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
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!
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.
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
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
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.
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?
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.
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!!!
Wherefore are you all a perplexity,
O women? Though you be the fairer sex
your cruel and cold, enigmatic, complex
brains are rife with insensitivity.
Your loves, so sweet at first--duplicity!
"You and me, forever," you say,--and flex
at me eternal love like a reflex,
ne'er acknowledging your dishonesty.
O women, understanding you is lost
to me--for e'en your kind's best makes no sense.
To think! my love, my poems...all at great cost
wasted on thee and on your loves' pretense!?
Wiser, I resign myself at their love,--
ne'ermore to think women as from above.
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.”
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.
I walk threw a war and back to be with you
I jump over river to live with you
I fight the battle of war world I
Then to be with out you
I will run crime race
Then to be with out you
I jump over a boat and jump to a plan
Then to be with out you
I walk threw fire
And I stand beside you
I swim in the river with shark
Just to be with you
I take four plans
And wait to be with you
You’re the man for me and I am the women for you
I will fight mike Tyson
Just to be with you
I lift up a SUV if you was under it
Just to be with you
I go rock climing and fishing
Just because you love sports
And if I have to take on 100 women to be with you
Know problem because your heart will tell you the true
And you always come back to me.
So tone you light skin brother you’re my best friend and
I want let you go for nothing in this world.
I will still be with you.
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.
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.
How cool would it be to be called "The Thing?"
I bet women would be all over me,
Since this nickname has a very nice ring
To it, and sends a message overtly.
Most women I know could not stop peaking,
If everything was massively large
And rock hard, in a matter of speaking,
Because they love a man who is in charge.
With durability and super strength,
I would be the most unstoppable force,
Being willing to go to any length
To complete my mission and stay on course.
There would be innuendo in my rhyme,
When I tell her, "It is clobbering time!"