The Perfect Storm

clould_storm

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Her certainties are vague and always fleeting, dissembled by a will that’s not her own, her thoughts, though rogue, are always so compliant, this the woman cast in role, she must atone, for something that she’s unaware of doing, for being just a woman here on earth, no ladette this, no bloke, no guy, no rugged master, simply born as female, lost, alone.

Watch her work it out that she’s done nothing, nothing more than black or white or gay, observe her as she claims her own potential, watch and wait, she’ll realise and have her say.

Biblically, she’ll clamour for the wild side, back to nature, earth and Gaia birthed, stand at ready, watch the elemental, working in the flesh and soil, rebirth.

See her rooted back to where she came from, note the stature, see the tree within, growing new limbs, sending where they’re willing, this is she, this is not a he or him.

Woman, by her very nature, growth and nourishment she will provide, intrinsic to her sex, and damn proud of it, watch and see her claim her wilder side.

Time was had and time was spent in waiting for hunter to provide the unit’s needs, they left, they fought, became distracted, forgot the reason why, the mouths to feed.

Woman waited, woman worried, wondered, what the fuck and why the hunter late, discovery of distraction, from the purpose, declared the hunter useless as a mate.

Hear the lioness, the mighty mother, hear the elephant, the whale, the mom, want to see a world in all its glory, give woman time, await the perfect storm.

 

Sanctifying Sorceress

She’ll kiss away all contours,

frowns that mar the landscape,

life criss-crosses

from the crossroads formed,

this visage,

evening tones,

enhance as twilight,

banish petrified

with wave of hand passed over,

deliver, she is heard

amid the rushes,

sighing breath

temperate to risen blood,

quell beats

anon to death,

a sister, wife, a mother,

full-bosomed pillow cloud,

inducing coma, deep,

sanctifying sorceress,

breath of life,

banish wakefulness,

to sleep.

Concubine

concubine picture

In her master’s eyes she sees his favour,

A smouldered glance reveals she is the one.

Fevered touch and kiss she craves to savour.

Tonight he chooses well and she has won.

But wanderlust, disquietude advance,

Foreboding, cast aside for someone new,

Karma calls, lends only this one chance.

What is a woman spurned so forced to do?

Poisoned lips she presses to his temple,

Whispers words of loving, serves to please.

Thus patronized, he begins to tremble,

Falls, willingly, she upon her knees.

Bejewelled dagger, in the boudoir, sparkles,

Moonlight glinting in dark eyes, on fixed smile,

Planned madness, maniacal her chuckle,

His supine head, eyes glazed, gone for a while.

‘Be still, sweetheart,’ softest words placate,

Unknown end, his in comfort and in leisure,

Exquisite agony propels his fate,

Life’s end erupting with his mighty pleasure.

With ebbing breath he gasps to tell his story,

Tale recounted oft, and oft too late,

‘My love, you were heart’s one true glory.

For you I foreswore others as my mate.’

With swift recourse and gesture lost to reason

She plunges bloodied dagger into heart,

Bled with him, though mortal life was over,

Together now, in death, no one dares part.

 

Unknown source for image. Credit gladly given if claimed.

Measure Of The Man

Oasis in my desert

Water in my pool

Heat when I am frozen

Calm to keep me cool

Food to all my hunger

Water to my thirst

Supplying all the needs I have

Justice to my just

Wind and waves that crash to shore

Powering my turbine

Giving all you have to me

Guess that makes you mine

Friend in all my wilderness

Calm to windswept wild

Man to all my woman

Parent to my child

Needs all understanding

Friend to all who greet

Measure of the man in you

Strength with love so sweet

Woman’s Voice

It’s spreading out from pebble. Can you feel it?

Rippling through the waterways and seas,

Waving in the oceans. Can you hear it?

Communicated by the birds and bees.

There’s a lesson in the breeze of Mother Nature,

A stirring in the soil where life is found,

There’s a movement in the trees, in the rustling of the leaves,

A tumultuous rumbling underground.

Maternal blood is weeping for her children

And risking self to heal the open sores.

She’s crying out to corners of the universe,

Seeking now to even up the scores.

Listen to a mother when she’s bleeding

Her heart is sore but, tigress, she has teeth.

Woman’s voice. Hearken now, or perish.

United effort. Nature’s one belief.

Legacies

Mythological womanhood,

Portrayals past and present,

Engendering all powerful,

Cause now to resent.

Procreation fuels such awe,

Though children all we be,

Legendary legacies

Restrict, so none are free.

Dissent among the gods on high

And on the earth below,

Mankind receives while woman grieves,

All must seek to learn and know.

Super…….

If I could be a superhero,

I wouldn’t be a cat,

‘Cos cats climb trees

And purr a lot.

What can you do with that?

 

I wouldn’t be a wonder girl

Whose clothes can change

With just one twirl.

Handy though this flair could be,

It’s really not for me.

 

No, if I could choose a set of skills,

I know just what I’d opt for.

I’d be an eagle, flying high,

Like a feathered

Helicopter.

 

Transformation, quite complete,

I’d strut my stuff with wings and beak.

Feathered body, long of limb, razor talons for my protection,

I’d soar around from vantage point

With eyes sharp for detection.

 

I’d fly around this wondrous globe,

Bestowing golden feathers

With magic powers,

That, once they land,

Could cure and help all others.

 

The feathers would be cast so wide,

From here, around to all earth’s sides,

They’d tickle, grant gift of eagle eye,

Give hope to all that they too could fly

And know that soaring feeling.

 

In addition, as such a bird,

Large, you know, I suppose you’ve heard,

If I viewed, on earth, corruption,

Splat! I’d go, right in the eye

Of those bent on destruction.

 

So no, not cat nor twirling one,

I’d be super….. Eagle Woman,

With magic

In all messages,

Given to each human.

 

As for me, my gift to self,

Apart from eagle spying,

I’d experience

Such a buzz and thrill, from

Simply being flying.

Video reading  Super…….

Central

I like, ‘between’. It’s not right. It’s not left.

It’s smack in the middle, like a chin with a cleft.

Like a sandwich made, with bread on each side,

The centre is where all the lovely bits hide.

It’s not in the fast lane or the lane that’s too slow,

It’s somewhere between, and it goes with the flow.

It’s under the duvet, not under the bed,

A mattress below, a pillow for head.

The finger that’s centred says a lot, when you ponder;

Elevating a pinky or thumb? People wonder.

Political persuasion is not of what I speak.

It’s being the mum each day of the week.

The core of the apple, though not to my liking,

Holds the seeds that become future inviting.

A middling position among those that are close,

How strange would a face look without any nose?

Enclosed within flesh and right at the heart,

Is the place that I choose, not the horse or the cart,

But the contents within, being pulled right along

Like the refrain that is sung after verse of each song.

The point of the circle, circumference surrounds,

With mother at centre, all love, those, surrounds.

So, finger is raised, two held down on each side,

I’m at the centre. And I say it with pride.

One digit to join it and the V that we see,

Becomes, Victory for woman, for mother, for we.

Not crushed underfoot,

Not proud and aloof,

Not under the ground,

Nor, looking down, from a roof.

But, standing quite firmly, on her own two feet,

Legs spread akimbo, ever ready to greet,

What life throws her way,

How she catches the missile,

How she views it and moulds it,

Becomes wine with the vessel.

Harbouring thoughts and love quite eternal.

Yes, Woman, is central – the beautiful kernel.