The girls of tomorrow have greater clout
They’ll live their lives in freedom’s liberty.
We can do no more, we have done our best
The flags of pride have been slowly rolled out
So they can love with true equality.
But while one woman remains hurt, abused
We must all remain strong not turnabout
No woman should be left to man’s slav’ry
We must not let her be tortured and used
Inside a woman beats a goddess heart
A hidden voice that often calls aloud
But we only hear her when we need her most
And she holds us when our lives fall apart
Or if we choose to walk against the crowd
The presence we feel when all else is lost.
And as we nurture our own children through
To fly as freely as a summer cloud
She nurtures us the same at greater cost
So in all we say and all things we do