Long Womanhood Poems
Long Womanhood Poems. Below are the most popular long Womanhood by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Womanhood poems by poem length and keyword.
Lovingly we looked in each others eyes, both our faces flush
In innocent rocking chairs, we watch the setting sun blush
Was the passion of the afternoon, witnessed by a sunbeam?
Watching me make love to my most beloved: Barbara Jean
The sky’s embarrassing glow shining like an Olympic Torch
Barbara and I rocking, innocently, sitting on my front porch
Crimson, kaleidoscopically mirrored off the windows of my house
Had all this started with true love, as I removed Barbara’s blouse
Softly, gently, tenderly caressing the smoothness of her silken skin
Shower Barbara with hugs and lava hot kisses; before we even begin
Her fragrance, the essence of her Womanhood Loving call my name
We moan, we groan, we entwine as one trying forever to vanquish the flame
If all could know a majestic, Forever and Always Eternity of LOVE
In their Innocent Rocking Chairs ; on the porch of Heaven Above
Inspired and Dedicated to my Most Only Beloved “BARBARA JEAN”
Thank-YOU for YOUR LOVE
I saw her just yesterday, the paragon
Of all that a woman could be. Tall and tan,
Proud and proper, short hair, not butch,
A beautiful woman dressed to the nines,
Dripping confidence like an empress.
A lessor man would have ran and hid
For surely this was a lady
And would have no need for a man.
I offered a sincere compliment
Fully expecting an icy reply
If afforded one at all. For my trouble,
Her face lit up like a prom queen,
Flashing me a smile that warmed my soul.
Gracious and appreciative, I saw this woman anew.
She was beautiful inside
And could not hide it on her countenance.
I could hold a door for this lady as she understands
That a simple act of respect cannot make her less,
Any more than her grace makes me less than I am.
Oh modern woman, is respect what you want?
Don’t demand it, Command it!
This is not a zero-sum game, Ladies!
You cannot, No, must not trade your feminity,
The best of your womanhood, for your worthy goals.
You can be beautiful without being synthetic;
Demure without being the prude;
Strong without being brusque;
Accept help without becoming dependent;
Be natural but not a sloven;
Flirtacious without being easy.
Confident but not cocky;
You can melt men like butter.
You hold all the cards!
Now, let’s get you that respect!
The story of every woman,
They are not all the same,
They vary as their faces are,
No one author can have all written down,
Given his length of days,
Hidden in their chambers are untold stories,
Stories to be told may be in the afterlife,
Womanhood is a journey none has foreknown,
A triathlon of vicissitudes,
Womanhood is a walk
saddled with daring responsibilities,
The mind of a woman is as tough as nails,
A shape in the words they
utter is a bulldozer pulling down obstructions,
Platitude for the day is the
saying, “Women are weaker vessels”,
They are weaker vessels that sculpt stronger vessels.
August 13, 2022.
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 12 Poetry Contest,
Mark Toney.
She never had a male role model
Or male figure in her in childhood
From a family of five females
Women is what she understood
She was a sweet girl
Quite gullible and naive
As she grew into womanhood
Male interactions were not well received
She encountered inappropriate behaviours
A health professional did her wrong
She was fearful of the opposite sex
Until you came along
You were kind and you were funny
So safe she felt with you
A good and decent honest man
Restoring her faith and fearful view
You have loved her a lifetime
She has loved you
You are the perfect role model
The one she never knew …..
I sing the songs of childhood
A forgotten time...
Before illusive fantasies of womanhood
Before hearing of the murder of my dreams
By the hand of my lover
Who demands of me
Things I cannot give
Forcing issues of loyalty
Between people I love
And a woman’s heart rends
Behind the curtain
Hidden concern bleeds to death
Overwhelmed
By the accusations
The violent demands
The questioning eyes
Slowly going insane
Wearing my mourning gown of pain
I sing
I dance
I twirl
Ophelia’s songs
Running through my head
Flowers in my hands
I dance
Traipsing towards….
The water’s edge
I wade in
Clothes and all
Looking for my cradle of solace
I lie back
Looking up at the azure sky
Songs of childhood
Of innocence lost
And heartaches won
A bird catches my eye
Soaring free
I stop singing
Slowly tilting my head back
The water covers my forehead
Nestles over my open eyes
Soothing me
Singing its own lullaby
A lullaby of childhood
Of happy times
Welcoming me
I push further back
And let the water
Surge into my open mouth
Through my nostrils
I drink it in
A moment more….
And I’ll be soaring free
I cough out water
Gasping for breath
I hear noises
A young girl crying
“Mama, Mama….breathe!”
A man’s arms are around me
Holding me to the side
Patting me on the back
As I cough out more water…
Spent
I lie back
And look into the sun
Close my eyes
I open my mouth
And sing songs
Songs of my childhood
I hear the young girl cry
I hear the man sigh
I hear the people around whisper
“She’s gone mad”
I sing
I open my eyes to search the sky
For a lone bird
Flying high
Singing….singing
Ophelia’s songs
Till my day turns into night….
For Anne Currin's Suicide Contest
August 2, 2013
"The Three Ages of Woman," painted by
the noted symbolist named Gustav Klimt;
from Austria, late-nineteenth century
till early twentieth, he left his mark.
At center, woman with her child held close;
his view of motherhood, fertility,
so goddess-like, entwined in sheer chiffon.
Flushed cheeks, gold hair, and alabaster skin;
this paradigm of procreation, youth,
portrays his essence of a woman's worth.
But, on the left, with buried face, there stands
his sad, old woman, posed in deep despair,
with saggy flesh, frail bones, and bulging veins;
now stripped of womanhood, alone, forlorn.
Skin, drab and mottled with her loss of youth;
in darker hues, he paints his disesteem.
Unfair, demeaning, is this image shown
that only honors women in their youth;
that casts the old as ugly, worthless souls.
And absent is the brilliant age that thrives,
through golden years of full maturity
between prime youth and definite old age.
Known as a womanizer, Gustav Klimt,
who many times diminished them in art,
illicitly had sired some fourteen young
with models who had often posed for him.
November 26, 2017
Premiere Contest: Klimt
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
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"Over the years, “The Three Ages of Woman”, a remarkable painting, has ignited much controversy amongst women who view the artwork as lacking in appropriate symbolism to the enduring strength of women. Many feminists believe that the painting’s subtle message is that a woman’s most significant role in life occurs when she is a young mother."
Ref: http://www.aaronartprints.org/klimt-thethreeagesofwoman.php
https://www.austria.info/uk/things-to-do/cities-and-culture/gustav-klimt/women
Look at it this simple way,
it's time you thought freely;
if it were for sure,I would
tell each and all secrets...
if it wouldn't bring harm and
you could look at it this simple way:
here's what I would like to say,
"Look at it this simple way!"
When you'll be deprived of everything,
recall to mind how feminine
you felt in the act of receiving someone,
nearest you...that companion of womanhood,
who taught you the kind words
and spoke of fantastic nights...
not like the ones you had!
Recall to mind
the hearty wishes you refused to withhold...
that weren't destined to change,by overreach,
the course of each!
Look at it this simple way,
it's time you thought freely;
if it were for ambition,I really
would jump up for joy...
here's what I like to say,
"Look at it this simple way!"
They said that she was ugly, fat, and shy.
She went her way to shameful words and sneers.
Ignored or worse by those who passed her by,
She'd weep the dew each night with all her tears.
The caterpillar, few have understood.
In every garden scorned and undesired
Until such time she reaches womanhood.
Then by all men she's suddenly admired.
The dress she wears so colorful and slim.
Her freckled skin now silky, fair, and smooth.
Her every movement, elegant and prim,
But still she bears the cruelness of her youth.
And when she flits so daintily our way
Perhaps that's why she never deems to stay.
9.2.18
Contest 1: Personification poem of a pet, wild animal or insect (N/A)
Contest 2: Brian Stand contest #490 (N/A)
If my body is a temple,
Then my temple is a forest.
A place of worship built by God himself
With arches of thick tree canopies.
And steps to the throne, roots and brush and earth and dirt.
The choirs are the birds, the wind and patterings of prey.
Why isn’t the forest as good a temple as any?
Is my temple less to you
Because the machines have torn down my trees,
Or the blood in my soil upon which life is built
Disgusts you?
But these rampant canyons of trees and sweet smelling wildflowers
Are the offerings I can bring to the one who loves my soul.
And as He brings the sunset
I stretch my limbs to trickle light through the halls of this sanctuary.
It is not as formal
As you would have it.
But it pleases Him the same.
And though I have been torn down time and time,
He constantly grows new life, again and again.
This broken body, He raises up over and over.
Evergreen and eternal.
What could make a better temple than a forest?
Silence of winter
distant from all but my sexual contacts
her bedroom nights
and day friends
memory of my independence vanishing dream
holding on to it, myself
knowing how love can hurt.
Its seduction of me, dissolving my man barriers
biologically, to procreate
or create a new personality, a deepening
humility, her womanhood hands.
Not giving in completely
touching sweetly
but staying strong.
Going into the winter to mark my trees
not flinching in the dark early morning
casting an eye cold as a telescope
moving inexorably
a part of nature, insect, star.
This is how I'll love
and live with her.