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Yousra Amatullah Jun 2021
Her genre,
Honorable.
Her design,
Respected.
Her character,
Dignified.
Her pages,
Well lettered.
Her story,
Unread.
Like a book, mesmerising,
Yet too often judged by her cover.
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2021
~
Ada's got a scheme
a flying machine
constructing wings of
paper, oilsilk, wires, and feathers
faster than light
in all kinds of weather
Ada's going to fly

~
For Augusta Ada King, Countess of Lovelace (née Byron; 10 December 1815 – 27 November 1852), daughter of poet Lord Byron and renowned mathematician. She valued metaphysics as much as mathematics, viewing both as tools for exploring "the unseen worlds around us."
GraciexJones Jun 2021
She says 'Honey I’m home' as she enters the room,
One life destroyed 7 lives left,
Ready to feast and fight,
She is the dictator of her fate,

She lusts for the crack of the whip,
The thrill and the thrive as she chases her victims,
The squeals and the cries as she plays with them,
The heightened experience of being alive,

She is one hot kitty-cat waiting for her prey,
She doesn’t want Batman to get in her way
She pins him to the ground and places a deadly kiss,
Upon his pouty lips under the Christmas mistletoe,

She cracks the whip once more as she scatters into the night,
Cleans her wounds and purrs softly under the moonlight
But she did not realise she left a fragment of her soul,
A piece of a kitty-cat claw which is stuck in Batman torso

Poem by Gracie Jones
kiran goswami May 2021
My dear, you are not the sun.
You do not need to blind others or overpower someone's light to shine.

You are a star.
You shine the brightest along with all the others,
not without them.
Brianna Duffin Apr 2021
For as long as I can remember,
the women of my family have lived
in hunger like hulking tigers in a cramped cage.
Love is quickly used up, its quality fading
from golden light into grainy shadows
flicked haphazardly across God’s great canvas.
After Love departs, nothing remains but
the splinters where we have torn away limbs
and dug holes in search of that light again,
the flecks of gold streaked through our hair,
the ones that know better than revisit our homes.
When we give up, we sit in our drab backyards
to watch the sun sink over a police state
masquerading as the ultimate state of grace.
We tuck our freedoms into bed, kiss our sacred rights
goodnight in case we never get the chance
to lead by the hand into the light of day,
and sneak back down to the kitchen for one last snack,
maybe two. Maybe more, maybe our mouths
wait in secret to transform into one bottomless pit
as we reach with every breath we take for something
we have always known and long since learned
we’ll never be able to grasp in our earthly fingers.
Thank you for reading. If you liked this poem, you'll probably like these:
https://briannarduffin.medium.com/the-back-of-my-hand-f1922dde51f9
Carlo C Gomez Apr 2021
~
In her sulking-place
alone and naked

framed in soft sepia
—the vintage, harlequin hue

at this supposed faded hour
she sits looking back on memory

she sits and stares
into the boudoir mirror

at herself
at her embonpoint

yes, at these *******
—at their landscape

how they fall
(like Niagara)

where they point
(like a compass)

what they tell (so fondly)
when pressed together

about their time
—their work and play

towers on the precipice
of judgment

both callous and
uncharitable

if the mirror
truly be her reflection

her vision is turned around
as illusion

—a study of tonality and tolerance
for one's own flesh

the room
an invitation

or perhaps
a lockaway

where she even keeps secrets
from herself

~
avenoir - n. the desire that memory could flow backward
SS Mar 2021
Eve
they say i came from Adams rib
I am a woman of mud and marrow
God told you
She will leave a scar
God told you
She will not come cleanly
You told me
Fold nice  
You told me
Fold neat and
Be mine
I took my clay ribs and
made them my home  
I prayed to the divine and
the oh so ungodly
Until the Serpent came
Adam do you know that
I won’t let you eat my
Heart in full unless
I’m sure the taste of sin
Will forever stain your lips
Davina E Solomon Apr 2021
Whispers I sent out to dawn latched
on to the solitary sun to trail
the arc of a common time
in a sky the hue of gold in grass.
The land leans on the baobab
in a dust storm of wheels and lenses.
Wheels and lenses.

When the dust settles, I will dust
my shuka and the goats will return
home, to comfort my eyes that flow
the spate of the Great Ruaha,
seeping secretly into the baobab
I have chores to do, a shuka to ****.
A shuka to ****.

Will they buy the beads I strung
as I rocked Naeku on my back,
to make circles of day and circles
of night, as wide as the baobab,
in the colour of clouds, the colour of sky.
There's colour to stars in a darkened night.
A darkened night.

Killeleshua is fragrant in thousand leaves
Am I not worth more than thirteen Zebu?
The watering hole was flecked in hippos
and the firewood is the colour of dusk
abundantly generous as the baobab
Time, a viscous passing of the sweetest honey.
The sweetest honey.
It was in the Ruaha region of Tanzania that a Maasai woman kindly agreed to pose for a photograph. I do not recollect her name now but in every photo, she appeared to be in shy contemplation. Here is one in which she leans against the baobob, while adorned in the collar jewellery that the Maasai are also known for. I wrote a poem for her, to her graceful beauty; serenely contemplative she appears.

Notes:

Zebu cattle ~ Maasai cattle that are well adapted to semi arid conditions. Bride price or dowry is set in cattle and paid to the family of the bride.

Killeleshua [1] [Tarchonanthus camphoratus L.]~ A plant the leaves of which are used in bedding or as a deodorant or for fragrance. It smells really lovely.

Shuka ~ garment worn by Maasai, an adaptation of the Scottish tartan

Baobab [2]~ Adansonia digitata, most long lived of the vascular plants and dots the savannas of Africa. Baobab wood has a high water content (up to 79%) and low wood density (0.09-0.17 g · cm(-3)).

Naeku [3] ~ Born in the early morning, the name of a Maasai girl born at dawn

Check the rest at www.davinasolomon.org
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