I can’t write about sex,
I just can’t.
My subconscious tells me it makes me promiscuous.
It identifies promiscuity and sensuality as one in the same.
Scared of beauty, so it’s being stripped from me, for now.
How to talk about a part of myself that holds some of the most pain.
Connection after connection,
Experience after experience.
Casual or sometimes epic love.
Solitude at the end of the cycle.
Explosions of magic,
Endless eyes locking.
Now more painful each time.
I can’t write about sex.
I just can’t.
Why can’t I express this part of myself?
Is it because it’s the most holy?
It’s how our children came to light.
I am so sad to see what the world has become,
How I became that world and used myself,
Over and over again.
Glimpses of universes beaming,
Hearts on fire with bodies aligned.
I can’t write about sex.
Because it’s not a recreational activity.
To me anyway.
I can’t write about sex,
I just can't.
Because that’s not what it is.
Let me drown in this bottle
Poverty, loneliness, uncertainty
Let it flood my empty soul
With the bitterness of this sweet liquor
To throw myself into that deep sea
Of promiscuity with bravery and courage
Not to die starving for bread on this journey
Perhaps this way I'll find that sublime happiness
My certificates don't even sustain a sip
For they have no warm backing due to the rain
Rain that flooded my skills and dreams
Reducing them to banknotes worth more than the diploma
[...]
It’s a bit chilly for my liking
Last minute shopping
Not too much traffic
Soft petals dancing
On a chill wind
Yeah, I know, “buzz-buzz-buzz”
Last one back to the hive
Is a Yellow Jacket
Wonder where the Geese go
Can’t believe I graduated
From “Bee U”
With honors
Now I crash land
On unsuspecting flowers
“pollinations gigolo”
Yeah, Yeah, I know
The “Queen”
And her minions
Depend on my
Promiscuity
Well, must bee off
There’s one Rose left
And I think she likes me
In Pacifica
I despise that portrait of me.
The likeness ends
with the name.
Yes, Jane Seymour, unbeheaded
Queen of England.
No, not of pinched thin lips
and sharp bird-beak nose.
Those hideous wimples
tented on over plucked foreheads
displaying protruding toad eyes....
I was not the smoldering gypsy beauty
of Anne Boleyn
nor the loud, youthful
excess of everything
Katherine Howard
but look what their beauty cost them:
one head apiece.
I was pretty in my watchful, rich-wombed way.
I carried a King in my devoted belly
and a great love for my cousin-husband,
a fondness for estranged young Mary
and a fervent wish for peace.
I carried the scent of my beloved garden
sweet forsythia
nor the harlot’s stink of
Paris and promiscuity.
I was loathe to undergo
a coronation
I did not want to be Queen
and yet here I am,
the only wife to receive a queen’s funeral
and share a tomb
with the Beheader.
We were a country where people roamed free
where you drove cross-country without paying a fee
We were a country where folks dreamed big
outside of Washington where men wore wigs
We were a country known for ingenuity
not for divorces, abortions, and promiscuity
We were a country built by entrepreneurs
not by bureaucrats cranking out horse manure
We were a country where a man said what he thought
not what some PhD. thinks that Mao taught
Yes, we were a country, alright
not a chorus of banshees from the left and the right
A dedication to my depression,
tears pinch me to exit.
She told me to give it a listen,
No word about her reason.
It spoke of promiscuity,
judge not, of past experiences,
my mind went on a haze,
were these notes of confidentiality?
Confused at first,truelly I was,
until truths begged to unfold.
She simply asked for forgiveness,
prior to all revelations.
Still, she cries out of painful memories ~
a song that beared all honesty...
20 July 2022
One in Five 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joesphy May
Option 3. Sentimental Song
Child feels so drawn,
Liking, befriending.
Preteen feeling so innocently,
Crushing, admiring.
Adolescent feelings of promiscuity,
Attraction, infatuation.
Adult feeling of committing,
Loving, dating.
Soul feelings of destiny,
Promising, marrying.
Anyone can write a poem
I mean, they’ve never passed a law
and with the quick access to paper
and all.
Of course, the serial poet’s the danger
that keeps us up at night - someone lacking
the gene for rhyme control. Normal people can’t
imagine such wonton, naked promiscuity with words.
It’s best that we ignore them - to nip it in the bud.
A real collective effort is required - let us build
institutional archives - yes - we’ll call them libraries - to
lock such verse away - may it never again see the light of day.
If you catch a child with a pencil, slap it out of their little hand
because we cannot start too early in discouraging needless rhyme.
This public service announcement - pointing out this new “poetry”
trend - was made for the benefit of all.
Oh perpetual winter night
You have devoured the pride of the one brought up prideful,
You have single handedly robbed her of her morals,
Her virtue you’ve served on a platter,
And what remains of her is a shell
Hollow, void, filled with nothingness.
Oh world without end,
Scream...yell...call out...shout aloud to your young,
Rescue her from her promiscuity.
Her eyes have been blinded,
Blinded by the promised pleasures of a life more seasoned than her.
Shake her with vigour that she may wake from her slumber,
Allow her to see reality
For the end of the road is in sight,
Restore to her her pride, layed waste for all to devour.
Luyanda Ngema
Labelled once as relaxation station
a brothel I was... that offered my hospitality expertise
catering to human nature lusts
meeting carnal cravings
satiating fleshly appetites…
...yet…
the stigma of being a home-wrecker
along accusation and the reality
of being an illegal den of promiscuity
made me guilty, seeing aborted babies
while enriching my operators…
...thus…
grateful am I for laws striving to close my establishment
persevering to end my pleasurable pursuits
(lurking through prostitution leisure I'm ashamed of)
toward prioritizing peace in the family
midst home and community welfare
as God has wondrously designed in His goodness*.
Psalm 33:5 He loveth righteousness and judgment: the earth is full of the goodness of the LORD.
February 20, 2021
2nd place, "Personification Poem 150" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger; judged on 6/25/2021.
Sent to grateful receivers, tied tissue paper package
Thinnest high pitched crinkles subdue outside sound
Drama sits by desire's side, scrunched ball wreckage
Item shines silent where tempting excitement's found
Picked up then turned in tunnel light, trim translucent
Resplendent sexual asset show, shop front renowned
From suicidal prospect, she radiates ready road ahead
Track paved in pledges strictly forbidding promiscuity
Attempting claimant admits her promises are pretend
Selecting occurs in empty moments, potential aligned
Perfecting her pitch to victims strewn along spectrum
Hypergamy erects ladders, to one's class not confined
Feminine walks lace edge assurity, swish skirt pretty
Tightly tuned to humour tugging tower church chime
Sprawl peals of laughter tartan on grass sits a picnic
Intimating intentions when ecstacy resonates from loins
Parading a masquerading charm, undeniable ticked time
Dishes out affection already demised lest limitless coins
12th February
Wealth Reflects Affection
Witness the demise of traditional morality
in the face of contemporary American morality
The Church's influence declines and slips
Atheist youth flees a sinking ship
What's obscene and what is not
blurred forever midst promiscuity and pot
Right and wrong appease the gods of diversity and variety
'Anything goes' the drumbeat of a new, progressive society
January 05, 2020
Morality Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Koplin
Ten generations from Adam to Noah
Each one more and more depraved
Violence, corruption, promiscuity, theft
And yet a Merciful God had patience left
Noah worked on his Ark for 120 years
To catcalls, boos, mockery and jeers
Though he warned others of what was to come
They heeded him not, seemingly deaf and dumb
With the tiniest of raindrops the flood began
God's tears at having to abandon His plan
Of rescuing the earth at the very last minute
Of preserving this world and everything in it
The Lord desires not to punish us for our sins
He yearns for a sign of repentance ~ Please let Him in
A torn tale ere was sewn b' time's tool;
''f haggard hemisphere 'n' nocturnal nude,
'n which porous promiscuity 's oft draped -
furred fabrics, scales embroidery.
This tale 'n which cursed clothing was hexed;
porous past oozing sassy spell.
Makes marred maidens scarce behove laud,
but fractured flaunts cum odds grilled galls.
Tell those who 'gain sew this torn tale,
that nosy needle anon 'll break,
'n' sewn sanity would foster pawn
''f bruised beauties, gaunt graces 'n' plagued pores.
Let throbbing themes ''f this taunting tale
'n' wools ''f sewn silk canvas wits, fame 'n' shame.
'20:07:23:13:41
Note:
a) Of fractured fashion.
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Ere - before
ii) oft - often
iii) Hexed - cast spell
iv) behove - suit
v) cum - and
vi) galls - biles
vii) anon - soon
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) b' - by
ii) "f - of
iii) 'n' - and
iv) 'n - in
v) 's - is
vi) 'll - will
In humans narcissity, indifferent continually partly?
Caring effacing cursing raving
In-continuity..' Maybe? Am I trite?
Light entertainment;T V trials expose's
Speak of sensuality, tease by promiscuity
In a questionable proximity a proxy place
An invisible divide.. Presides rabidity
This is a worn; worm eaten valuless society
That only wants the best for me for you 'so true'
A mark a chip broken mugs, cheer for the
Equality, women fighting like men, tattoss are
A freedom sign? Like the dark aged picts did
Twee do now.' 'meow meow' only the best we celebrate
Till they are unmasked, by the ones so tasked
They are dragged to the courts, where they find
Co-horts; in cahoots with the nobility of sleaze above the judicary
How can they jail these.?
One thing seperates them
Unproven acts, un-found out facts
Without a shadow of doubt.'
Time has the truest shoutout.'
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