"matronly" poems
How funny is it
That to be blonde
May
Mean a myriad of things
One who is blonde is
Demure
Pure
Alluring
Matronly
Dull
But never boring
Blonde is thought to be a mark of perfection
Strong Nordo-centricism
Stronger white supremacy
Are there not a brunette with the same attributes
Are there not matronly persons with red hair
Or black
Or pink
Or no hair at all
Why does such arbitration continually define us
Mere colors shape who we are
Far more
Than a more fair method
Talent
Devotion
Piety
Character
Who decided this
How do we fix it
Do we
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
//
if a woman
drops her clothing
and shows what is
too precious to
be shown even on
film,
she has her miranda rights,
her indecent exposure trials
and ever dollar used to bail her
out of a cold cell were they offered
her a hospital gown
but she also has the
eyes that follow her up
the street, asking, begging
to touch
and if that woman says no,
or says nothing
than the woman still has
control of what is done
to her body,
control of every hand that tries to
pry away her god-given
right to be safe in her own skin
//
if a girl decides to
wear a short shirt,
or fishnet tights,
or bright lipstick
that costs anywhere from ninety-nine cents
to ninety dollars,
and she applies it with a heavy hand,
like her mascara and eyeshadow,
then she is still
human, she is still
a valid human being
who does not deserve
your time and voice
to call her a ****
or say something along
the lines of
don't go out looking like that
*or you'll get *****
but **** is never,
ever, ever
the fault of the victim
//
if a woman
or girl
decides to cover her hair,
to abide by her
religion, the religion that
held the hands of every woman
in her family,
from sister to great-great-great-great-great
grandmother
she is not a threat
to our country
she is a member of our society,
a valuable and beautiful one, at that
who's culture can guide us
to be even kinder
in the name of god
and if a woman
or girl
decides to long sleeves
and a high-necked top
with a long skirt
alongside her hijab,
she is not matronly,
she is modest,
and modest is as beautiful
as a gucci crop-top
or a pair of sky-high louboutins
//
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
*there were men
who were there for us,
who fought for us,
and then now,
there is a man who will fight
us as we march,
so we need to be strong
and support each other,
remember the golden rule,
and know each of our gods
would want this for
our world*
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
On your shoulders, slender waisted maiden,
you carried the burdens of this earth: like
Atlas of the old, you of Amazonian strength;
Yet today you sink, weighed down by
the vanishing vestige of shadows aflicker.
Shadows that consume all, engulfing nights,
harbingers dark of conflagrations rise.
Disbelief is our creed. But enough we believe
to vote them to power, our leaders we so love.
Yet in the hour of decision, we must believe
in their indisputable dishonesty.
Yes, aliens are around, Area 51 is for real,
late night appearances on Larry King live?
For the select few, sure, for a select price.
Osama did not die. In fact, exist, he never did.
Flags felled of the towers twin ? False, them false!
How belief, when Iraqs can happen?
Whither the weapons of mass delusion?
Conspiracy. In bloodlines is our interest
but not in the man who gave that blood for us.
Alas those to preach that love vested,
too are in gossip and scandal invested.
Fickle is our love, the mistletoe occupies now
the sacred space of the matronly banyan, and
the owl upside down, for the dove beloved old
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
Strange magnificent magnetism
nominates nomenclatures managing to nimbly
grasp their gamy mouse.
Nannies nibble, notoriously naive,
masking their matronly magics.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Io Io
Pan Pan
Wreathed in flowers,
feet wreathed in fire,
eyes twinkle dark,
shining from the lyre
Io Pan
Io Pan Pan
Sun burning red
and pregnant,
possibility, paradox
Io Pan Pan
Io Pan
Sun giving life,
father gives the Word,
He taketh away
just as He giveth
and He giveth
and maketh the grass
green
Io Io Pan
Io Pan Pan
He gives the fire,
He taketh it away
Io Pan
Pan Pan Io
From over the sea
the stars blinking
with rapidity
Io Pan
Io Pan Pan
Lust in the rivers,
hate in the mountains,
the hills are sighing,
the Nymphs are naked
Io Pan
The moon, mother,
matronly marvel
give us the sight
true sight to see
with shining gaze
perfume flowers
in ***** ****** daze
Io Pan
Io Pan Pan
Pan
The marble thigh,
the glass eye,
bathed in blood
on bridal bed of
burning
Io Pan
Pan Pan
Io Pan Pan
Envy the golden python,
throw thyself
towards the golden dawn
bathed in the flowers
of perfumed fawn
Io Pan
Io Pan Pan
Thrusting sword into ferns
of folding, the damp, the wicked
the opened eye
the one hand clapping
Pan
Pan Pan
Io
Reside in the grasp
of the vermillion snake
the vermin moving
in meadows
thorny meadows
lie silent in silver shadows
Io Io Pan
Flowers on the gypsy rod,
fleshy gate of God
bleeding and burning
Io Pan
Io Pan Pan
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Society, the nectarous drenched **** of gregarious giving.
Or so we think..
One must be diligent to not consume to the point of overweening upon her intoxicating milk.
"You can be anything" she coos delicately stroking your forehead.
My bleary scruffed state prevents me from feeling her venomous *****
I am rendered limp set agog by the hypnagogic melody of society.
Then there is you...
Your Wild renegade eyes pry me from my cemented prison.
Your Voltaic energy seeped in the poetry that coats my marrow and enamel, the substance of my soul.
Such beauty estranged from society? How can that be?
Was this matronly epicenter all farce and rigamarole?
I clamor in search for those eyes to appease my pain.
I search in vain..
until I face the mirror.
Those eyes belong to me, the remedy to society is the awakening of yourself, the claiming of your poetry.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
My model is a comely lass whose husband has commissioned me.
Her cheeks are flushed with natural blush, her half smile not quite matronly.
This dress is low cut to reveal the rise and falling of her *******
Lisa has sat for me before (which allows some familiarity.)
This portrait will adorn her home and celebrates her second child.
I could suggest some jest of mine was the cause that made her smile,
but my medium is the truth and rank deceit is not my style.
My brushstrokes capture the last of her youth;
A half smile to intrigue mankind.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
As the bite of early frost
makes the fall of foliage
birdsong starts later
plants retreat into ground
Those early mornings
when foxes are barking
carpets of gold and reds
have matronly with cool mists
You will see me there
ankle deep in it's beauty
brushing winters cheek
loving her forever more
The moon is full
and at midnight
she calls me
to the woodland
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Charlie crumpled up the script
that his mother left him as a note on the banister;
an ode to matronly passive-aggression
scrawled in haphazard cursive
on the back of a Meijer receipt when she was drunk.
While conducting a routine bedroom sweep
for any arbitrary evidence
to convict her son, yet again,
as the eternal family scapegoat,
Marilyn was far from pleased
to find his final disregard
of her bankrupt maternal instinct
clouded by inherited alcoholism
wadded up in his wastebasket.
Jaded by plot conventions, dodging foreshadow,
we scrapped our narratives and hopped in his car.
Untethered by destination, we drove through the rain
in the last hours to waste of a Sunday night.
Stopped at an intersection in an unfamiliar town,
he turned to me with an expectant smile:
“Where to now?”
With no surrounding traffic to rush our decision,
I glanced in both directions.
“Let’s turn left.”
“Where’s that lead?”
I squinted in the dark.
“Wherever the hell we’re going.”
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
Hello world,
I like to imagine I could encapsulate you in my palm so my dewy lips could whisper you a secret and convey my twittering hearts contents, the message would succinctly read: "Well world you prolific matronly majesty you, I must confess I don't give a ****
Now let me clarify, by saying this I mean I have accepted the temporary condition of this life.
I sling shot through your streets and meadows in an endless gambit of emotion. All I can hope for is to be as open as your halcyon skies allowing things to come and go and connecting with the inhabitants below with every ounce of sinew that my body can produce for our fickly allotted moments.
All we have is each other giving a **** doesn't bring us any closer, connection is found when you release your idea of self to the ether.
Stop giving a **** and only connect.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
God's gray thumb
Was as heavy as a fistful
Of black steel
On the day he pressed it
Into the earth
And created a crater
And filled it with water.
He looked down at His creation
Then looked back up
At the Firmament and saw
A resemblance in the way
They both reflected that kind
Matronly face, bearded, wrinkled
Full of hope.
Then His hands were gray
On the day He blurred
The lines; the trees in
The garden stood solemn
And man and his wife
Looked on them
And got curious.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
I know this b/c I was told by a palace eunich
who bore silent witness for centuries; he & his odalisque
wife who tends the sacred flame & bears prophecies
from the gods when they are not too urgent;
otherwise Prometheus passes them off to Hermes
who then informs Dionysus;
but when Medusa goes below his belt & discovers
she has been secretly married in Vegas or Hades;
her shade honeymooning in ***** which resembled old Beirut in those days; as if twere her own mirror’s image
she shopped for big colorful hats & wore them
to ceremonial parades but not wanting to be caught out
changed her name to Kali going by the moniker
mother of destruction; sounds cool right? Shiva didn’t know
what she got up to when she was out of his sight
but he was too busy wreaking havoc of his own;
her jewelry damningly strange; skulls & bones of men
she'd turned to stone; Medusa cleaned up nice &
calling herself Parvati stepped out w/ Hermes &
went slumming in the Neoplatonic bars along the coast
in her bikini; shocking Shakti tan the envy of every
Mediterranean maiden; every matronly Roman **** talking
about that gorgeous black girl on the beach
whose skin sparkled like night; Medusa laughing
up the sleeve of her striped cover up; is she a Jew,
they asked, or the reincarnation of Cleopatra;
surely the latter, let’s ask the witch of Endor
but Samuel isn’t saying; let’s ask ************ Apollo
but he isn’t saying, spitting in Cyclop’s eye;
Hermes isn’t saying & even Hera is yesterday’s news
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
Pretzel twisted armor of the heart.
Paper is blank, envisioning art.
Mother is here, but missing her matronly part.
I need to empty the waste basket, but what about the cart?
Time to fill it up
with hearts, arts and parts.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
I've concluded that
I dont believe in dyin
sho dont believe
in cryin
at funerals
and lyin
to faces
that cover the truths
of do not care...
cuz she's just here for
repast and gossip
and he's just here for the widows
chicken and green beans and sweet tea or beer
matronly curves and comfort needin tears
I don't beleeeeeeeve
in dyin or cryin or
lyin faces
that don't see that
Grace is
why we're all still here
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
Jackie was.... classy...
Mrs'(s) Bush's were .....matronly,
Bill will be.................
Bill!!!
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC