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Sofia Paderes Aug 2013
you will know she is a poetess
if she likes to wear long-sleeves
long-sleeves that hide the scars
long-sleeves that hold her bruised arms together
long-sleeves with a slit near the shoulder
where she tried to wear her heart
(but poured it out in ink instead)

she will have long hair
or walk like she does
because hair is memory
cutting it is like erasing yesterday's you
restyling it is like recreating you.
her hair will have leaves in it
and leftover twine
from the flower crown she wears
or if she is the daring kind
her hair will have silverdust
(proof of how close her words
got her to the moon)

if she smiles and laughs
and never shows pain
she is a poetess
because a poetess writes her hurt down
in free verses and half-finished sonnets
and she cries not on a boy's shoulder
but on paper where her tears are caught by
the swooping syllables and dauntless denotations
making her words come alive
(because where there is water, there is life)

if you meet a person and assume she is a poetess
check first her palms
(if she will show them to you)
they must show no sign of ink
(for a poetess is sometimes secretive)
no, you must be able to trace the constellations
along the creases of her palm
smell the rocket smoke
and see the nebulae dotting her flesh
where she managed to catch stars.
congratulate her
and maybe, she will lift the hem
of her long pearl blue skirt
and show you the wings on her ankles
and if you're lucky, she will tell you story
upon story
upon story.

if you are able to tell a poetess from a person
and you find her,
keep her.
keep her close to where
the drums of your soul beat from
keep her next to your dreams of sailing and pink seas
keep her in the mental list you keep
of people you will never, ever leave
(and she will keep you, too)

when she dies,
wrap her body in a white Ilocos blanket.
use no coffin.
let the earth swallow her up
(but don't let it swallow her words)
tend to the fire she left you
plan to set out on a quest
to look
for other word-weavers
because it is impossible to live without
these storytellers
then go back to her writing desk
touch the last thing she held
and look for a hole
a false drawer
a hidden key
anything that keeps.
and i promise you,
you will find
more poems.
and if you spread each page out on the floor
its letters will rearrange
and form your name
and point you to a poem hidden
in a pocket she sewed inside her coat
and the first line will read,

"how to tell if she is a poetess"
Skip Ramsey Nov 2014
Good morning, dear poetess,
How your words open my heart,
Awaken my mind,
Touch my soul.

Good morning, dear poetess,
How you enflame my passion,
Enlighten my thoughts,
Make me whole.

Good morning, dear poetess,
How your words encourage me,
Make my tears well,
Make my thoughts roll.

Good morning, dear poetess,
How you strengthen me,
Make me aware,
Let me reach each goal.

Good morning, dear poetess,
Thank you...
For being you...
For sharing you...
Thank you....
Thank you for your inspiration and encouragement.
Deb Harman Oct 2014
Soul Dark Of Poetess Heart

soul dark mysterious heart across divide
poetess heart aches pen in hand side

writings of thrill and dark twisted fate
mind is the books play upon date

soul dark haunting emotion of condensation
poetess heart aches pen in commission

dreaming in words war in dark shadow
mind is books play upon pail window

soul dark opened angel of wings broken
poetess heart aches pen in token

Soul Dark Of Poetess Heart (dark poetry)
By Deb Harman ©3/10/14
Ivan Brooks Sr Jul 2018
When a published poet dies,
A shooting star falls.
The universe cries
And rainbows hugs waterfalls.

When an old poet dies,
A new poet is born.
Nature lights up a million fireflies,
And a ship gives a tot on its horn.

When a young poet dies,
A Crack appears in a crystal ball.
A Fountain pen dries,
And a sad poem appears on a wall.

When an old poetess dies,
For a while the wind will cease.
Petals will fall from Lillies,
And disappear without a trace.

When a great poetess dies,
Fallen poets observe silence.
The men adorn black bow ties,
And the ladies dress in elegance.

When any poet dies,
The world loses a bright mind.
Shakespeare appears across the skies,
Waving to those of us left behind.

When a poor poet dies,
Nothing at all happens.
The world goes about its duties
He goes on to rest with other legends.

A poet dies but he's not done..his words lives on.
''My imagination of a poet and poetess
sharing their first conversation.''*

Gazing upon your clay-cup,
My eyes judge that you are alike,
So raise your crown, and wake-up,
O' my dreamlike!

My soul a boundless wave,
Seeks a ray of light in solitude,
You seem a queen and I a slave,
Perhaps your eyes are hued?


O' ruler, disguised in veil,
Thirst in your eyes an ocean for me,
And my soul has pined for such zeal,
You are bliss on earth craving for me.

Aroma of your gentle devotion,
And a stir of my visions have raised the wings,
My passion is scattered alike dust in the winds,
O' wise and brave, what is your emotion?


Your presence before me, an arrival of moon,
My heart opening its eyelids to a new majesty,
And the soul is dancing in the rapturing monsoon,
O' beautiful, my yearnings lay in your agony.

O' elegance of such heavenly delight,
Your beauty a messenger to my heart,
And my soul lay in extremes of your excite,
O' pearl of my pride, my image and my art.


O' merchant of intoxicating whispers,
Ecstasy arises from within your tongue,
New clouds of joy are unveiling in my heart,
And may such unity never be apart.

O' morning dew, if you dare come close,
My affection wants to hold you in its arms,
Waiting are my kisses on a throne of rose,
And elating are your splendid charms.


O' beautiful, O' flowing stream,
Embrace my soul in your captivity,
I desire to be seized in your esteem,
And my heart rests in such festivity.

O' blessed wine, O' sweetness of my existence,
Your love arose like the morning sun upon my chest,
Elevating me and pouring like a spring within my breast.

✒ ℐamil Hussain
brandon nagley Dec 2015
There is a poet
And poetess
That writeth;
In the slums
And the ghetto's;
In the suburb's
In the meadow's.
There is a poet
And poetess
That prophecieth
In the mountain's
In the city, neath
Their graves, in
Tomb's, free one's,
Slave's, some known,
Many doomed, in
Heaven's gates, some
Art poor, some telleth
Of fate, some art lonesome,
Some speaketh of amour',
Some linger in the shadows,
Tortured by demon's, anguished;
Fighting hellish and earthly battles.
There is a poet and poetess that writeth in blood and in ink:
Some feareth death, death to some doth succumb when these artist's speak. Some hath wealth, some with naught, some groweth their own food, whilst other's stick to store bought. Some art peasant's, some art farmer's, some poet's preach and teacheth; whilst other's want to alarm us. There is a poet and poetess in this life and the next; some looketh down on loved one's, whilst the living is blinded by material net's. Some art lost, forgotten, some speaketh Spanish, Hindi, English, Arabic, french, lost languages, or Latin. Some just want to love, whilst some seeketh to findeth love, some want to flyeth away, as if a falcon or a dove. Some thinkest their better than most, others thinkest they art not better then noone, feeling dead as if a ghost. Some jotteth poetry to make them remember living, some art charitable, whilst poet's in prison sit and rot from killing or stealing. Some passeth time staring at the ceiling, whilst some overwork, some casteth their ten percent to worldly lusts, whilst other's pay to God in church. There is a poet and poetess that writeth, being dead or alive; O' poet's were all distinctly different though the same, in God's poetic eye's..............

©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

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