Best Woman Poems
Never ever shame a woman
for the fire in her soul
still your fear that you're unable
to give that which makes her whole
Never ever shame a woman
for the fierceness of her love
when she wants to subjugate you
she's an eagle, not your dove
Never ever shame a woman
for her raging burning need
to take in that which inflames her
bond and let her soul be freed
Never ever shame a woman
for insatiable desire
use your all to give and please her
be a man and stoke her fire
Never ever shame a woman
for her sensual appetite
primal cravings that possess her
give her reign at day or night
Never ever shame a woman
when she moans in ecstasy
do not force her into silence
let her voice her fantasy
Never ever shame a woman
for her wanton sultry way
thank the heavens that she's able
to bring passion into play
Never ever shame a woman
for the pleasure that she craves
be a man and strive to sate her
for this act her honor saves
Eileen Manassian
In riming realms
of crystal contemplations -
frozen water-vapor meditations
and chilled flutes
filled with zodiacal-light musings
of ancient cosmic dust
dancing in the arms of Sol..
windswept operatic reveries
rise and fall
as her stirring soprano
tickled by the chanting of icicle chimes
gathers momentum
in strengthening sprays
of frosted musical notes adrift in broken chords
she bestrides
a clouded steed colored mother-of-pearl
flowing with fury
within which beats a blustery heart
surging at jet stream speeds
on the clattering beat of hailstorm hooves
from streamer-skies of the northern dancers
they fly aloft
on arctic gales of lyrical laughter
igniting the imagination
of her freezing fire
burning now with a blistering whip
and a frostbite nip
that sinks its tingling teeth deep
sailing
a supernatural stage
amplifying—
her aerated soprano soars
in polar vortex arias
as an avalanche of glazed trinkets
—descendants of her fertile femininity
skydive
in shivering sixfold symmetry
falling
in fierce flights of fancy
as she cyclones on consecrated currents
with wild abandon
escalating
in twirling trills
of glass beaded squalls
swirling her iced eiderdown skirts aflare
baring tempest thighs
storming with a Siberian sting!
..and as her electric eyes spark
luminous with lightning
she buries you in a blizzard
of opalescent mistletoe berries
and wanton whims.
I will not dim my light so you can shine
I will not still my voice so you can scream
I will not quench my blaze so you can burn
I will not hush my thoughts so you can dream
I will not stifle truth so you can preach
I will not slink away so you can claim
I will not be demure so you can boast
I will not bend my head so you can blame
I will not hide my thirst so you can drink
I will not stave my wants so you can eat
I will not follow, just to let you lead
I will not stand so you can take my seat
Equality is what I’m striving for
The days must end when men demand to rule
My voice will not be silenced; all will hear:
A woman is a blessing, not a tool
She is the beauty of bejeweled night
She is the wonder of the dawning day
Her wisdom she can temper with her might
She is the one to show Compassion's way
You do her wrong when you suppress her song
When callus hearted-mind sees but her form
Her virtue is her gentle loving soul
Tranquility is she when not the storm
I will not be untrue to gendered grace
to fit the manly notions of your mind
I’ll speak and love and laugh, and yes, I’ll thrive!
With pride I’ll see you bow to womankind
Eileen Manassian
Her smiles of valor encase her agony--
her fiery scars pound against her sanity
struggling in twisted ropes of silent screams.
A wounded Athena, she is a woman in chains
staring at her shattered reflections.
Her shades of red, they haven't seen--
tender shrieks buried under forced arms,
blurred visions of screaming tyranny.
A trampled magnolia, she is a woman in chains
rotting in her Carmen of morose ember.
Oh woman! You embrace scars with dignity,
ethereal flow of progeny in your hands,
your banished desires in shriveled ages
survive in spiral cobwebs of festered veins.
Her miserable existence in labyrinths--
she simmers courage in dried paranoia,
a streak of red blood, no longer she'd fear.
A goddess flickering amber lamps of hope
her essence flows through mankind.
Oh woman! Feel the celestial powers
preserved in your gracious bosom,
your afflicted pain nurtures patience
strong enough to bend heavenly tides.
A wounded Athena, a trampled magnolia
A rotting Carmen, a goddess she is..
The woman in chains pours forgiveness
filling oceans from azure exuberance,
her selfless heart of mellowed love
permeates Satan's abode with virtue.
The woman in chains wears sacrifice,
her gossamer veil embraces men's follies,
she carries the elixir of compassion,
ripples of hopes for scarred souls.
Oh woman! They oppress you in madness,
to your sanctity they bow in agitation,
the woman they know, the goddess they don't,
until you dust your timeless wings to fly again.
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
Arousing opulence of ancient ballrooms
She creates her own make-believe world
Waltzing coyly in terpsichorean rhythms
Upon glittering stage where they sell love
Each time she caresses arms of a stranger,
Pretending to levitate in sultan’s harem
In glitzy appeal of polygamous mansions
Where she reiterates to sighs of ambivalence--
This used to be once the venue of glamour.
But her allegory of ardor quickly fades
As her disillusioned ego yearns for solace
When invisible bruises begin to ache
Having surrendered esteem to ruthless nights
Trading dead-feelings in lavish marbled halls
Where stench of alcohol, perfumes, and cigars
Traps perturbed anguish inside prison walls
From which, she knows, there’s no escape.
Initiation period for her was the hardest
When beauty and youth at height of apex
Squandered her magical Cinderella zeal
Abandoning fabled-castle her childhood built
Crying into that gutless, gruesome night
For lacking the force of fortitude to leave
Before she condemned her soul into abyss.
She’s worthless to the heartless crowd now—
A shriveled rose desolate in parched garden,
A discarded bottle of expensive scotch;
So, voicing contempt, like a caged bird she sings
About the wedding night she always fancied
Reciting lyrics, crooning spent feelings,
Whispering the names she picked for her kids.
Look closely at her, she has no chains now,
She can abscond easily whenever she wants
But, alas, no longer has she the desire to fly;
For her mutilated spirits relentlessly bleed
Ever since her own hands clipped her wings.
August 29, 2020
Placed 1st: Woman in chains poetry contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Inspired by Woman in Chains song by Tears for Fears
A collaboration with Ink Empress, a piece we wrote for “Woman’s Day” for all the strong women warriors out there. Your strength is felt.
“Untamable Clemency”
Her heart is a
chained haven,
for zestless intruders
and fiendish foes,
so tread delicately,
she is not a
mindless marionette
in your glistening
gallery of greed—
glazed in rhinestone
rhapsodies,
she is more
than cold-boned ideologies,
placed by timeless seasons,
she soars above
restrained reveries,
as an untamable heat
of clemency.
Ink Empress
Fading Star Silence
When a Man Loves a Woman
A man who loves a woman in the way
a woman wants him to will love her true.
He’ll hold her close, and never will he stray.
But there is so much more this man will do!
He’ll build her up because her self-esteem
should matter, and a woman valued can,
in turn, fulfill her husband’s fondest dream.
How fortunate, indeed, is such a man!
When generous with kind words and his time,
the man who loves his woman heart and soul
will find himself enjoying life sublime
because he will have taken on the role
of not just a provider! He will give
his heart, and like the king of hearts he’ll live!
When a Woman Loves a Man
The woman who adores her man will be
his greatest fan; she will not criticize
his faults, and she will pledge fidelity,
for life with him is something she will prize.
Her tender love will be her greatest gift
that she can give to him, and she will show
appreciation. Always she will lift
him up so that the man she loves will know
beyond a doubt she always will be there.
When times get tough, she won’t give up on him.
Who doesn’t want some tender loving care,
especially when things are looking grim?
The woman standing by her man this way
will be his queen, and happy they will stay.
Written Jan. 5, 2016
For Mark Massey's Two English Sonnets Poetry Contest
When I talk to you, I'm talking to the wall -
to photos arranged across from where you hung the paintings
made by your own two hands.
Set behind the dusty glass of antiquated frames,
the photos tell of family, heritage, and you
in your youthful glory. . . of you with dark lush locks
that framed the face of a rose in bloom
When I talk to you, I'm talking to the birds -
two sweet parakeets now more than a decade old.
The cage is not as clean as it was when you were in your prime
and all was immaculate!
Now someone else is caring for these birds
which tilt their little heads and inquisitively peer at me
as if to ask: Are we supposed to understand?
Silence meets my ears.
When I talk to you, I'm talking to the air.
Today it smells of antiseptics, and your room is stifling.
I push you in your wheelchair to your garden,
where breath of spring awaits us.
I talk to you, but we do not converse.
I look into your eyes grown pale.
Their empty stare seems fixed upon the roses.
I gently pluck one up
and place it in your thinning snow white hair
Who would I bring back, if I had only one
Perhaps a great leader, Kennedy or Lincoln
Or I could choose a musical icon
Such as John Lennon or Michael Jackson
Maybe a legend of the silver screen
Maybe Marilyn Monroe or James Dean
All gifts to the world, but the selfish truth
I would bring back the mother of my youth
The mother who, with sublime grace,
Applied lipstick and blush to her ivory face
The mother whose delicate jasmine perfume
Filled my childhood's every room
Whose all-day-long-to-cook beef stew
Was the first comfort food I knew
Her dancing steps, so full of ease
Until the claws of arthritis seized
Her laughter so free, her hugs so giving
Before these days of assisted living
I would return the fire to her hair
And raise her from the wheelchair
And, as I used to, watch her choose
Her dress, earrings, necklace and shoes
Then she'll softly kiss my cheek
Before going out, coiffed and sleek
To her I would give my own energy
To be, again, the woman in my memory...
10/09/18
for Caren Krutsinger's 'Who Would You Bring Back' contest
from owned to dethroned
you led me
from queen to unseen
you hid me
once crowned to now bound
you kept me
absorbed to derobed
you left me
a spectacle to be gawked at
you jeered me
from diamond to dust
you threw me
once devoid of lust
you spurned me
and yet, here I am
naked
bleeding
dishonored
unwanted
here I stand
here I smile
biding my time a while
knowing as I do
the inner splendor shines through
I bathe my naked body
perfume every curve
comb out my raven hair
for I dare
This is swear:
None can usurp my throne
It's mine and mine alone
I climb the stairs
and they all stare
yes, they stare
so aware
the Queen has returned
your history’s been burned
I'm here
more beautiful than before
radiance galore
I see you
with flames of desire
once more in your eyes
you...watch me.....R^I^S^E
my glory emanates through
every idol set up by you
adoration's MY due
It is true:
discarded to lauded
I taunt you
demeaned to re-queened
I rule you
I reign, I disdain
don't be vain
your plea to return
I will burn
spurn
I'll watch you yearn
you can't take me back
I know what you lack
a heart and a soul
I won’t make you whole
Knighted to blighted
I see you
And so….
adored to abhorred
I leave you
Eileen Manassian Ghali
“The Queen-Sized Bed”.
© London F. Buss
A queen-size bed was coming slowly,
down the rough dirt track.
As it drew closer,
The wheels clumsily mounted on the base of each leg,
rattled like a hospital gurney on the stones.
The bed was being pushed slowly,
ever so, carefully.
By a weary old man in tattered clothes and worn-out shoes.
as he drew closer, and closer,
I saw that he was pushing his dying wife who was,
lying in a dressing gown under the covers,
in the Queen-Sized Bed.
He pushed carefully trying not to shake the bed,
excessively.
His wife's head was supported by four pillows,
she had wispy strings of silver white hair.
She was dying.
Several I.V. Bottles dangled off a hook,
And dripped painkillers into her arm.
She was awake but barely conscious,
I wondered where they were going,
but in my heart, I knew...
privacy for an hour,
I came back as the sun was setting.
I found them together sitting on the bed,
Looking over the ocean.
The old man was holding his dying wife,
in his arms… stroking her silver hair under the sparkling,
southern cross.
They were sharing her last sunset as,
the dying embers of a fiery sun faded into the ocean.
Night fell and I walked home alone,
I had witnessed love real love,
something I had never experienced,
something I had never known.
If you’re near Cowell and you look hard enough,
You may just find the queen-size bed,
with a tattered mattress and exposed springs,
quietly rusting away outside a decrepit ruin of a barn.
Take a closer look at the legs and you will find four rusting,
gurney wheels.
and if you approach quietly on a moonlit night,
you will hear soft sobbing in the whistling wind,
as it dreams of that dying sunset,
under the southern cross...
and the milky way lights up the sky,
soaring into the heavens
as the angels sing.
I wrote this non fiction poem
For Debra Jean..
Don't let him sway you with his sultry rhymes
Don't let him woo and steal your heart away
Don't let him touch your soul with soulful lines
You know, my dear, he only wants to play
Don't let him tell you that you are divine
Don't let him make you think that you're unique
Don't let him say your eyes are pools sublime
You know, my dear, he wants to make you weak
He wants to break defenses and come in
To taste the hidden pleasures of your heart
He wants to take, to conquer, and to win
and then to leave when you've been torn apart
There is no greater pain than wounded pride
When truth reveals betrayal's sharpened knife
Revenge will be the thorn there in your side
For he has taken love, and dreams and life
So do not let him win in lover's game
Pick up your sword and gird yourself to fight
If you succumb, you will not be the same
I urge you then to vanquish with your might
Then still your heart and let it dormant lie
Let not your eyes take in the beauty there
He will not stop; he will most surely try
To ravish you and leave you naked, bare
So fight with all your might this war to win
Don't let your guard now slip; be strong and brave
take heed to what I say; don't fall in sin,
for none but you, your heart and soul can save
Eileen
The menace of war in the chaos of life
The peril of ocean when tempests are rife;
The danger of jungle where feral beasts hide
The terror that lies in a mountain slide.
All these things are simple child's play
Or frivolous sport on a summer's day;
These sad battles that rouse and vex
The heart and soul of love and sex.
Struggle and hardship, beasts of prey
Are there to menace all human clay:
The bird uncaged can take to his wing
But the hazard of love is another thing;
Under the torment of passion's control
Love crushes the body and steals the soul.
A minute of rapture, an age of despair,
These are the gifts of love's warfare.
Always and forever since time began
When man dared woman and woman lured man;
In that sweet peril that prowls and lies
Is a bloodless conflict when eyes meet eyes.
That careless menace, forever sweet
Whose forlorn end, is joy's defeat;
Now and forever till time has passed
On passion's altar, hearts shall come last
Do Not Trust a Word, she says
She speaks of sunken treasures the way no one else does
The map to her heart is drawn by the sun
Her smile of gold ride out the waves
The moon attracted by the prestige of her glowing art
With great pleasure, your heart now sits in a glass case
Her love lavishes making every moment memorable.
This lovely lady cultivates you in every way
Your blood rises to her flirtatious demand,
Her eyes, hypnotize, invade every dream,
Endless lust, pulled by the enigma of dragon dust wind
Falling flowers of forgetfulness, when lost to her spell
She lives, she breathes your ribs in
Words were spoken, now wrapped around your heart
In a game of trust, her kiss hushes your lips
Like a syndrome, you babble and drool ----stepping all over yourself
You are nothing more than a fool in love,
Trusting and turning every word she says into gold
~I LOVE YOU~
( A Poet Destroyer Collection)