I did not wish to leave your warm embrace --
I did not wish for our sweet love to end --
And though your chauvinism's a disgrace,
I cannot help but see you as a friend.
Perhaps someday a sweeter girl you'll find,
Who'll do just as you wish for her to do --
A girl who doesn't have a thoughtful mind,
So she can focus all she is on you.
She'll nod her head, and brainlessly agree
With anything you say, to make you smile --
She'll cook your meals and serve you honeyed tea,
And never stop her chatter all the while;
So when your brain cells rot from lack of use,
You've only you to blame, and no excuse.
Copyright © M. Teresa Blaylock | Year Posted 2006
Love shall be the easiest word; to say.
Though deeper than any words do go,
Harder in ways that anyone may show.
True love so much more such anyway.
Shall wipe out any form of dismay,
If veracity of heart is graciously slow.
When mixed with eyes that seem to glow.
Tenderness rewarding, true loves array.
More than any act, that enriches pleasure.
Flows from, enacted verses; unspoken,
Spirited rapture, with hormonal divide,
From the soul; pure golden treasure,
Enriches feelings beyond any token,
Heavenly bond ensues; when two coincide.
Copyright © cecil hickman | Year Posted 2013
Lily disappeared one hardened season,
What a virginity stolen from Lagos to continent America
Whore plantation there, there must be scarcity of flowers in Africa,
Neighbours mutter in their garden, Daisy gone too with the season.
Comes raining season, as Children sing “rain” rain” the soil patches,
They appeared groomed beauty of lust and vain
They must refresh men, thee desire powerful than the orb of three witches
Beware their veins, woes and diseases, flowing like drain.
Gone so wild good girls, selling foreign virus in the outlets
Being brought to Africa, they brought no tablets
And their disease come, grandpa hibernate in the forest
No herb yet, says the wizard on the crest.
This season with drops of death here,
When will your storm be over, here?
Uche Chidozie Okorie
Copyright © Chidozie Uche | Year Posted 2014
Being the little sister in a family with mostly boys
Was very hard and difficult liking all their toys
I loved to play in the dirt , could throw any ball
Played "running bases", "tag", and loved "off the wall"
My sister was way older and she was never home
So I was forced to battle with my brothers on my own
I fought my battles valiantly, but each time I would lose
Being youngest in a family,I often became the muse
I cried many tears those many years ago
For competing with those boys,I had a lot to show
I grew older,strong, and smarter and chose a tough career
Cooking for a living in a man's world, I showed no fear
Those brothers had taught me to always fight for what's right
A women could cook as well as a man, and besides I had a knife!
Copyright © Jennifer Marie Oliver | Year Posted 2013
A broil, inside, so women effervesce,
spilling from my cottage, armed with platters,
dismissing each storm cloud that presses
dusk. Wind clips my blush roses, scattering
petals onto bare feet as if we are brides.
Laughter electrifies even those weary
who relax by hollyhocks. It’s July
and we’ve become the melt of night, freed
of propriety. When, at last, the rain comes,
maturity un-roots to re-spin legends
on the lawn, belting out a summer song
with elbows locked friend to giddy-friend.
Almost steaming, Morrison’s Brown-Eyed Girls
are renewed by verve and this kindred gall.
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2014
The orchestra was loud when I walked in,
Performing a whimsical waltz by Strauss.
I picked a group of friends and settled-in,
And perused the fineries of the house.
The chandeliers were unevenly spaced,
Creating random spaces of shadows
Where intimate strangers chastely embraced,
And not-so-innocent virgins caroused.
A friendly acquaintance introduced me
To his available little sister.
Turned out she was charming and quite lovely,
So I gave up trying to resist her.
“I would be most honored, beyond measure;
If you’d care to dance, it’d be my pleasure.”
Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 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
Copyright © Michael Dom | Year Posted 2013
Post coitum omne animal triste est,
sive gallus et mulier*
Yes, no cockerel who rules the cackling roost
Will stomach slander from Latin master;
But who will stand aside and let the ghost
Of hints slur old motherhood’s register.
Manhood must of needs hang its head in pain
After all the sweat and toil in loins of love;
After millions of squiggly soldiers in vain
Drop their lean tails at the egg wall alcove.
Only the fool who dares call woman’s bluff
Shall learn hard way positions in bedstead;
Virile pride will sink in the depths of fluff
While smooth gym-trained muscles rage instead.
As they say hereabouts sur le vieil Continent
La différence, Mon Sieur: lip’s shade content.
· * “After the sexual encounter every animal is
excepting the cock and the woman.”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2005-2012. From the collection:
Poems Omega Plus, 2005. Rev. 2012.
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012
by Rosemarie Rowley
I knew you fainthearted what side you were on
When you talked of social reality: not Jesus at the well
With the Samaritan woman, or the invisible loss of power
Which halts her speech and causes His deference
Holding her in trust for what she is.
You can talk of rural communes in China
Till the cows come home – leading them will be a girl
Bearing a key-ring and a dead black raven.
Your ways are sweet indeed, nectar and honey
And vinegar to end it all: you’d let all the
Wells in the world run dry for a principle
And proudly show us the papier-mache women who survived,
Embalmed with bitter hope and urgent salvation,
To tell the tale on electro-magnetic tape.
Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley | Year Posted 2014
In the kingdom of the Waters
She sits enthroned on its womb
Flanked by the silver facet Atlantic-Indiana
As the barking tides wrestle her marble feet
In the court of the Tropics
She is robed in green foliage of ancient savannah
Adorned with pearls of arid sands,
With ivory mountain and cincture of rift
In the mythic boarder of the Equator
She rests at the footstool of the fierce sun
Comforted by cloud’s tears
And caressed by solemn winds
In the royal neighborhood of Continents
She locks horn with Europe
In the witness of Asia
And her offspring Madagascar
Copyright © Emerho O. Samuel | Year Posted 2014
Still hallowed is the well, and so they pray,
offer: prayer cards, candles, and bitty photos
of children to come and those now unmade,
each woman rife with grief in longing’s throes.
The sound of stream shakes beneath their feet
in the grotto chiseled from native stone.
Niches, shelves and ledges teem, replete,
with mementos of maid, mother and crone.
Pain crusts on: salted wounds, walls and gelid moss
where teddies and barrettes dangle on bows.
Those lost appeal to Brigid, through her cross
in summer, fall, and through the winter’s snows.
A woman’s grief seeks relief at sacred stream
here all who mother come to pray and dream.
First Published in Eunoia August 19, 2015
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
In A Hotel Room
In a hotel room, she lies, literally to herself.
Their meetings filled with desire are brief.
How can she put her dignity on a shelf
Lost, between the crumpled sheet.
As a friend I helplessly watch
As her happiness turns to shame
All the joy before is lost
Falling for this hoodlums game.
There is no love in a hotel room
Used for trysts and rendezvous
As she leaves she's filled with gloom
Not the girl that I once knew.
Players play for keeps
no conscience they can sleep.
Copyright © Jennifer Marie Oliver | Year Posted 2013
I am tired
I am weak
I am fragile
I sit in the corner
My weary head rests on bent bruised knees
The dark and musty room reflects how I feel inside
My bloodstained clothes are torn
I sob into my dress
As I sit
Behind closed doors
Salty tears sting my face
Pain sears through me
I tremble with fear
I am critically wounded
I am not good enough
Hopeless and useless he mocks
I made him do this
It is my fault
My drained body and hands shake
I want to sleep
The door slams
Has he gone?
I can’t take any more
My battered body lays still
In the dark stale corner
Silence... glorious silence
He is gone
No more shouting, slapping and kicking
No more clenched fists forcefully contacting my face
Swollen and sore, I cry and scream
He gags my mouth with his fist
My jaw cracks
Pain surges through me
He doesn’t care
An uncontrollable rage, a furnace within himself
Angry eyes, empty, dark & dangerous.
I want to move
My broken bones prevent
My frail shattered body screams in agony
Tortured, crimson blood pours from my wounds
My tattered clothes
Covered in the sticky red substance
My battered, bruised and damaged body
All tell my story
Of domestic abuse
Exposing me as a victim
Of what goes on behind closed doors
I lay down, too tired to sit
I feel my life draining from me
I close my eyes
I need to sleep
I am weak
I am tired
I am fragile
I am not scared any more
As my life ebbs away
I am happy to leave
Do not cry for me
I suffer no more
The angels have come to rescue me
Copyright © Sarah Bryant | Year Posted 2015
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 | Year Posted 2006
Your Face Glowed Like Brightest Of Rose Flowers
In that past life you were the only one,
sweetest filling in my first apple pie.
Now time cries out loud, we are both undone
our broken tears fall like rains from the sky.
Weep not fair maiden, life gives and it takes,
for its shadows have sad echoes ringing.
Mourn ye not so, for dearest heaven's sakes,
tomorrow life will gift dances and singing.
Midnight, you swore eternity was ours,
yet Fate that wretched beast has final say.
Your face glowed like brightest of rose flowers
Rejoice in those treasures, we had our day!
In hidden paths, we may yet meet again.
Not as star-crossed lovers but as lost friends!
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2016
humidity in culture climax.
why's nonsense pain in sex?
killing, rape and abduction,
is women's attitude corruption?
why natural growth is at risk?
the world society is in progress,
but hindu traditions are in mess,
rapes; leader blames a western fix.
no women is protected by law,
nudity for men is women's rape tax.
over the centuries system is slow,
pain in veil is cultural glow,
disconnect women from the growth,
is it only a solution for modern flow?
Copyright © Daljit Khankhana | Year Posted 2013
Is my life not tortured enough for you to see?
I am broken as can be.
My heart is torn.
My tears stain these perfect floors.
Why are singing with glee?
Why do you not care about my every plea?
I am trapped in your arms.
I am the hopeless moth.
How did you pick me?
What is it that you see?
A girl untouched by life?
A flower blooming in the desert?
I have said goodbye to my loving integrity.
You took that from me through R-A-P-E.
Copyright © Layla Elkoulily | Year Posted 2013
This is the greatest struggle that mocks me,
To be a distant sigh, caused by this queen;
A rose that has yet to compliment thee,
beyond the scope of eyes, already seen.
There is mystery in her soft appeal,
a humble frame that solicits my quest;
and while life leaves us with answers concealed,
I’m convinced this broad advance is perfect.
For while life is bitter, this is pleasure;
To gracefully shatter this mundane silence,
and dispel the devils space, indeed clever;
let’s rejoice in brief absence coined timeless.
With these tendencies forever burning,
may this one flesh never cease from yearning.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2015
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 | Year Posted 2015
Although a marvelous art of nature
The woman remains a mystical creature
For she cries and draws you near
And her smiles will keep you there
O! What pain you'll surely bear
If you crush her heart in a lofty dare
And in a manner seemingly restive
Her subtle feats shall leave you pensive
Yet in fallen grace, your most daunting day
She whispers to you, 'It will be okay'
Not as though she is first to say
But it sways your tears anyway
O woman, none can feel so much
And none can heal with a gentle touch
Inspiration: Stories of Mae and Bruwaa
Copyright © Wilfred Aniagyei | Year Posted 2015
WOMEN CAN’T BE COMPASSIONATE
Women can’t be compassionate, or their reputation’s dead
Can’t comfort the lost tourist, he’s the surrogate lover
As he sits on the theatre steps, wearing loud red
Checks and braces, bewildered when the play is over.
Women must be professional and never huddle
In doorways after rain, like an angel in a stupor
With life’s rejects, looking for a cuddle
Sad casualities of money, or of having worn Lee Cooper*.
Women can’t be friends with male novelists, or film-makers
Or poets, who want to define mistresses, and wives,
Leaving creativity to the movers and the shakers,
Taking dignitas and money out of women’s lives.
This narrows the field to the tycoon, or the bore –
Feminists – choose death first! Webster’s honest whore.
*Apologies to Lee Cooper – I couldn’t resist the rhyme, in fact their jeans are as good as anyone else’s – at one time they were very cool indeed.
from IN MEMORY OF HER, 2004, 2008
Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley | Year Posted 2016
Women Oh Women!!!
The necessary evil
in the lives of men.
Women it is that
makes you extra sad
When nothing in the
world will make you
Women are an
Even to the
To be in the right
frame of mind
Try to have one of
the woman kind.
Then to be the
saddest man in the
Then have one of
them behind your
They make you mad
That can't be done
by the strongest pill.
Just pray that you
have a good one
That the battle of life
by you can be won!!!
Copyright © Adesina Idris Dolapo | Year Posted 2012
Women's beauty, their weakness and these hands pale
That oft make good, and more times they do ail
And these eyes, where nothing as beasty might veil
Save, just to shout:'Enough' at furious male.
Always, mother, lulls to sleep the animal
Even when she lies, that voice, sweet Matinal
Call, or at vespers, soft chants or fresh signal
Or fine sob to one dying in folded shawl !
Harsh men ! atrocious life, and ugly down here !
Ah ! at least, far from kisses, and from fights' fear
Something still abides awhile, on mountain's crest
Something as if from a child's heart and subtle
Gentleness, respect ! For what will escort us
And indeed, what will last, when death throes rattle ?
Translated from Paul Verlaine's.
Copyright © True Feeling | Year Posted 2016
i do feel the need to air my intent
o, the smell of your sweet seductive scent
your sensory feed draws me even closer
you make me a lyrical composer
I take a sip of your inner essence
and feel it is affecting my cadence
you intoxicate my moral fiber
make me into a marital liar
too much serenading a problem
now I begin to believe I’m awesome
tales of such grandeur fill my public stage
soon I stutter and forget my own age
Mellow brought her little sister Tipsy
this merry threesome will lead to empty
Copyright © James Roffey | Year Posted 2016
their curriculum of beauty is suspense
it confuses the pure essence of sense
stuns and thrills man to indulge and languish
it is a catapult that revokes twitches to distinguish
women flowery toss aloft our deed breadth
our desire and lament proselylate length
we suffer the blight and plaguee of fantasy
we are frail monsters late but in ecstasy
but in them dwell the occult trouble of peace
chide,scold,rebuke and admonish us like louse
rein us by fondues and affectionate devotion
circuitously tenet and statue men in version
eternal motion we dance to the music
their incredulity binds us to mimic
Copyright © Ndou Mutshidzi | Year Posted 2015
LOVE FOR THREE WOMEN
In bays and headlands of my dreams I hear her sweet laughter:
She strolls along the beach in morningtimes at low tide bright.
O, like an unworn dress for a feast unknown hereafter,
My daughter and my better, guide and guard her out of sight.
Similar but different. Passionate. Lover and friend.
My wife’s yesterday-tastes are mine - lovebird pigeons homing,
Looking in one direction, the calculable next bend,
Bound together through yellow woods in the evening gloaming.
Grey haired, she lives forever younger in my memory.
With music, learning, poetry she set my mind ablaze:
From high Parnassus, future seeds fed by roots of hist’ry.
Mirrored in my soul, mother’s eyes return my searching gaze.
These three beloved women through my heart and spirit roam:
May love for them give strength and comfort on their journey home.
Written by Sydney Peck, 12 June 2011 for
Francine Roberts' Contest "Sonnets, Sonnets, everywhere!"
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011
Stalwart Sable Sister Soldier…
(Apropos A Major Home to Bury A Son)
She saw sorrow sadness shadowing shield
Orbs of cataract visions veiled
In victorious battles of nothingness;
Told to think of the blessings bombings yield;
That tomorrow the town will rise and manage
If they not waste time pondering the collateral damage.
Once more and again, we are caught
Not between the rock and hard place,
But confused why we have again fought
For the freedom of yet another abused race;
Mr. President, I’ve done what you’ve taught;
I’ve bitten the bullet and spat out the bitter taste;
Now I shall be about that which I now must manage
That you and I not become the future collateral damage.
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016
They stand in the shadows
not a dozen yards away.
They listen to the wind whispering unseen,
in the dept of trees.
They hear the somber sound
of our war song,
in the dim hills in the distance.
They crouch low
in the ponderous blackness,
of a cold solemn night.
A night that`s as cold as charity.
A night that will not bear
The night we sadly leave home to fight.
Copyright © k k iloduba jnr | Year Posted 2008
Love ones; excuse these urges I now purge,
The brief kiss that always exits her door,
The encore of lust, no permanent words.
But I must tour, cure this curious lure.
The plural roses, sweet culprits, steal me.
I yearn to multiply this term called queen;
Perhaps the youth of man, tricks thee,
Yet this passion married to thrill seems keen.
And while these eyes may add, still fond I am.
Fond of the rare court, she will always be,
The way she humbles, this lesser term of man.
Yes, now I may spread, but retire? Yes to thee.
I pray this case settles before long,
And wins her promise: fate is never wrong.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2016
The contest of womanhood
For the loss of womanhood
With an unadorned effort in trying to contest
She purposes to stroll away from the cluttered alters of altruism
Like a lunatic she searches the confidences of the tempest
For an answer to where;
Her beauty of youth,
And the tenderness of her yesterdays has vanished to?
With no courage of finding any she stares still
Expressive of an assassinating disparity
With a rhythm-less thud, she echoes the soreness and torment deep within
And in most of the life time,
She finds the intoxication of an outrageous battle for identity at the bottom of her heart
She knows, her sentiment will never reconcile and this contest may not be for her triumph.
Copyright © Irene Namajja | Year Posted 2014