Where are all the women
the moon-eyed lionesses,
the stampeding herds of udders, vulvas, and horns
that tears the earth and trampled the serpents and scorpions?
Where are the mother bears that rip the ruby bark from the bodies of predators?
Where are all the women
ready to drown bad men in their menses?
Where are the Valkyrie
spears held high
iron breasts as bright as the sun-lit frost of Valhalla?
Where are the daughters of Shango,
that sharpen the double axe to take the life of the two faced thief?
Where is that rage that moves mountains
reshapes the world with fire?
Where are the women that are the waves of the weepless sea that pickles the eyes of arrogant men
and feeds the reef with their flesh?
Where are our warriors?
Where are our demons?
Where are our humans that are not too good to save the world?
Categories:
vulvas, america, angst,
Form: I do not know?
there will be wine yet to drink,
there will be love yet to make,
and feet dipped into virgin ponds
to wash away callousing years,
seashells with openings like vulvas
into which we can lay our ears for
an ocean of music,
and white sand to doodle on with slow footsteps,
and beheaded coconuts giving
quenching clear blood to compete
with the red of wine,
there will be mornings yet to rouse
with long-carousing nights,
and nights to put to sleep with
bedtime stories of whispers or moans,
our tanned skin
the only blanket we need
there will be happy blindings by the sun,
there will be all the tomorrows
to forget
yet
Categories:
vulvas, beach, dream, freedom, future,
Form: Free verse
(draft iiiv)
*-- -- I spent my puberty pursuing Truth,
-- -- while Venus bound Adonis as a youth.*
My passions laid with Mysteries and Signs
the secret workings only hermits see,
those subtleties by which our fates align,
the ways young clocks may seed our destinies.
The vulvas that I held were hard-bound books,
vanillin pages streamed with ecstasy;
they weren't the sort that lived or died by looks,
their warmest whispers - ideologies.
My bedroom's full of volumes, silent, dry,
still waiting for that gentle touch to come,
and curve their lonely spines. But, what belies
the depth of blood? What warmer truth? There's none,
-- -- for nothing is so great as boundless love,
-- -- and, perfect bound, my books are not enough.
* additional lines for 16 line iambic pentameter contest
Categories:
vulvas, angst, goodbye, loneliness, student,
Form: Sonnet