Long Married woman Poems
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Black Friday
So here we are again
My reflection and I
The worst of friends
As we’ve always been
Surely nothing could be better
I am a happily married man
With a beautiful wife
And a lovely child
But something has grown
Out of the unknown
A latent energy
A mysterious
Creeping and suffocating
Loneliness
The reason for this
I can’t attempt to analyse
When I try, I cry out
With surprise
But I am surely mad
You may say
It can only come to bad
You may say
And yet it is there
A lurking, choking, mysterious
Loneliness
So here we are again
An evening full of pain
When all my work is done
When my wife and child have gone
And where are you?
Waiting on a wet Friday night
For your lovely child
To finish her dance classes
Surely something could be better
For an unhappily married woman
Returning to her home
Waiting for her drunken lover……..
Don’t get me wrong
No indecent proposals
Only a wish to share a common feeling-
Loneliness
Monika – this is just one moment
And we have to think of our lives
Our responsibilities.
But can I dare ask you -
Despite my religious restraints-
Despite the fact that my carnal desire
For you may seem like playing with fire-
Can I dare ask you-
Knowing that we are cautious adults-
Can we one black Friday night-
Share our loneliness together?
Maybe I’ve misread the signals-
Maybe I don’t know what I’m saying-
Don’t get worried about my suggestions
In an age of obsessive sexual insinuations-
I repeat one last time tonight
Can we share our loneliness together?
How would I have any idea what I think, if I couldn’t read my own poetry?
When I sit to write poetry, my mind transforms the blank screen into a flurry of words and then sometimes a story that I had never heard before emerges.
The Hippy era in the 60's was rife with poets, and songwriters and public speakers all voicing their thoughts, their feelings, their dreams and their protests, and I was one of them. Through the life of a married woman, poetry was practically a forgotten art. Oh I still loved reading it and had a huge collection of poetry books by the greats, but rarely ever wrote a poem.
Then came a thing called COPD. Forced into retirement at 63, and within four years I was spending most of my time in a wheelchair. Little or no voice left, could only walk about 10 steps without gasping for breath.
Recently I found SOUP. I tried my hand at poetry again. Its become an obsession. It wasn’t only the poetry, it was the companionship of like minded people who were willing to encourage and praise others. Not working creates a doubt of self worth. Writing poetry restores that feeling. You can create something pleasurable for others. It’s a confidence booster. it’s a big part of my life now. I cant participate in activities, but I can write poetry.
I can sit by a lake or jump from a plane or climb a mountain, all from the safety of my wheelchair. I can fill a sleepless night by creating or just chatting to a mate. It feels like I am still alive.
Sense-sational Denver sings of setting, nature and motherhood.
A twang in his voice, strings sing along, a lullaby of blessings,
by a mother to a son, born beneath “Bitterroot Valley” skies.
The son, protected by a mother about to die; as she suckles him.
Her impactful words, he can’t understand, but nevertheless
she blesses him as she says goodbye; for her he’d never cry.
He’d grow up with his uncle; never knew his dad; became a man.
Wild, strong, embraced the seasons as a farmer in Montana.
All through his days, the spirit of a mother’s blessing kisses him.
And I fall in love, my window down, enticed by the fire of John’s voice.
I sing along, glory and all like a teenager, as a stranger smiles
at me, and I have to forever tone down my intimacy; not drawing
attention to this married woman. In “Wild Montana Skies,” I breathe.
Before I knew him…before he played god…I’d see him on stage.
I’d surely heard him play “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” and
“Rocky Mountain High,” in early Navy days, before I said, “I do.”
Somewhere down the line, I embrace the swoon of my heart. As if,
the strumming, refrain, and John’s voice weren’t enough, joined
in the second round repeat by Emmylou Harris; my knees buckle.
She tries not to breathe
For she will surely be heard
He keeps calling her name
But she doesn't say a word
She hides in the shadows
Praying she won't be found
Her heartbeat betrays her
For he'll surely hear its sound
"There's evil in that bottle"
She thinks to herself
She thought she had hidden it well
Behind the coffee on the shelf
She's tried to leave him
At least a thousand times
The police will never help her
They won't charge him for his crimes
He's one of the good ole boys
With a wink and a nod
He's filled with pure evil
With no fear of God
He comes ever closer
She wonders if she should run
But she knows if he catches her
Her life will be done
She bolts for the door
And runs down the hall
She trips on her shoe laces
And starts to fall
He grabs her by the arm
As she struggles to get free
When she notices his head
Is as red as can be
He wasn't drinking at all
He'd been shot in the head
If she doesn't do something soon
He will surely be dead
He was caught with a married woman
When her husband came back
The sound of a gun shot
Followed the attack
She picks up the phone
And starts to cry
She hangs it back up
And watches him die
In these Days, We Prayed
April 12, 2013
ÉGHÉ (Time)
?
WÉGHÉ'
With time
The barren becomes pregnant
With time
The pregnant woman becomes a mother
With time
the mother becomes a daughter
With time
The married woman becomes a widow
With time
The childless widow becomes an object
Of obscurity and weak pity.
With time
An hero's deeds are told as stories
While great events become myths
And Once-Upon-A-Time.
For with time
Mountains metamorphose to sand
Rivers turn farmland
And Hills reduce to slime.
And time
frowns nor smiles on nothing
neither does he give nor take anything
for only a fool boast with a dime.
Oh time
you are too slow but yet so fast
For our tomorrow becomes yesterday
Like the uncertain colouration of a lime.
Man is a slave to time
As all men will answer to the call of time.
For the authority he exacts is divine
Nothing happens without the
Consent of time.
The past is Time
The present is Time
The future is Time
And Éghé himself is
Time..
?
Godwin Henry Osaigbovo Pa Shakespeare
I love you abundantly,
So many things made me to make you my first love, Oh ! dear Jeanette Mwenembuka Yohali Warally.
At 18 years old age you were married , conceived and did not abort me,
You accepted the labour pains to see me alive,
As a young married woman , you experienced so many strange things , sleepless night, my noise in your ears days and nights,
You tolerated my misbehaviours from early age to make me your best first born son,
You were my first best teacher before I met some school teachers and university professors,
Some religeous , traditional and political leaders ...
"Oh! my heroine."
You were the first person to hug and kiss me privately and publicly...
"Oh, my dearly Mum."
No human being on this earth will steal my heart like you did ...
"O' beautiful , loyal and wise Mum."
No one will see my beauty and take care for me more than you...
"Oh! Wonderful servant of Christ Jesus."
You will always be my number one until the day you will go to rest.
You deserve my first love forever and ever
March 07 / 2023
Written for poetry contest sponsored by Regina Mclntosh
Another man's wife
Why would you want to take a wife of another?
Destroy the world that they built and share together
Whilst there is plenty of fish in the sea
What would have possessed you Son?
Explain to me i need to understand
Stealing from a man's hand
A treasure so protected.
A dream he never wants to share with anyone
Consciously taking away his pride
Ripping him apart from his joy
The love of his life
Son! Make me understand because I don’t understand
How you find the strength to convince another's better part to be yours is a mystery to me.
Explain! Because this is a riddle
I wish to understand
What would have possessed you?
Sit down son,
Let’s have a talk
Let’s share your hidden thoughts
Make me understand
Please do
I want to know what drives you to the bed of married woman
What spirit would have possessed you? You call that love?
ls it love or a game of lust, filled with privileges and no responsibilities.
Son! This game always ends with a knife at your throat
Stay away
Written by Tawona Mzila Ranganawa
AHALYA
She is thirty and two
Her face has lost it’s soft
She is a professor in her subject and
Her second nest is her college
She is a married woman -Her
Past had a pleasing romance
She loved a man for love and
It grew as night in a moon
Bad rituals pushed her in a hell
In the name of marriage with an impotent
She lived with tears and pains and
Spent her days in the burning fire of lust
He became a patient to his death
Ptiy Ahalya whispering for her fate
Her hero comes again to take her
Out of emotions she gave her to his hands
It spreads to the ears of her impotent owner
He cursed and sued against her in the court
He argued there she is immoral and
She is having affairs with many
Poor Ahalya denied not in the court
Court separated her from His life
Ahalya isthe poor victim living with her tears
Her hero once again vanishes as air from her life
Ahalyas are not one or two here
They are more and more in this world
Their tears are making seas and oceans
Not to think they are always calm and quite
Before their ANGER realize your sins
Saktheee S Ravichandran
My days as a married woman with children,
My husband Walter and i had a cottage at North Bay.
This was an A-frame cottage,
Beautiful near the lake.
Our sons Kirk and Erik liked playing on the shore,
We would go swimming in the water.
Then father Walter would take us in a row boat,
A cruise on the lake would guest.
I would cook the delicious food,
Father would gather firewood for the wood burning stove.
We would play games with the children in the living-room,
Like gin rummy and monopoly.
The cottage had an upper level and a lower level,
Decorated with care and love, very simple.
Very scenic and beautiful with tall birch trees.
The cottage had a picnic table on the deck where you could have lunch.
There was a fair portion of property with the cottage,
Seldom scenic and beautiful, what an awesome place.
Would take us about two hours to get there,
Walter would drive us to the North Bay cottage.
What good memories we have of this,
I am thankful to God for all these blessings.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz
In a world obsessed with sex
when it ends in misery
like it often does
What can they expect.
Call me old fashioned
but don't morals care and feelings matter any more
or is it just one foot in the bedroom
and one foot out of the door.
For me
I need more.
I need love
to feel loved
to give love
to make love.
Making love doesn't have to start
or finish in a bedroom
but anywhere
soft caring words an embrace a stroke of her hair
showing . some one how much you care.
Being alone
Sometimes I yearn just to hold someone
feel the warmth of her body
and kiss
that's something I really miss.
wrapped up in each others arms
by a warm log fire
on a cold winters day.
Watching a movie together
and listening to what each others has to say.
Giving caring sharing
and maybe something more daring.
Someone you can implicitly trust
faithful to quench your lust
a must.
Getting in bed is much sweeter
when you love your señorita
and just not for kicks.
Just as God planned
the love between a married woman
and married man.
Peter Dome.copyright.2014. Jan.