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Carolyne M. Acen Poem
I am sexually attracted to intelligence.
Intimate conversations springing from an
eloquent mind, undressing my conscience
and making love to my thoughts.
Giving me cerebral stimulating orgasms from
live interchange of mind blowing discussions,
direct transmissions tickling my wordsmith
senses in a sensual word play where our
thoughts wrestle with our feelings in an
intellectual parlance.
I am sexually attracted to an intelligent man.
Constantly lost in a mind mating game as our
thoughts converge into a cosmic fusion.
Minds stretching like binary stars into a galaxy.
Swimming in an ocean of philosophy and
psychology, a sea of brilliant ideas, and waltzing
in a forest of opportunities in an analytical love
nest oozing theories and bleeding facts.
High on a love that ravishes me with every
word as i am overcome by extensive vocabulary.
Giving eargasms that constrict our ears and make
our minds bind in soul sex.
Piqued interest, thoughtfully attuned to a peculiar
woman like me.
Enticing my nerves with explosive conversations.
Taking me on an enthralling thoughtful journey to
expose the wonders of the mind.
Through detours of logic, truth, and sensuality
intertwined in blissful knowledge.
Re-routing the superficial fake sexual game that
men played with me.
I am sexually attracted to intelligence.
Of two sapiosexual lovers intoxicated in passion,
building creative juices and releasing intellectual
vibrations, climaxing from mental stimulation.
Caressing my flesh with cognitive poetry from
emotions existent as i turn him up in a deep
Spoken word poetry recital about the world.
Educating him, giving him something to meditate
on.
Intriguing me with his beautiful mind, provoking
my thoughts, arousing neurons as the synapses
of our brains perform intricate dances.
Beats become one resonating cadence.
Fusion of musical instruments as our thoughts
swirl and create a harmonious rhythm in a deep
orgasmic mind dance in a world experiencing
the worst sexual revolution.
A world where physical beauty is overrated and
intelligence is underrated.
Enslaved minds hooked to fleeting passion and
the physical facade like the magic herb.
Ignorance that muddles the mind.
A world where intelligent women are intimidating
and labeled, “Miss Know it all or Big headed”
A world where intelligent men are intimidating
and labeled, “Mr. Know it all or proud”.
In a world where a Sapiosexual woman like me dwells.
Copyright © Carolyne M. Acen | Year Posted 2016
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Carolyne M. Acen Poem
Give me that old skool love, a groovy throw back
kind of love that is black and white like the first TVs.
A tapered leg acid washed jean trouser and a crop
top feeling sexy.
A striped miniskirt with leg warmers and go-go boots
to swirl on the dance floor.
Give me a classic kind of love, a ride or die commitment
that means so much more than being called, “boo” or “bae”.
A mature relationship where i am the only girl you chase.
Write me a love letter and create a mix tape for me.
Dedicate to me a song on the radio and fill my ears with
sweet loving endearments as we get lost in a deep embrace.
Give me the Love Jones, a jazzy soul under the moonlight.
Serenade me by singing my favorite song.
Put some money in the jukebox and spin with me like
quilts of silk.
We will set the dance floor on fire as our favorite old
skool jam plays.
Dim the lights and caress me in a slow dance as our souls
intertwine and bodies sway to the fading rhythm of the night.
Give me that sensual vintage love, the barbecue parties,
movie nights and a night cap.
The kind you don’t see in these times, the type of love
that’s a mystery and a craving to many.
The love that was groomed under the stars and bloomed
during the Harlem renaissance.
A deeper and more tangible connection than video chat
on the internet.
A strong bond that built relationships and kept families together.
So, give me that real old skool love.
The kind fabricated in romantic movies, visualized by poets,
painted by great artists and reproduced by sensational
soul musicians like Gerald Levert, Luther Vandross, Teddy
Pendergrass, Anita baker, Chaka Khan and Regina belle.
Make it sensual and sexy, deep and mind blowing, as tasty
as chocolate, and smooth like butter.
Create a carnival procession in my mind and feed me
with romantic vibes.
Let’s fill the streets with our own mushy public display
of affection.
Let’s talk for hours on the telephone, cab and travel
until anywhere, fill my head with talks of forever as we
sail swiftly on our own old skool yacht.
Copyright © Carolyne M. Acen | Year Posted 2016
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Carolyne M. Acen Poem
1am: The clock strikes like bolts of lightning as my brain rapidly
fires neurons creating a torturous play field in my tired mind.
Pangs of loneliness hit me like a full speed train.
My bed feels emptier than the Sahara, colder than Antarctica.
Sleep evades me at this hour.
2am: I am nestling in my bed, tossing and turning, longing for
a restful sleep.
Calmness of impassioned night haunts me in my awakeness.
Wild fantasies flow through my mind provoking my sensuality
as i slide bare legs against the sheets.
I curl my arms under the pillow like apostrophes to imitate
an epic fail pillow talk with my thoughts.
Mulling over love; aching and craving for romance.
My fabric rustles, tugging onto the heat on my nude skin
as my body starves of slumber sweet.
3am: I am my own philosopher.
Taking twisted turns with life’s ironies and experiences.
A late night’s discontent filled with mind blowing debates,
trick questions, mumblings, pointless gibbers and quizzes.
Drifting in and out of the blank, endless room –displaying
sights and seeking answers.
Staring at the ceiling in the vertigo of the night.
Watching the steady accusations of the clock, and the
long gaze of the wall judging and mocking me.
I am plagued by the nagging thoughts, past recollections
roam the noisy streets of my mind.
Sleep still enervates me.
4am: My eyelids remain agape, my mind is agitated but my
soul accepts the enthralling path of uninterrupted
consciousness.
Time drips like a leaking bathtub faucet –flooding my
mind and reminding me of my sleep debt.
Bored, i rummage through my archives trying to dust
off yesterday’s verses and fading rhythms- editing
memories and reciting old poems as the world snores.
5am: The galling sound of my alarm summons my day’s routine
like a clarion call for duty.
My night’s sleep was a failed marathon and i must join the
awakening world with a stone face.
Damn Insomnia!
Copyright © Carolyne M. Acen | Year Posted 2016
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Carolyne M. Acen Poem
Fall in love with a poet at your own risk.
She’ll woo your mind with serenading
notes and undress your defenses
behind metaphors and rhymes.
She’ll merge emotions with home-made
verses in a nectarous word play, opening
the mansion of your heart.
She’ll take you skinny dipping in alliterations
and mind blowing synonyms.
Merge your dreams with hers in a river of
vivid prismic dreams where fantasies come
alive.
She’ll defile your mind, intrigue you with
stimulating conversations and arouse
your inferno like the arms of a piano.
Fall in love with a poet and she’ll make an
honest man out of you in a heart marriage.
Your souls will exchange vows creating an
abyss of commitment.
You’ll be a perfect match like treble and bass
or baked brie and chardonnay.
You’ll connect like Siamese twins, finishing
each other’s sentences, hearts beating
to a synchronized tune.
Make Love to a poet without holding back.
She'll caress you in a realm of unexplored sexuality
as your bodies glide rhythmically- exploring
unseen boundaries.
Like a masterpiece, she’ll paint beautiful
images of you on canvas and engrave
every piece of you on her skin.
Like a music composer, she’ll dedicate every
love ballad to you.
Like a chef, you’ll be more than comfort food
for the soul.
She’ll serve you a café du lait of emotions on
a food for thought plate.
As a poet, you’ll inspire all of her love poetry
because you’re her definition of love.
She’ll compose the best lyrics in honor of you
and write you Odes, and sonnets in
celebration of the love that you both share.
She’ll entice and invite you with a private
poetry session.
You’ll be her life poem.
Love a Poet with caution and tread carefully
while you circle your intentions around her
heart.
Don’t act in haste with her feelings and
emotions or break her heart because she’ll
give you an archive of memories.
You’ll be an old mix tape that people don’t
listen to anymore.
Your love will turn into a rotting case of
society and your voice will resonate with
the sound of gushing birds.
She’ll bleed and pour her soul on canvas
with an elegy.
She’ll immortalize you and create an
anthology.
You’ll become the story of her life.
A bestseller passed out to every young woman.
Your name will be echoed at poetry slams.
You’ll be the Spoken word artist’s lesson
at one mic shows.
Copyright © Carolyne M. Acen | Year Posted 2016
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Carolyne M. Acen Poem
The air on board was foul and putrid.
Chained together at the ankle in
coffles, evil dragged me and others
with scabbed lips on board.
Humiliated under the sun, we were
stripped naked and examined from
head to toe and put in quarters to
be raped.
My senses dulled from abuse, bouts
of hunger with nausea, constipation
and headaches made me sick.
The hallucinations from the forlorn
distance sent shivers down my spine
as lulling whispers of shackles
tormented me.
The anchor was set up, huge sails
caused the ship to fly amidst ominous
looming dark clouds.
Thunder rumbled like a hungry monster.
Cold breeze swept across the ship as i
lay numb from the pain for months.
Heavy cowhide descended on my
shrinking flesh and manacled limbs.
I grieved yesterday’s anguish as the
sacred zeal in my bosom glowed
preceding with my woes.
A raised wooden stage welcomed
me ashore.
Naked, exposed to the sun’s piercing
beam, bids were tallied carefully.
Negotiations were made, i now
belonged to “massa”.
Working the heat in the plantations
under harsh conditions, my back ached
and wounds from the whipping from the
overseer hurt – my fingers bled from
picking cotton.
Mentally subdued, i hid behind religion’s
soothing balm.
My mind was no longer my own, this body
belonged to “massa”.
I constantly pranced in the hallowed night,
lamenting a hopeless future for my child-
humming a languid song in hope that my
ancestors might hear my plight.
I raised my head to the sky, and envisioned
freedom’s caress under a constellation.
Copyright © Carolyne M. Acen | Year Posted 2016
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