Best Unwed Poems
'Neath umbra skies I seek a mirrored moment
the breeze a capricious charmer
blows serpentine sways to life
a ballet of tall switchgrass dancers
sweeping edges raspy green
dulling in the ever dimming light
their brassy symphony a soft cymbals’ siss
lure my thoughts to ramble a willowy maze
mesmerizing my mental landscape at sunset
whispers lulling my linger
moon-shimmer lends its voice
to chanting chimes in magenta magic
dropping notes afloat on aging August’s currents
like a sprinkling of stardust
upon a cradlesong
hymns of Venus vespers soothing me
my silhouette glides
a twilight shadow an astral body
with a vitality all its own
as the unwed wind ushers
my air brushed footsteps
to where wild whimsy wafts my sighs
free from fetters
a fading breath liberated to dusk
vibrations in violet call my name
I have found the echo to my essence
a spirit aswirl in a whirl of charcoal veils -
I seize a sylph’s escape
and amidst the darkened veils.. we dance
Susan Ashley
August 24, 2019
~ Fifth Place ~
Premiere Contest: A Brain Strand Choice No 1185
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 8
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ First Place ~
Contest: N/A Rerun 3
Sponsor: John Hamilton
~ Poem Of The Week ~
Week of September 1, 2019
Woman in Chains
(What Man Would Abide It?)
Women throughout centuries – the softer sex.
I picture them subservient since what feels like time primordial!
What man would abide
being sold as if mere chattle and being called another’s property?
What man, with a love of learning or of writing,
would acquiesce and be denied
the education and the opportunities he so desired?
What man would dare take second place -
hiding in the background or covering his face
because society or church said things were meant to be that way?
What man would abide having cut off from his body
that part of him from which carnal pleasure is derived?
What man would let his feet be broken as a child,
bound up to resemble hooves to keep him in his place?
What man would abide being burned alive
if the dowry of his spouse were deemed unsuitable?
What man would abide (if not so inclined)
enduring the agonies of giving birth again and again
because his spouse preferred he stay at home?
What man would abide being raped or even killed
as punishment for even being raped?
What man would endure constant beatings for “his own good”
and feel good that his church or state approved this?
What man, if he were able to get pregnant,
would take on all the stress of unwed motherhood
when the one who got him pregnant bailed on him?
What man would abide the stigma and the soiled reputation?
What man would prostitute himself to feed his babies
because a job for one like him would not be given?
What man would abide living enslaved by an abuser,
afraid to run away or be found and killed by his abuser?
Atrocities like these through centuries have too long been endured.
No man would for so long a time endure them.
For reasons of pure biology, the role of the abused
was hoisted primarily on women.
Thank God for those strong women a mere century ago
who stood up, bravely fighting for women’s rights.
Thank God for lonely sister souls in faraway places
who even now stand fighting against inequities -
simply for the fact that they were born the softer sex.
Aug. 31, 2020 for John Hamilton's Woman in Chains Contest
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope;
once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope.
She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope,
and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope.
The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire
(born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire)
for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
(the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade).
“She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
You told me
when I nearly died
how weird it felt
to feed me
how agape I waited
mouth open wide
for the next spoonful
like I did as a baby
Hungry little bird
You told me
when you were dying
you didn't see me till
days after I was born
years of guilt
that we did not bond
unwed teenage moms
in those days
unconsidered
Hungry little birds
You told me
when I was dying
for your approval
that I was not pretty enough
not strong enough
ridiculed me
insulted me
cut me off
Hungry little bird
I told you
when you were dying
when you asked me
why
that it was all ok
that we just were who we were
and that I loved you
that it's ok
mom it's ok
Hungry little bird
A decade since
you passed away
I live with
echoes of your words
and only now
I realize
that for your love
I will always be
Your hungry baby bird
17.03.19
At internet dating sites secrets are hidden
On his roller coaster of lies, Pam had ridden
Though she agreed to meet Joe in a public park
The sun had already set; it was growing dark
No families or lovers were strolling around
When Jim came from behind and pushed Pam to the ground
Pam went home and was afraid to tell her parents
In four months there was a change in her appearance
Pam left home and started living on the streets
Turning away from every stranger she’d meet
‘Neath neon lights on a cardboard box she lay
Night after night, visiting soup kitchens by day
In her eighth month she found a home for pregnant teens
As her mom endured the torment of fearful dreams
Time neared and Pam called home crying, “Mom, I’ve done wrong!”
Grateful mom said, “Dear, I’d have been there all along"
Lifting Pam up from the grasp of dire poverty
Her parents welcomed the newborn to their family
If she hadn’t made that call, Pam would not have known
The comfort she’d receive in her parents’ fine home
* Entry for Gwendolen’s “Mom, I’m Pregnant” contest.
According to Douglas J. Besharov with the University of Maryland’s School of Public
Policy, almost half of all families headed by women under age 18 have incomes
below the poverty line. This is almost five times the poverty rate of two-parent
families with children.
Mary Ann had a boyfriend that she
gave affection and great loyalty.
Since the age of sixteen
no one else had she seen
but she wanted more at thirty-three!
Her boyfriend, of course, had it made
since regularly, he would get laid.
So excuses he gave
when Mary Ann would rave
about marriage. . . and unwed they stayed.
Getting pregnant was her coup d'etat
when she said, “You will soon be a pa!”
She said, “Furthermore, Bruce,
I don’t need an excuse.
In my mind we’re a pair - common-law!”
For Black Eyed Susan's Excuses Poetry Contest
She sent me a lol on wattsapp
Please pass the ketchup
Mothership gliding in silent space
Umbilically us padded in shiny foil
Her face deflected in a fish bowl
Leaves only guessing about her thoughts
Lets dock Lets talk
Little ingots and tiny orbs
Suspended in the fluid of my sight
Just us against the world
Through the crackling and the static noise
Wincing hard to hear her voice
Her words a soggy sandwich
Pleading as my waning battery
But my head wouldnt dock with my heart
And somehow we became unwed
She was my torment, I was her duty
Her virtue was the softer call
And that became her beauty
Ive become much softer now
But it doesnt work for me at all
A completed work a naughty boy
Indifferent now to watch me fall
As Balmy
Comets Dazzle, Exhaling
Fragranced Gold; Haloed In Jasmine Kisses~
Lyrical Moon Nimbly Orchestrates
Peace, Quenching Radioactive Stars, To
Unwed Vain Woes; Xylophones Yield
Zephyrs.
There was a young lady from Wheeling
West Virginia, that is
Who had a peculiar feeling that
Her boyfriend Jack was cheating
She took it to his Mom
“Mom” she said, “your son Jack
Is really pissing me off.
I'm ready to hit the ceiling.”
“Ya know,” Mom said, “You crack me up.
I'm tickled he goes to your head
He irritates me the same way about you
So I tell him to stay unwed.”
So Mom was the other woman
The young lady from Wheeling suspected
So she lay on her back and considered Mom amd Jack
“I would like to see them dissected!”
great aunt, kissed me yesterday
after bidding fond adieu's
to fleeting flashbacks of youth
streaks of invincibility
stiffened her spine when a gentleman came calling
courting her future
a legitimate suitor
awkward member in good standing of the
Chicago Fire Department
A man unaware of the elements due to generations of Irish breeding
mule, mick, jackass, workhorse, turf-cutter,
he responds to all equally
stones of rough leathered hands... make him free
to cast a roving eye, flash a quick smile
share a wink with a girl hanging laundry out back to dry
aunt kissed me today, longer
holding on to that sweet floating feeling
that anything might happen
and would
when the Holy Trinity cuts her a break
if Paddy can turn the other cheek
oblivious to water that Mary's mother threw off the back porch
onto his only brown suit
onto his pride
onto Halsted Street
bright Sunday morning in June
The triplets had ruse in motion
ascetic, etched from strict culture
preordained her new life of solitude
Paddy, fresh off the boat
wet behind the ears
soaked in shame
never came back
auntie grieved
unwed
will always kiss
A newly-wed couple entered a coffee shop
Spent an hour to relax
Having a different nationality with something to drop
Green peas after wedding, they sprinkled everywhere without flax
A sign of good luck, they said
For each and everyone still unwed.
Seated inside the said coffee shop
I was euphoric with my cup
Two green peas on my head
Dropped in my tea of jade
One green pea floats
The other one vanished and bloats
Stirring my tea so hot
With a spoon smokes like a pot
Looking at the two peas
After laying on a saucer dish
Drenched and colored in bees
Marred like fallen trees
Inside of these peas
Are messages that mease
Each one dried in peace
And left a mark of cheese.
"Smile each day,
don't let the storm murk the day!
A pea each day,
peace of mind I pray!"
(Prosebite)
Now, Railroad Bob has lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a damn, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
and stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
Continued
Society tends to identify you only by your condition
Never by your name just by attrition
Unwed mother, crack addict, HIV carrier or whore
Never calling you by your name just labels evermore
Now there was a woman who was bent over
And in pain for eighteen years
As the devil had taken control of her body
And given her the spirit of tears
But comprehend that everything bad doesn't
Come from the devil's due
Sometimes your condition stems from issues
That are caused by you
Women of God arise stand up and be strong
Stop allowing the devil to keep steering you wrong
There's work to be done in God's kingdom
And we need to do our part
And not allow the enemy to keep tearing us apart
We need to be delivered from our conditions, issues
And strains
By allowing God to come in and take away our pain
We need to be delivered from our own bad behavior
To be made whole and healed by Jesus the Christ
Our Savior
Women of God arise with intentionality
Now to stand tall with a spiritual mentality
No longer to be crippled by things from your past
To let go and let God lift you up at last
No longer to let your mother's indifference
Continue to make you trip
No longer to let your sexual abuse
Color your relationships
It's time to move forward towards the heavenly throne
Women of God arise walking with God now never alone
To be healed from the hell that has swallowed you whole
To arise out of the abyss of despair that dank, dark hole
Letting a supernatural release
Lead to a supernatural increase
Moving in the right direction that woman
Gravitated towards Jesus the Christ
She faithfully responded to the Savior
And He forever changed her life
Jesus destroyed the enemy's power
That had taken control
Jesus laid hands on her
And lifted her crippled soul
Women of God arise stand bold and correct
Walking with intentionality now spiritually erect
Love that is taken for one selfish goal
can never be true as far as I know.
Rape took the soul of a sister and friend
ravishing her frail spirit to a bitter end.
At sixteen she went on a blind first date
she knew not of her destiny or her fate.
She met with a soldier of the army corps
this was the time during Vietnam War.
He crushed her will with the slap of his fist
took her by force as she tried to resist.
Her screams were stifled and never heeded
within her body he forcibly seeded.
She remained quite not saying a word
until life inside her finally stirred.
Fearful our parents would be upset
she ran away with a friend to forget.
I eventually told what she had done
why she ran away and was on the run.
City law was called for her safe return
found her kidnapped as we later did learn.
As months went by, she grew in girth
sent to a home where she gave birth.
A son was born to her in September
he looked just like her as I remember.
She could not keep him so gave him away
and longs for him still to this very day.
He resides in her heart, a haunting emotion
and forever there will be, a true devotion.
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Fourth Place Winner ~ "I'm Pregnant" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Gwendolen Rix
June. 6, 2011
A longitudinal study in the United States of over 4,000 women
followed for 3 years found that the national rape related pregnancy
rate was 5.0% per rape among victims aged 12–45 years,
producing over 32,000 pregnancies nationally among women
from rape each year.
My younger sister was a victim of rape which she never reported.
No one in the family knew it for many years. I have a nephew
I will never know or see and she has mental issues that she has a
hard time dealing with. Back then unwed pregnancies were taboo.
Have you ever heard the cry of the broken hearted?
Whose heart bleeds as it pleads as a result to losing, the one girl, he needs
Humble your heart and mind and access with empathy; well enough to perceive it clearly
I must warn you, it’ll be the worst cry you’ll ever hear, because it’s awfully too near to fear
Like how raindrops can replace your tears’ flowing outwardly from the inside
Falling like thunder-hunted by a lightning spear, shredding your thoughts to wander
As to what reality will be like to a dreamer, who cannot sleep; as he weeps and leaps?
Chasing memories which doesn’t exist coz’ he cannot resist but he persist on insisting, anyway
Whereas his heart plays jaggedly with the cards of sorrow, one bluff-it’s goodbye tomorrow
He bellows… like a rollercoaster ride, knowing, it’ll come again and again, turning boys to men
Turning strong men weak and feeble men weaker-all because he tried again, to seek her
All because he thought he needs her-He truly believes and grieves like thieves
Stealing time that was never his to reminisce inside a kiss only to see it spun onto this
Where his world gets weary as his eyes get teary watching the past unfolds to less than a theory
I digress, hoping that it’ll all be over in one second or less, unless, all, is but a test
I digress from digressing further, because everything’s a blur-like a nightmare slurring
He confuses me, when he talks about me as “I to a he” to a muse as though he too has lost his shoes
My head’s spinning-trying to find the right words to a song; a right place to belong
I’ve gone and reached ahead while the unknown future still trapped in my bed; unwed from reality
Uncoupled from normality where the only exception to the rule was to cry and so I play the fool
He cries as I cry, sending our “goodbyes” to the sky, trusting that one day, I will get to fly
As for now, I’ll embrace the pain with a little bit of salt and let it settle inside my private vault
Where all my promises and wishes and dreams can come true, and while I’m there… I’ll think of you
by: Wilbert Evangelista Dela CRuz