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How do you taste a woman?
Do you let your breath
Take over her skin
Or do you,
Gently
Uncover
Her treacherous,
Deceitful, delightful touch?

Do you take her sight for granted,
As if it was yours to own,
As if she would
Never vanish,
Or do you know
She's nothing more
Than a chimera on a wall,
Than Clotho's spinning thread
In an ancient story of forgiveness...

Do you trust her soft and humid body,
Like a silky cloth soaked in
Spicy peppermint oil,
Or do you fear
Her lips
As if they'll
Harm the pulse
Of your easily grown
Desire for all that she has enchanted?

Do you let her fingers linger
Somewhere in between
The locks of hair,
As they were
Her only to poses,
And make them come alive
Like serpents shadows on a desert's moonlight?

All in all, a woman cannot be
Taken for granted,
As she isn't there
Only because
You see her
Near.
No.
A woman is
A passing shadow
For your mesmerized vision.

A woman is that summer rain
On your heated body,
Or that devastating
Storm on a
Moroccan
Desert.
She is both
Dust and wind,
Love and hatred,
Hope and despair.
She is nothing more
Than clear, cold water.

So drink the woman
As you taste
Water
Turned
Into good wine
And tell me, stranger...
How do you taste a woman?
thank you for all your comments and likes. never thought that this poem would be so appreciated. thank you again and again.
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos
the trio we know as “the Fates”
Were discussing the fate of some poet
while calmly ******* on dates.

“At best Sisters, he’s merely adequate.
Sure, he knows his rhythm and rimes.
But when they compile an anthology
will his poems merit  more than three lines?”

“Some of his verses are Humorous”
“You’ll grant me that, Clotho, at least.”
“Other times he takes himself too serious,
and behaves like some priggish high priest”

“Atropos, where is my measuring rod?
All too soon he’ll meet us face to face.”
“Here is the fate I have chosen.
Take your shears and mark well the place.”

The fruit made Atropos’ grasp slippery
A lock of hair fell in her face.
The poet got more than allotted
It was sheer dumb luck in his case
"Spy" will appreciate this one
Lyn-Purcell Oct 2020

One of Fate's traids
Threads spun long with great twine sides
From birth to the hearse


New day, new haiku!
I'm covering the the Moirai aka the Fates now! They were known to be the daughters of Zeus and Themis predominantly, but I have heard their parentage vary: from Chaos to Nyx to even Gaia. One of the best parts about myths is that it's so malleable. They were in charge of the fates of mortals, from who were born to who died and each have their own unique tasks as well. Clotho was the spinner - she spun the threads of life and death to which this haiku talks about. Imagine how that sort of power of life and death in your very hands. It's truly something that is quite amazing to think about as well as terrifying.

Anyway, thank you all for growing followers, I'm forever humbled and grateful for the support 🙏🌹💜
Here's the link for the growing collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/132853/the-women-of-myth/
Be back tomorrow with another one!
Please take care of yourselves and stay safe!
Much love,
Lyn 💜
the edge keeps getting
harder to find
keep my ledge clean
brush away this uneasy
disparate ride

spin your thread
that delicate strand
wish me good luck

and i'm not a dancer
but if you ask,
fate or fortune?
smiling,
dancing madly backwards
I'll ride the razor ribbon wire
into the wall of shadows

and until the tug of destiny
and before the ringing of bells
keep me close to your heart.
Tamal Kundu Dec 2016
Lost in the desert at night, a maze of stairs reveals the myth.
Neon sign, beside a paan-red smile, pairs—revealing the myth.

Clotho has ringlets, Lachesis slanted eyes, Aisa laugh lines,
Weaving tapestry of rapturous affairs, reveal the myth.

Who plays the distant sārangī? Who pours the quenching nectar?
Falling into stride behind Inanna's heirs reveals the myth.

Those intimate moments trace the tangible warmth on her skin.
In proud destitution, a desire she wears: reveals the myth.

Sand trickles through his anxious fingers, the mirage disappears.
At dawn fugitive memories Tashir bears. The revealed myth.
Form: Ghazal
Tryst Nov 2016
If hempen cloth to paupers garb is made,
Grey daubed as hearth'd ash, rough as firewood kindling,
And for each king, gold silken raiments laid,
Bright as the jesters smock for courtly mingling,
What garment fit for thee Clotho would make?
Unto her spindle all threads are first woven,
And of thy lot? Why, Lachesis would take!
And gift to Atropos to see thee cloven!
Who then should fret to say my garb is drab?
Tis not thine outer skin three fates have wrought,
So of thine self, judge not thy bone, thy flab,
For in thee, fates have spun all thou has sought!
    Thy measured lot was cast afore thy waking,
    And strength in thee to set the heavens shaking!
Victoria Jul 2017
O, Clotho, what thought have you to weave such jests?
No mortal thought toward you against!
Thy nimble hands, they weave too quick,
a braided thread, nay long nor thick.

Upon Lachesis, yon thread is passed,
who keeps it in her lissome grasp.
A long, long life, ordeals a'plenty,
in thy mind's eye, distill wrath or envy.

Atropos, friend of Hades dear,
Hag of ages, mortal's seer!
A duty trusted unto thy blade
Evanescent and fleeting we must remain.
AM Dec 2015
but, my darling
I'd steal health from Hygieia
**** Clotho for your thread of life
and let the Gods forbid me
breathing inside this galaxy
because you, your existence,
means a lot more important
than the all the beauty
they could ever offer me
ablah Mar 2021
Stakes through my shoulders nails
Made of rust i will fly into my past life
To untangle the white knot i love
You so much my heart will ache
To break i will not be the same
but i will make you happy
Father for i have sinned in your name.

My devotion gives the black wings
A new shine i cannot box you anymore
You will hammer out
clotho’s mistake—My beautiful
mistake.
fray narte Jan 2020
i am no longer a girl;
my body has played host
to the fourth of the Fates,
and this is the twilight, unfolding.

the midday has seen clotho, spinning the thread
has seen lachesis measuring it, atropos cutting it.

and here i sit, a figure in the sunset —
a silhouette of a weaver in tattered dress

my heartbeat, a substandard thread,
a mess in my pockets
getting shorter and shorter
with each wound sewn shut

and yet,
a seagull's flap,
a poke of a stick,
and all these stitches come undone.

a cautious breath,
a loosened thread,
and the sunsets learn a new shade of red.
Pyrrha Dec 2023
If loving you and losing you was in the strings of fate,
Then I don't care what the Moirai say.

As they spin
As they weave
As they cut–


The planets are aligned,
Somewhere in my mind.

Nonetheless they’ve severed our strings,
Such an awful thing to do–
For what is a poet with no muse?


I often wonder if they have fingers like nymphs–
Or talons like gorgons.

Do Clotho’s delicate, slender fingers glide
Over our sorrows, our joys–
Or do her talons send those shivers down our spines?


Just one moment longer I beg,
Like Orpheus got for Euridyce– I don’t ask for much.

Does Lachesis weep when she hears me,
Like Cassandra for Troy
Knowing all, changing none?


Neither deities nor titans, they answer no prayers,
No love breaks laws the universe has laid.

Though, does Atropos ever hesitate
To cut those strings
To sever ties and choose who dies?


Who is it who chooses for them I ponder,
If perhaps the fates themselves can’t escape their fates.
The couplets are meant to be italicized, the site refused to italicize properly so I just went with the tercets instead

— The End —