Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Woman with no strength of few,
but many; you're the mountain dew
of which a river's made anew...
Woman we adore you.
You were moulded to give birth,
made from Adam's very rib
so that man his wife shall know
and Inside you "life" could grow.
Woman we adore you,
bone of our bones,
and flesh of our flesh;
you have something no man owns...
you're fruitful and timeless
and you were called: "woman,"
for you were taken out of man...
to become one flesh and hold his hand be a blessing in his life,
loved and honored as a faithful wife.
Woman we adore you,
your inner strength exceeds you;
made from dreams of man,
not specks of sand.
All were made of dust from earth,
but you made from God, since birth:
a defender, a nurturer, and mother
a comparable helper,
for man,  from the heart of Adam be made into a work of art;
from rib, so you won't break apart,
fashioned by the hand of I AM.
Inspired by the book of Genesis, to celebrate the birth of women. In the form of a poem
The oil came deep, 
from underneath.
the earth could bleed,
her blood was black.
But men knew not_
they pierced her skin.
It all seemed fair,
but deep within.
She cried aloud,
and gasped for air.
They took her oil,
and left her there…
a lifeless, wounded, fragile heart.
Who greedy men had ripped apart.
They closed her wound with her own soil,
but she kept still, and acted proud.
While greedy men took all she had,
without her blood, her soul would rot.
She'd never get her heartbeat back.
How sad she felt…
when her own seed,
had caused her soul to suffocate.
She could not breathe
If she could not bleed.
She stayed so long, so celibate.
They were not pleased,
with gold, nor land…
They needed more,
they needed more;
went within their mother's core.
They took her oil and had it sold.
These branches are a shadow,
of the roots we see not grow.

Leaves turn brown in time of spring,
the patient earth knows everything.

Earth embalms the tree with soil,
keeps it strong throughout the toil

though the tree may lose its beauty,
It were not left unattended.
Fot the loss were temporary,
and the tree stood liberated,
the heavens found it worthy
though a younger tree ascended.

It was once an old, forgotten snag
...once blossomed but still died a log

And although the tree departed,
still the secret's not unearthed...
This poem involves what's happening to earth's trees.
Often yet not frequent,
I'd see this young delinquent,
An exact image of whom I were most recent,
So to say that I stare at my past thus avoiding myself at that instant.
That very moment,
Ne'er ought I insinuate that my thoughts were so constant,
And the actions thereof were so persistent,
to stem that I were too naïve and reluctant,
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••
I smell fear and mediocrity,
A custom made identity,
Whose motive is hypocrisy,
But shattered visions surely die;
And dreams are battered through a cry,
Its meaning stands a mystery,
As if it were but one big lie,
I stare at this delinquent through that foggy window's eye.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••

Amidst the abyss I hear his accent.
The voice of a believer whose innocence could fly,
But they clipped his wings because their arrogance had left them stagnant,
Closed minded individuals who lacked to imply;
This was the coming to his emancipation out of imprisonment,
Of being disallowed the privilege to try,
Sadly these spectators were Incompetent and Complacent,
Who forced the world to remain gullible to fortify.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••

So I stare as he drown himself in the disbelief that he will never cease the moment.
Due to the horrible fact that his chances were denied by a corrupt system,
Despite him filled with talent and wisdom,
Ignored potential as an aborted infant;
I heard the echo of that infant's gentle cry,
And imagined it sleep so peacefully,
Its origin were to me a mystery,
A beauty this world could never deny.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• •••••

But eventually they'd want it to die;
As if they were driven by jealousy,
Deriving through each century,
Owning each man with a close minded mentality.
born in chains I could not see,
heart was pure and mind still free,
but as the time had passed me by,
I noticed love and peace say bye...

I read; without a shadow of a doubt,
I wrote; beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Life was cruel and life was cold,
Words were calm and words were bold.

I fell in love with constant pain,
that left my heart and soul in vain.

I became humbled each time I read,
and immortal each time I wrote,
I became modest in times of growth,
and I shall not die although being dead.

For my words would live forever,
and my stories they'll endeavor.
These young folk who'll come along,
who found a place where they belong.

In times of hate and sorrow, guilt...
my poetry would be their guide,
that's why I love this poetry inside,
coming out this heart and soul rebuilt.

I wrote poetry to save those mourning,
so they'd fine love in life each morning.
The title is poetry spelled backwards.
We played the game, threw the dice
at times we got lucky with the game.
although caught in a web of lies...
though a picture locked in a frame.

Life gave pain, left us with misery,
and empty people fought with bigotry,
all stuck in the same boat of poverty,
snakes and ladders showed our reality.
Despite our lack of opportunity...
it gave us life when we wanted to cry.
But we kept strong, continuing a story
all our forefathers faced in our society.

Without the shadow of a doubt,
we played games, feeling liberated...
As kids we played monopoly & chess,
but snakes and ladders we did best.

At the end of the ladder waits a snake
to stab you in the back with a knife
But when facing the reality of life,
some took paths not easy to take.

We took paths that left us stagnant,
made some choices in our youth.
But wisdom always showed the truth,
about our growth when we were Ignant.

Although some are fierce,
walking though lions in the street.
We used to play snakes and ladders, lost at times, we still showed no defeat.
Before the end it all took place,
I met a man who drew my face;
The paint decides the life it shows,
As ancient men like Plato knows...
for in that portrait I was king,
and people never knew a thing...
for eyes and heart showed innocence,
and in my heart remembrance...
although they'd never understand,
Yet here I sat with crutch in hand.
The portrait's old and incomplete;
that moment framed. Yet obsolete.

But once upon a time and place,
I meet this boy who draws my face;
I held a secret no one knows,
this memoir only wisdom shows...
through pain the art reveals a king,
but Aristotle caught a thing;
a childhood swiftly evanescent,
rare-like paint and senescent...
a boy with rope and kite in hand,
Unsure the world would understand...
thus birds not fly; I'll supersede.
Still not convinced if i'm complete.
Next page