Best Womenfolk Poems
Seven thousand islands grace the shore
as narra trees arise , sun -dressed
with ripples humming a native folksong--
gracious the womenfolk, caressed
by Philippine beaches ever idyllic--
and exotic garlands spill from their baskets
crowning fiestas with decorative wares.
And boatmen wave to relish town’s gaiety
the canoes sailing in May's fluvial parade;
when wavelets of joy twirls, animated
along dewy coastlines… such heritage bears
the name reflecting its grandeur, 'Pearl of the Orient.'
My dawn and night broth, this homeland
where birthmark prints…a natural wonder of the world!
(your) Country 'tis of thee' Contest
Sponsor: Brahn Bailey Edited 9/3/2018
While men worked hard until the barn was built,
the womenfolk were gathered for a bee.
They pieced together patches for a quilt
and chatted with the new bride happily.
Upon this handmade quilt were babies laid,
and eldest daughters passed the heirloom down.
That barn became the place where children played
as houses multiplied. There grew a town.
The quilt, once shown with pride, became forgot,
and decades in an attic it was stored.
One day a fire blazed; the things not sought
stayed in the loft, while saved were things adored.
And so a bride’s first gift in ashes lay;
its glory long ago had passed away.
by Andrea Dietrich
For Nette Onclaude's Contest:
"Anything Handmade"
I have walked for a mile
in her footsteps.
She
offers a cooling balm
for the heat of my frustrations.
Leaning against that solidness gives pause,
to stop and drink in
the shade of her wisdom.
And I
marvel at the juxtaposition
of her willowy to my thick;
her smooth to my rough;
my prickly attitude to her leafy logic.
How she
lends a new perspective on
an idea ripening, dropping and withering;
a heart left in a mulch pile or
a dangerous flicker of doubt to be snuffed out.
Mirth crinkles in the corners of her eyes
as she too
carries faded battle gashes
where love has loped off
a once extended branch.
Her grove collectively offers comfort
for fruit born of loins,
falling and nestling
within rolling distance.
No more soothing a sound can be heard,
than rootsy laughter of womenfolk
of trees of magashi.
Copyright © Sandra Sealy, 1999
*First published as Guest Poet @ Poet Whispers
http://poetwhispers.wordpress.com
Her voice dropped to a saucy tone
She spoke behind her fan.
She said, "Now, Red, don't get me wrong-
You are a handsome man.
"You're a drifter as we both know,
A cowboy through and through.
I need a man who's always there
We both know that ain't you.
"You've got to be where cattle go,
The world's an open range -
I wish there was another way
I know you'll never change.
"You'll be in some saloon somewhere,
In some new cattle town,
An' I'll be here just raisin' kids,
Tryin' to hold 'em down.
"So just be sweet an' let me go,
An' I'll walk out of here.
I'll find someone and so will you
An' we'll be friends, my dear."
She turned and left that dim saloon
Went through the swingin' door
She took an Eastbound train that day
Was never seen no more
Now Red turned to the bartender
An' scratched beneath his hat
"Texas is hard on womenfolk -
Just who the hell was that?"
April, 2016
Just like a football I am and have
been bounced around a bit,
But only by chance of fate, no man
would get away with it.
The football suffers silently
the grabs, the throws, the kicks.
I’m not one to take that from
the country boobs or the city slicks.
I come from a line of strong women
who took on varying roles.
My grandma was a marcher
for equality at the poles.
Grandma raised her family of five
after her young husband died,
by sheer strong will and hard work
with no helpmeet by her side.
My paternal grandma must have been
a strong willed woman too.
She raised a very respectful son
who gave womenfolk their due.
My mama raised four strapping sons
without needing to raise a hand,
no slaps, no harsh words and no threats
to make them understand.
She passed down to her daughter
unrelenting self respect.
Rough handling me would surely bring
more grief than you’d expect.
So I’m not much like a football
nor would I ever be
an uncomplaining plaything
kicked around so endlessly.
The old steam engine chugged trying to reach the top,
Slowly it inched as the pressure valves were about to pop.
Just a few more feet and it would start its journey down,
And it would then be up to the brakeman to keep them from over shooting the town.
Well it made the top and started picking up speed,
And they slowed down the shoveling of the coal, cause there wasn’t much need.
You could hear those brakes a squealing as they tightened the wheel,
They had to get her slowed down fore the next curve or they’d all take a spill.
About that time dead ahead on those tracks,
Another train was a coming, a clickety, clack.
The old engineer was a blowing on his whistle, whoo, whoo, but to no avail,
For twas a runaway train, with an engine from hell.
A hundred thousand tons of steel, slamming together, makes an awful loud noise,
An on that curve took the lives of that crew, all mighty fine boys.
They had no place to jump, so they had to make this final ride,
And as the news gave way their womenfolk cried.
Adorned by cycles in rich décor,
she refills her bounty, her lush gifts
as Mother Earth nourishes a womb ;
caressing seeds of life to unfold
into fertile roots which tend my hearth,
and layers of her skin gather the fields,
where herds of cattle, rows of boughs roam
regaling toil’s leisure , gold the corn…
Pleased with the laughter of womenfolk
carrying fruits riper than sunlight
her earthy breath at ease like a dance
alive in continual motion:
yet this maiden’s glory longs for time
boney spine aging from burnt decay
while she recalls the fresh of pure mist;
awaiting man to cradle her again.
Contest Elements Part 1: Earth, Brian Davey
3/12/2016
White Lilacs
Memories rise
like the scent of lilacs in the air
simple yet fragrant filled with now forgotten cares,
once so important
nothing could contain them
as life hurried forward not seeing round the bend.
Lessons learned too late
but part of living every day
with joy, love and sorrow that slowly passed away.
Looking back now
wish I could grow young again
relive the steps foolishly made on shifting sands.
If I could slip into the paths not taken
as life flowed to the oceans unplanned
while on the shores I watch and silent stand.
Those years are gone
lost to the fleetness of time
and love passes quickly beyond our prime.
The lilacs bloom tall and graceful
blowing freely in the air
if I could go back, would I dare?
Live Life over again
without mistakes
but sadly that is not my fate.
Let the lilacs bloom
and my past be written as it was
while I cling to my memories of more youthful love.
A Folksong sung by The Womenfolk called White Lilacs - give a listen,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lv85Rr3Plgk&index=14&list=PLO-UbICkLW9OEB5mwKrfL7gpsyxJq0jZA
It's a guy who grew up with good morals
People with the purest of souls
Raised to excel and exceed
Born to treat
Attentive and sensitive
They spent minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years
Time without boundaries
Listening to the problems and fears
Of the males but especially the females near
'cause those girls needed someone to listen to them
Someone to vent to, really
And yeah, sometimes it made the nice guy feel special
It feels good to be needed by someone you love
Or someone you can love
But the stars of fate and destiny above
Don't always align
Not for this type
And while the womenfolk prance and dance with their hairless monkey
They're mistreated, used, abused, consumed and refused
And the shes rush to the nice hes for that undying comfort
But the latter are getting restless
Their looks are ordinary, so how do they compete
With tall dark and handsome
When they're short, pale and human?
This guy's not a cheat
He's patient and his anger is merciful
He won't take advantage of womenfolk so vulnerable
Won't resort to objectify
But they're lumped with the jerks and shirts and together are vilified
So what does the nice guy do?
Contemplate.
He'll meditate
and say "hey,
Why are all my friendships one-sided?"
His empathy and reliable nature can't be appreciated
So it needs to be asphyxiated
Cut free, act differently
Take on a job, a car, a tattoo, a gym, an instrument
Designer clothes, cigarettes, cigars,
All what was feared and all that is sheer
********
Like a hundred dollar bill, given so much value
But simply a sensitive cheap piece of paper
Easily ripped and quickly gypped
And he leaves his morality
Cuts his vocabulary
4 word sentences, 3 syllabus max per word
To get out of nice guy playground and friend zone
But that's really just accepting the parasite
Letting it infect you
Taking your views to the termites
Yeah, you might get tail
Or you may completely fail
Though will you really let selfishness > goodness?
No,
I won't
Not on the long run, at least.
Just this one time.
...
Women, how can I make you a fair definition?
You have nurtured 6 billion live children
So, you are the mother of the human
On every piece of land on this planet
They, with fine wisdom and skillful hands
Arranged, the order of time and
The dimensions of tolerance
Giving the air the direction of love
Making the clouds Elegance and
The moonlight flow like a stream
So, you created miracles
I remembered how you grew up
Like flowering trees, jasmine, peaches
Apricot, or plums...
In the wind of spring and
In rays of the beautiful sun,
You are stretching the branches joyfully
And releasing the growth happily,
I can also hear your voice too,
As you are flying in the air, like the thrushes,
The swallows, or the Orioles...
Or like the sparrows jumping from branch to branch
So, you are broadcasting graceful music
When I'm near you, I can also smell your breath
The fragrance is somewhat with sweet,
Like the jasmines, the cloves, or the camellias...
And when I'm away for a long time from you,
Many times, my heart will become noisy
And my thoughts will diffuse
And hard to maintain a mindset of a scientist
And whenever this moment comes,
I know it will be more hard to define...
So, I must go outside
Facing the flowering trees and
Dazing
* To International Women's Day
Time spent in Indian village, is - wisdom won plenty,
Wealth in the urn of common sense, here, never go empty...
Day here, though with chirps of birds, never dawns with no prayer,
Whether from Temple, mosque, church, Gurudwar - none does bother...
Sweeping, cleansing the courtyard; doing the daily pooja,
Day goes almost dead devoid of milk-tea from mud-chula...
Rites of milking, sheds-cleansing, washing cows, buffaloes,
Dung-cake making by womenfolk go with social chat-shows...
Small boys, trousers-stripped, respond to nature-call in open,
Small girls, fetching water, peep, eyes wide, mockingly make fun...
Men, elder, in small gangs, enjoy conventional hookah,
Talks on humans and beasts become part of the agenda...
Smiles, laughs, scolds and cries are like sun-rise and sets, in joint homes,
None has anything to hide; frankness is in flesh and bones...
Gandhi our Mahatma, told our villagers, to be true,
This we keep up; though for this, we, happen to stand in Que...
Amid friendly embraces and wrestles, women, young and old,
Pick lice from hairs of each other, with fondness hundred-fold...
These are but train-berths; heart of India is broad and deep;
Folks, here, are uncomplicated; they've no vengeance to keep...
They might not have plenty, yet, they do not forget the poor,
Portion to ants, birds, cats and dogs, out of their meals, is sure...
Guests, rich or poor, known or unknown, gets godly treatment here,
None ever to them ask - whence they come, why, how or go where?
Honesty and hard-work, for them, are like wheels of their carts,
Compassion, courage and temperance are highest of arts...
Living just a day here, is like retreat of weeks elsewhere,
Great haven, like an Indian village, I've found nowhere...!
18 December 2021
© Ben Burton 2-2-2015
The left contends that terrorists are really not Islamic
They're merely masquerading, maybe Christians in disguise
A peaceful man wrote the koran, the prophet named mohammad
While Christians idolize that vicious killer, Jesus Christ
Political correctness was the means by which they cowed us
They made us feel like bullies anytime we used our brawn
Our natural inclination to placate the ones who doubt us
Has led us to this place where we embrace what once was wrong
All muslims stand for peace and they police their members sternly
They make sure all their womenfolk are yoked, except their eyes
And once sharia law has been invoked in every country
The ones who watched it happen can't say squat, no hows or whys
obama must be muzzled or our troubles will continue
Too many so-called moderates won't keep his butt in line
If Carson/ West can somehow get to be on our next menu
We'll have a plan to catch and tan some Muslim terrorist hide
Ah, I do not and will not believe in modern medicine anymore,
it is not really modern, it is just meant to scare, that's for sure.
See, just a few years back chocolate was so bad for your heart
but lately the black variety turns out to be good it could not hurt.
I was once advised to stay off foods that are high in cholesterol
but now they say the high density type is in fact pretty acceptable.
Those smart asses told me to eat garlic because it is so good,
then last month came findings over-rating it as a health food...
which means all I ever got from making garlic as part of my diet
were body odors and stinking breaths…and that is not quite right!
Modern medicine is so fickle, just like our beloved womenfolk,
often ordering us to jump without even first taking a quick look.
Better to just enjoy gobbling up what you find on the dining table
for life is short and them no-good doctors are just fooling us all.
If you wonder why to men many
Womenfolk seldom seem born funny,
The reason’s straight forward
Based on what I’ve observed:
They need no humour to please any,
To them spade’s not just spade—
And menfolk included,
Let men give this truth not a penny.
___________________________________
Pandemic raging, many women work from home. And with domestic help either not available or not advisable, they have to look after the house, children and the kitchen.
Obviously they are hard pressed for the luxury of a lighter mood, and may give an impression that they lack a funny bone
.
Tongue-in-cheek |05.05.2021|
I look up to the sky, while the sun is going down,
A flock of pelicans fly, beyond the seawall mound.
Stars peep out of the dark, from the eastern brim,
The crescent moon marks, streaks of heavenly gleam,
Dream; Dream…I Dream, of a bright new tomorrow,
Wish the New Year, brings; an end to all sorrow!
An end of all sorrow; end to all sorrow.
The track to the quaint town, is all but white,
The silhouette of a hound, eerie in starlight,
Paper lanterns dangle, from the barn door,
A string of bells jingle, reminding folklore,
Dream; Dream…I Dream, of a year of peace,
Blessings of the Supreme, grant eternal bliss,
Do grant timeless bliss; bestow eternal bliss.
A steady stream of men, walk into the inn,
Make merry till ten, and the party will begin,
To welcome the moment, with love and desire,
The town red with paint, with warmth and fire,
Dream; Dream…I Dream, May your dreams come true
Live life to the brim, there is just one life to,
There is just one life for love; just one life to,
The womenfolk arrive, at the town-square,
Children on their stride, with weary eyes glare,
At the Ferris wheel, friends going up and down,
On the snow kneels, a vividly attired clown,
Dream; Dream…I Dream, let the human race unite
Resonate as one team, no matter black or white,
No matter black or white; no matter black or white,
And then close to midnight, as the countdown starts,
Frenzy reaches a height, celebrations to mark,
When clock strike the hour, the steeple bell tolls,
Firecrackers light and flares, a thousand star showers falls,
Dream Dream…I Dream, There is a lot to cheer,
A new life to begin, with the birth of a New Year,
Happy New Year! Happy New Year! Happy New Year!