Best Complexions Poems
In our Asian-cum-Eastern land
No one prefers or admires
the dark-skinned or tanned
Gosh, as if the fair-skinned alone
belonged to the so-called fairer sex
And here, 'black is beauty' a phrase unheard
All falling for the light skinned almost in reflex!
Bachelors on the hunt for a non-fictional Asian 'Snow-white'
Even an ugly heart will do if the skin is white, pale and light
For them lighter skin tis brighter and better at beauty
even if superficial and skin-deep
The dark-skinned maidens thereby left single to weep
But while the ebony dark- pigmented
go on applying whitening and lightening creams
The white Westerners frequented
the sunlit beaches for dark tans from sun beams!
So in westerners females wish to look browned and tanned
Thus the opposite is preferred
so to that end they may sun bathe for hours on beach sand
Ah and though from the point of view of my motherland
I am luckier that God chose
to model me from a peachy whiter lighter clay,
I still feel this tug-of-war between complexions
needn't really join the fray.
For when you and I glance at Naomi Campbell
we know beauty can be white, brown and black as well
Like love, beauty knows no colour, creed or race
As proved by this gorgeous black supermodel.
Besides, we all have come across
both dark-skinned angelic saints
and fair-skinned folks with sinner's taints
Ah, Black Beauty, or Fair and lovely
Beauty has never known any bounds
For God He distributed beauty rather equally
No argument can last on these grounds
Oh, a soulmate's inner beauty ought to be earnestly sought
Too bad lustful passions fall for those merely outwardly hot!
gravitating together,
children - puffy fat in snowsuits - grasp
one another's mittened hands,
in-line unison,
their fall backwards into a soft ridge of snow
kid-laughter dances on the bending wind of cold
saturated tones of silliness
freefall play
repeated in fresh drifts with puckish twists
newfound layers of warmth
with ruddy, winter-worn complexions
an untroubled time
in the bruised abundance of snow
etched by imprints
winter's candy floss to children
life-loving voices that torch the chilling air
with joy
before heartbreak is definable
before bindings shape their toil
Poem composed February 20, 2022
If I Tell You, 2011
Vickie M. Ortiz Vazquez
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
What comes to mind?
Morena of “el barrio” or Blonde woman of “el barrio”
Better yet, pale skin-blonde from up north
That one, the straight English-speaking wanna-be
“Con su pelo lacio”
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Could you describe who I am?
Woman controlled, subjected by Welfare
Carrying on the poor women cycle
You know, the one imposed by the few rich white men
Shackled
Would you think of me in a bright light; dim light?
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Do you envision an immigrant, alien?
A woman once taken and brought at age 15
Beginning of her womanhood
Tormented by loneliness, isolation, ignorance
Frustrated by the never ending question, “Are you mixed?”
Misunderstood by her citizenship
Seen as unfair by many
Slaved island, unrealized
Are you able to narrate which Puerto Rican woman am I?
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Puerto Rican I am
“Café con leche,” Afro-hair, big lips, small nose
Distance between what I was and inspire to be
Clinching to her African heritage
Searching
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Can you explain the injustice my hair endured?
Constant search for assimilation
Assimilation
To break free
Impacted by those with similar skin color, Afro hair, big lips
Different
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Do you paint two contrasting siblings?
Light, dark complexions
Tall dark father with short light mother by his side
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Do your pages bleed from inspiration?
Disgust?
Stereotypes?
Would I read between the lines, a woman becoming her own?
Struggling between many worlds
Or, do you spell the notion of loud, submissive, sex symbol
You know, the one portrayed in the media
If I tell you, Puerto Rican I am
Can you decipher, WEEEEPA
Masked maiden
In lacy black frills
Manacled, chained
Sensuous thrills
Birthday suit bare
Heavenly toned
Sweetened and ripe
In wanting groan
With her laced black fan
She lures with her scent
He slowly walks to her
As her eyes lament
She looks up to him
In hungering stare
As he looks down
Desiring her there
He offers his hand
His maiden in black
To rejoice their join
Passion attack
To a leather couch
He rests her down
His dark haired vixen
Lacy gowned
Hands encroach
In bodily roam
Synchronised
Heavenly home
In pleasurable touch
Their joys arise
In welcome slide
His pride inside
Rhythmic rhythm
Tantalising tongues
Hands homing
Sexually sung
Perpetual in motion
Writhing want
Cries of caressing
Her heavenly font
The mix of their motion
River of love
Quench of two
Eagle and dove
Rosy complexions
Flora flushed
Passions hushed
Pinked and blushed
Couched and cosy
Hunger appeased
Two covered in lace
In lovingly please
;-)
Tenebrous night steals autumn days,
Invading ink subtracts the breath of light,
With tarnished mingling edge,
With dusty dusk’s laments.
Tenebrous night of immutable grave,
Infiltrating melanin loots the golden glow,
Where criminal and crucifix sink,
Where dream and delirium drown.
We are merely complexions of being
With frivolous hearts,
Chalking pigment lines to cleave
The cloak of skin we all share,
Chasing the encasing that divides us.
Across the planet, lines of disparity,
Lines of uneven imparity,
Across the globe, lines of ruling class,
Lines of the toilers and indigent class.
We are merely complexions of being
Carving rich from poor,
Along lines of race and class.
We dread what may come to pass.
Tenebrous night our final gasp,
The tenuous squandered
Dwindling light we grasp.
Published in Dissident Voice: November 28th, 2021
Intuitive attraction,closed eye interaction
spoken words braille's translation
dead silence amidst their hesitation
intuition their sacred present
through vacant eyes each felt the other's presence
in silence their hearts' rhythm is heard
as passions were observed
gentle hands touch facial expressions
their physical identity an unanswered question
Emotions...facial braille
sullen expressions,complexions pale
facial texture,old and smooth as fetal skin
both transcend first impressions
their kind words contradict facial braille expressions
beneath their aging veils , their true impressions
observed , yet both transcend timid nerves
Since birth their eyes were blind
neither yearned vision
their intuition lends its wisdom
Friends and foes of flesh and bone from me they have flown
A different company I keep in reveries of twilight sleep
When night’s dark blanket does fall, I begin to hear their call
Carriage wheels creak, horses shriek, I look, but dare not speak
Some appear restrained; others seem in good manners untrained
Pale complexions, faces unshaven, countenances dark and graven
Friendly words are not uttered, heavy hearts remain un-fluttered
After a brief admiration I join this motley delegation sans hesitation
Through sleepy streets we ride, through dark alleys we arrive
To our place of gathering - in silence, without any chattering
Far from city lights, under a moonlit sky an owl hoots thrice
As if to wonder, “Are these nocturnal creatures of virtue or vice?”
These ghastly preachers with ominous features invade his lightless
Kingdom with a mysterious mission - in search of freedom,
Perhaps driven by some demon, or for some other unknown reason
The owl has seen enough, so it swiftly flies away with a huff
In a ruinous castle by moonlight lit, at a round table we quietly sit
The ghostly figures each reveal packets from under dusty jackets
On the table they are placed, then with their burning eyes I am faced
This is to be a feast, my hosts are many, but guests there aren`t any
The packets are unwrapped, their curious contents are unmatched:
Flavors of love and hate, horror, and beauty, to devour all is my duty
Some taste sweet, fruits of exotic flavor, I eat; everything I savor
Others brought blood to the table; to swallow this too I must be able
I eat, swallow, devour, my hosts are pleased; suddenly I am seized
By a feeling of heavy heart and head, I enter a dark sleep of the dead
When I wake, in my mouth there’s a strange taste, in my body I ache
But the ghosts` sustenance must be treasured, their feast remembered
Or else I`ll be dismembered, the dark treasures in the woods gathered
Will be retrieved and given to a more worthy soul, for their goal
Is to bring their bitter, bloody honey to feed the mind not the body -
The essence of life distilled by the dead in images and words I was fed
GOTH GIRL
Sitting beside two Goth girls;
Black hair, black clothes,
Black eyelashes,
silver studs in the knee-length boots,
pale daughters-of-Dracula complexions.
I could be in Whitby for a Goth convention,
standing on a crag
looking out on the cold North sea,
but I'm having a coffee break
from learning Swedish,
and the blonde thread running
through my thoughts
has been momentarily lost,
a shadow darkens the sun.
Sneaking a glance at her chill loveliness;
no fangs or love bite from the master
blemish her ivory neck,
and I laugh behind my newspaper,
laugh at the adult restraint
I have to honour,
laugh at the sentence,
Welcome to my castle!
She turns to look my way
but I have to get going
- Age before Beauty -
before the light of those eyes
makes me break
my thousand-year silence.
OLD TOWN ELEGY
The bridge still spans the road - with what design?
The rail that once crossed Ridgeway and vale to the sea
Erased and gone, with scarce residual sign
And barely more trace than near roads of Roman decree
From the bridge, track the ghosts of line, goods yard, Old Town Station
Where we lingered and noted the numbers of each passing train
Web of steel and of steam entwined village and town across nation
'Til Arcadian slow lines were suddenly made to wain
Gone: the Market where cows sheep and pigs brought in telling perceptions
The images, noises and smells of the farms to the town
The tweeded farmers with leathery limbs and complexions
And gaiters of deepest sheen in a rich chestnut brown
Flaxen ropes, billhooks, pitchforks enough for a peasants' uprising
Spread along the High street and over the Corn Exchange square
While Newport Street furnished inns for all thirsts' reviving
And above all, the clock tower made skyline iconic and fair
Then was school run not cosseted, chauffeured, by car
But raced, skipped or dawdled through field, street, market and station
Our little world teamed with action, unscreened, with no bar
Of health and safety; adventure without filtration
In that world we seemed in different incarnation
Are we the same people, and do we now view the same place?
Can we yet discern immortality's intimation?
The adventure goes on though perhaps at a difference pace.
1/16/23
Still rejected
I already did mention
Much is in question
In the end most won't get the message
I'm tired of all this tension
Too much focus on others skin complexions
Never once has this path been effective
Do such fools need a punch or bullet to the midsection?
Meaning is the answer a fist or weapon?
For there to be change for the better it's no myth or legend
When necessary I went beastmode
Crap focused on and important matters vetoed
Can't just solve it with cheat codes
Meanwhile continually heat rose
People fighting each other sometimes using torpedoes
All of this continual s*** seems old
Like the same old stories all these priests told
So fast they reach for a couple tissues
Meanwhile the struggle continues
Still dealing with much more than just trust issues
Lady, don't play me I'm not the one
No need to be on the run
I wanted love
Yet have gotten none
From dawn to dusk
I've had rotten luck
They judge and talk too much
I'm going beyond such
Petty matters, yet can't always rely on a hunch
For far too long was caught and stuck
Still continual odd stuff
So easily people go on the hunt
Quick to cause a lot of funk
A lot assume
While holding a hostile view
Among all these molecules
I've got more trust in a dog then you
If you don't got a clue
There was much marijuana use
I'm an alcoholic who
Spent much time in solitude
Occasionally a brief rendezvous
Meanwhile global conflicts grew
Don't test me or there'll be a sonic boom
All of it being told from an honest view
Watch your moves
Toward danger it's chalked up to
Drying up or rivers ran
Nearly always the bigger man
Ambidextrous, either one is a trigger hand
They never once saw the whole picture damn
They expected it all to be spic and span
Life throwing curveballs, despite what is or isn't planned
I've got much to do, before I kick the can
Meanwhile time keeps ticking, quickly it can hit the fan
* For Jessica Alba ... and the splendor of her smile. *
Oh, the enigma of her face ...
Its melting mysteries and moody veneers
When sad, like a brumal, aching, mist-muddled beach
Wild tresses framing it like surf-swept seaweed
Sandy spindrift, left by her squall ...
Then, the smaze lifts ...
The irises spark like dark fire opals
Glistening as the wild wash of the Milky Way
Her smile blooms forth - a dazzling midday meadow
Splashed thick with heather and promise ...
Oh, and all the mad magic ...
The cinematic surprises from there-to-here
Rages of rouge, bawdy blushes, and pale complexions, moony
The multitude of transitions and tones - all divine ...
And all ... my undoing.
~ 8th Place ~ in the "My Upcoming Birthday (09-03) Celebrity - Any Form Cash Prize" Poetry Contest, William Kekaula, Judge & Sponsor.
Gaping open raw war exhales vapors
In the frigid gray stillness excavating
My souls for the unseen harvest
Reflected in the leaves desiccating
Through walls of fogs pale faces stare
And disappear like a random shiver
Like a slick violin string vibrating sad
-ness like a portent of a sickness open
-ing shaking thoughts of unknown frontiers
Full of four-dimensional forests and coasts
Where skeletons recite rhapsodies ravenously
Waving flags of unjust defunct empires wildly
In the encrusted fear demons lend severed gospels
Like laughing children without love keeping records
Of my actions and their forgotten complexions
Waning in the humid cold touch of misgivings
But the voice warbles without ceasing warnings
Releasing doves bleeding as they fall asleep
Descending into a valley where darkness shines
Limbs of unrequited hope desperately lunge
For the throat emanating light salvation
Indiscriminately reaping and sowing dreams
Seeming real as wounds which never heal
As flies hatch treasonous larva in the gash
And a new century is born and scorned
Now and forever have arrived starved
Demanding blood on the altar of profusion
Crying in concrete homes hallowing illusion
Until the last angel breaks illumination...
A rather young couple have
Moved in together
In the two up, two down
Across the street.
Not for them conventionality
Or conformity:
No wedding band offends
Her third finger, left hand
Nor, it must be said
From appearances,
Does bath water very often.
Long, lank and greasy hair
Drools over their acne-scarred complexions.
They proudly declare their membership
Of the rock music degeneration
With booming bass
And screeching electric guitars,
Earth-quaking the street.
Oh yes, they have defiantly
Made it clear
They’re not going to conform
And prefer to live their lives
Living in din.
10/8/22
Never mind
There is no better time
One way to find out if I'll ever find
What's on the separate side
It took more than seven tries
To get it right, after eleven nights
In the midst of a hectic life
While there was red in the skies
Had to stay at it instead of waiting to be next in line
Take heed folks
Of these notes
Far too often we boast
Friction with each stroke
Eventually the machine broke
Behind all the weed smoke
And C-Notes
Perched beyond speed boats
Men in green coats
In the end, fate was decided by three votes
Nearby a pile of wood ash
Knowing I could crash
Trying my best to go down a good path
She always looks pass
Difficult at first was how I took that
I stood at
The crossroads then pushed back
Without exception
There is continual deception
It's 2022 yet areas still have no reception
Times of self-reflection
I've had hardly any connection
As well as zero affection
Without a question
People still obsessed with
Elections and skin complexions
This pitiful concept spreads like an infection
Such pettiness I pay no attention
While going in and out the dimension
Making sure to always have a sense of direction
We are complexions of being,
gradations of actualization.
Our nature coming to be or passing away,
Aristotle wrote.
Mere complexions of being,
gradations of ontology.
In every American thing we claim to know,
Pigment is the currency,
Our petty underlying divisor,
Our pixelated property.
The color line preserves white privilege.
We are complexions of being,
gradations of realization.
From The Age of Enlightenment
followed the epoch of enslavement,
Our white patriots traded in commodified skins,
Learning how an emboldened empire wins,
Learning how merchants on the take use race.
So their destiny was manifest,
Genocide was their bequest.
In their path, all traces of different races
Necessarily disappeared,
The indigenous people they feared.
Hunted, murdered, and jeered,
White entitlement forgot them all and moved on.
We are complexions of being,
gradations of sentience.
Quickly unraveling before breakfast,
Whites come alive, staggering like air dancers,
Inflated gas bags thrashing, and lurching,
At their dealerships, certain something sensational
Is happening somewhere.
The reasons never explicated,
The false complexion dichotomies
will never transfer power.
Until there is no white or black,
Until we are gradations of one,
Until we see our shades of immanence.
Published: Dissident Voice, October 2, 2022