She’s built of divinity.
Mother Earth birthed her,
sculpted her figure.
She’s the generations past;
She’s the collective future.
Her voice carries over the crests of waves,
harmonizing with the wind,
uniting the stars.
When she cries,
her tears rain from the heavens,
eroding sharp cliffs
and rough quarries
She created nations from dirt,
and power from her hands.
She is Woman.

pony-tailed playmate
head tucked in her shirt
gazing steadily down
at her toes in the dirt

chaos tiptoes around her
naive oblivion
journeys in far away lands
just west of the meridian

watercolor fairy tales
bleeding outside the lines
unaware of the danger
unaware of the signs

let me sit with you, darling
in the dampened flower beds
and paint a new world
for us in our heads

Our husband
Thou look in my eyes no more
I reek of old wine
Thy mouth spaketh
But thou saith nothing

I hear drums
Ceremonial beatings
Your smile I longed to behold
The peepings of the crowds
Your attire I longed to touch

Favourite of thy bossom
I know your heart
Belongings of another
Stories at the market square
Thou findeth thy favourite

Old clothes
Thou look away
Old heart
Thou embrace no more
Longing afresh a new favourite

Welcome
Our husband knows your heartbeat
Preparations of thy entrance
Our husband's favourite bossom
Welcome, our new wine

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                   The Epistemology of Lies


                               Above all, don’t lie to yourself.

                  -Father Zossima in The Brothers Karamazov


The problem is not in detecting a lie
But in detecting that which is not a lie
In a fallen world in which snakes twist and writhe
Around the golden apples of our youth

Through our garden they slither, shiny and smooth
And at first softly, susurrantly, soothingly
Assuring us that that we don’t know what we know
That we should trust them, follow them, obey them

And if we pause to think, they bully us all -
And one by one the golden apples fall

Lay your hands on my cold and fragile bottle;
hold the cork and twist me-
gently--
slowly--
don’t stop until you hear me pop;
set my spirit free and I go astray-
into your soul so weary;
close your eyes, smell the earth in me-
herbs, tobaccos, vanillas, trees-
savor the aroma of heavens;
now pour me down in the empty glass-
of love and affection;
touch me with your lonely tongue;
indulge my warmth-
wrapping your delicate heart;
little sips-
after
little sips;
until-
you lose control.

When I was a child,
I was taught poetry wasn't mild,
It was deep as the sea,
And it seemed truly unachievable for me.
I was taught poetry had to rhyme,
Every single line, every single time.
So poetry seemed out of my reach,
Like chasing a seagull down a beach,
Jumping ever so slightly away,
Or soaring into the sunny day.

So I never thrived for what I thought would,
No, Could
Never be.

I guess now I'm fixing the mistakes of past me.