Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Pyrrha Jan 5
Yes, I am a woman
We're forced to say it like a curse
Because the moment we are discovered
Evil eyes of all sorts gaze upon us, questioning and curious

Is she beautiful?
Is her skin like porcelain?
Her hair, is it soft like silk?
Do her eyes shine like the stars?
And her virtue above all else, is she pure?

Men compare us to treasure as if it's a compliment
Saying our eyes are like sapphires and emeralds
To them we are silk and gold
Nothing more than measurements of their wealth
It's as if they think we won't find out it's just another way to measure our worth,
As if they think we can't understand that it isn't a compliment, it's a currency

They don't see my warrior gaze
My impenetrable skin, thick with valor
They look at my hands and see a delicate doll
They don't see the way these delicate hands wrap around my bow
How my eyes are sharp and steady
No, they only see the innocent sparkle

They aren't looking for my capabilities
They seek value in my appearance alone
They are putting prices on me,
Comparing me to the latest trends
For what is my courage worth when I have such a beautiful face?

Yes, I am a woman
But I am a warrior first
See my battle scars, see my victories
See my strength and bravery
My honor, see it an recognize me

I am the protector of women
Not because they can't defend themselves
But because they shouldn't have to
I am the one who shows the truth
Who guides the moonlight into their veins
The one who takes away those sparkling lies
For before my eyes, no woman will bend to the whims of man
fray narte Dec 2020
The world is an archery range and
Artemis' throat is a target practice.

What is this pale and moon-drenched skin
but a carcass to howling wolves —
their sorrows grow hand and grab her by the neck.

I always told myself to lie still
throughout the attack —
it'll be over before you know it,
but my lips are wounded from biting down a scream
and a carcass still weeps
long after it's dead
and my lung still bleeds
long after it's dry — lie still, my love,
because what if the calm trembles in a storm
and what if the storm brews in the calm.
Lie still, I say
but my legs weren't made to be a hunted prey's.
Lie still, I say
but my hands weren't meant
to carry the moon and all the sadness
she was ever told.

Lie still.
No, it's not only Atlas who breaks.
The world still is an archery range.

And tonight, Artemis takes her last arrow;
perch her carcass on the grieving moon —
a carcass, regardless, to all howling wolves.

a carcass — motionless;
a carcass
lies still.

And all of Delos mourns.
What is it like
The moonlight on her skin
Surely it must dance
Some spectral movement
A longing that only
The forest would know
Deep secrets whispered
Beneath its bows
Ancient recollections of
Sweet footfalls amid the duff and
Arcane choired reverances
Echoing a covens embrace around
Samhain fires
Charming the spirits arise and
Make light the growing darkness
But time is cruel and
She alone now stands
Testament to the cycle
******* in the dew
Singing the old songs
In the old ways
Enticing that old wood wake and
Take heed the coming dawn
Buddy T Aug 2020
counting stars like the ticks of seconds on the clock
dare i hold her hand a little tighter
i do believe her hand holy
blessing a sinner like me
artemis stares, i blink
and if i believed in god
i would’ve thought she was standing there in front of me
sarah crouse Jul 2020
I feel you with me, I feel your grace,
as your sunbeams hit my face.
You warm me up with a cup of hot tea
and relax with me beneath a bay tree.
I see you in every stranger's smile
you make my day all the worthwhile.
As we watch the sun go down
you help me make some flower crowns
to give to my dejected sibling
who I love despite our quibbling.
As I turn my playlist up
I feel the heat leave my teacup.
'cause now we have to say goodnight
as Artemis comes to take the night.
ConnectHook May 2020
But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
      Else of our ***, why feigned they those nine
      And poesy made Calliope’s own child
?
                                                    An­ne Bradstreet

Huntress, fill my pleading glass !
Let this marksman’s blood be merry.
Whether we shoot hind or ***,
Hail our wet preliminary.

   Having brought to birth such brave quadruplets,
   Let us toast the midwife with our couplets.

Sweet Diana pours her rounds:
Tawny Port and Shooting Sherry.
Hares now flee the baying hounds
For their country sanctuary.

   Thine the night, oh bright and savage huntress;
   Lead us to the quarry, chaste Artemis.

Conejito, hide yourself
From the charging adversary
Who would change your pelt for pelf;
(All close shaves are cautionary).

   Forgive our clanging gong and sounding brass;
   They serve to drive the quarry from the grass.

Healing balm: such sporting frolic,
Dares us to stay sedentary;
Banishing our melancholic
State, her bright apothecary!

   Wild huntress, let us know you as the Greeks
   And quiver as our heart your arrow seeks.

Toast we now the careless hunt;
Spoonerists wax luminary.
Visions of the hairless ****
Make my lay discretionary.
Allegory of DIANA, Goddess of the Hunt
https://tinyurl.com/y99k4hlg
fray narte Apr 2020
and yet, what are we but mere mortals
somehow caught in the world's anger?
what am i but just another girl
weaving these words
in the corners of a ceiling
where the moon doesn't shine —
hidden by dust and out of reach
and you are a victim,
walking straight to spider silk;
somewhere in the sky,
artemis is perched on the moon —
watching, warning.

and for all we know,
she knows, that apollo, too
had written poems for all his lovers;
i will borrow these words,
fumbling to write all the things
i cannot say.
but in the end, how can i write
about your love and its softness
when all i've known are wolves and shredded baskets,
when my legs are made for chasing the fog,
when my hands are made for ripping red cloths
and poorly folding them into roses?
alas, darling,
these are my pressed tulips and chaste kisses
delicately folded into words.
this is my testament;
these are my whispers in their softest.
these are my fingers in their gentlest.
this is my love for you.

this.
JustMK Feb 2020
Fluttering about, they crowd the skies,
their wax-paper wings catching warm breezes.
And my stomach does the same,
the way the earth falls away
when you walk too close to the edge
-giddy with anticipation
of a moment that will never come.
Never be mine.

Your hand brushes mine-
and accident I know,
but my heart can't help;
it leaps and sings for joy.
And once again I churn over the thought,
the possibility of perhaps
letting you catch me staring
at the way the light settles on your shoulders.

If I were to let my eyes wander
across your jaw, skip across your lips.
Let myself admire the stardust
scattered across your cheeks
and the gentle ***** of your brow.
If I only had the courage
to explore the endless depths of your eye
like a sailor at sea.

I'd drown.

You are far too wonderful
and I have no answer
as to what I must do
when the need to weave my fingers
through yours overtakes me.

So I pray to Artemis, Sappho, Persephone,
any who would heed my call:
that you might look at me,
and perhaps grow to love me
in that same way.
That when I summon up the courage,
they might soften my fall
and slow my descent.
One week into living with them some small butterflies migrated through our neighborhood, and masses and masses of them were drifting all about. I'd resolved to tell them on Valentines day, hoping that they might feel the same and deciding that I didn't want the crush to go away.
fray narte Sep 2019
sometimes, she resembles artemis
taking midnight walks
in a sea of moon glint;
her laughter, pale and silvery
as if they are made
of the moonlight itself.
they say that ohio is for lovers
so tonight, she will leave languid kisses
on sadness' flesh and bones;
they are made of all the seas
and all the beds
she has ever drowned in.
but tonight,
she will walk with the moonglades
dancing on the waters of cincinnati,
hand in hand and coming undone,
as the moon rises
from the ghost towns in her mind.

she goes on — treading waters,
and somewhere in the background is her silhouette,
a flickering shadow of the candle fire,
slowly melting,
the darker half of the moon,
setting in the west,
drowning in the tides.
and somewhere in the background is her silhouette,
slowly crumbling
to a heap of mess.
and somewhere in the background is her silhouette,
pallid and gray —

sinking
and sinking
beneath the waves.
Next page