"poetess" poems
African woman
Mother of civilization.
Oh beautiful woman,
Thou are beyond description.
African woman
Queen of the people of Mamba.
Jambo to all those in heaven
Bless you too my dear mama.
African woman
Royal Nubian Queen.
The backbone of her man
You'll do anything to help him win.
Single Black woman
Made of broken pieces
You're the breadwinner,Superwoman.
You're the symbol of strength in all places.
African woman
Daughter of Eve's.
Thou are God's true specimen,
And the apple of his eyes.
Black woman
Daughter of Africa.
Blueprint of a **** woman,
Dark hue of coffee arabica.
African woman
Mother of humanity
Chieftess of ancient Nyngoman,
Mama Africa's bounty.
African woman
My Mandingo bride.
First woman of Africa's Eden
Center of God's black tribe.
Nigerian woman
My Yoruba Queen.
Envied by the women of Oman,
Cafe ou lair, cream of Africa's cream!
Warrior woman,
Queen of Wakanda.
Come and flip your wand,
Find the soul of Sarafina.
Curvy woman
In your womb lies Africa's future.
My Lormah woman
Oyobuays marvels at your structure.
Beautiful woman,
Perpetual envy of the silicon woman.
Pride of the Black man,
The essence of a real woman.
Indigo Woman
Lillies of the African plains.
Thou are Eve of the African Eden,
Best of the portraits that nature paints.
Voluptous woman,
Full, thick natural lips.
Real assert of the Black woman,
Nature gets aroused by your hips.
Ellen Sirleaf, today's woman,
Africa's first female president.
A Liberian woman,
Loved and revered wherever she went.
Smile ,Gambian woman,
You're daughter of Sarakunda.
Roots of the Black American woman,
Captives of the kanda Bolinga.
South African woman
Mariam Makeba
Sang for freedom and fought like a man
You were truly Soweto's finest Deva.
Dark ebony woman,
You are red, yellow and green.
Hanmatan wind stops at your command,
Born to slay and be seen.
African woman
Thou are the only reason
God put Adam in a coma.
Your perpetual beauty transcends time and Season.
African woman,
Under your cleavage, the Nile flows
And between your fingers, golden threads are woven,
You are the reason Beyonce glows.
Harriet Tubman, brave woman
Smuggled slaves underground.
She was a freed Black slave woman,
Who avowed to leave no soul behind.
Creative woman
Maya Angelou, gifted poetess.
Famous writer and a Black woman
Will be remembered for her poetic prowess.
Native African woman,
Africa's limestone and cement.
A mother, a wife, virtuous woman,
Lioness and the spine of the continent.
Liberian woman
Roots of my poetry, you gave me life
You are every woman.
Your edges are sharper than the Sumarais knife.
#IvanBrookspoetry©
13/8/2018
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.
she is sweet but sad. super sad.
a good poet who wants to guide me.
but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.
seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,
and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.
"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"
my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.
my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,
how I do not want
to be skinned alive.
for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.
and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley
***no more con the my mind into letting my body
be-fused.^***
that ain't me babe.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
This is past due like the rent paid on the thirteenth
Late better than never-- and I got this here forever
Flow like rain during any kinda weather
Keep this here close to my heart
And when the block comes, I don’t know where to start
Beat-beat Thump-thump
I'll just let the words flow from my heart
But you ain’t feelin me’-- You ain’t hearin’ Queen
So I got to bring you back to the forefront with my so⋅lil⋅o⋅quy
I remind you of all the things that had you fearin’ me
This Army of One, brighter than that star He created we call Sun
Under its blaze, us two can become one
(lets make our Son under His)
While I lay with fragmented words.... spoken
Promises I made to myself remain unbroken
And my gift is as natural as the slender ducts of my abdomen called fallopian
I am Woman
The prototype made perfect and pure
Whose prose is as tight as my kegels allow my femininity to be
Wrath your ******** may not be able to endure
Thought you knew a good Woman and tight ***** make you surrender on your knees
And dream dreams about your seed taking root in this royal vessel
I am Mother Earth
And this is my Gift—my Gyft
I am Myself and such a present I present to thee
For I AM Queen Poetree
So when I seem silent
When you think you hear nothing but your heart beat
Nothing but the cool air enraptured in the breeze
I am the Life that flows from you
I am the Wind rustling the trees leaves
I am the fragrance left in the air you interpret as another
I am the overwhelming sensation made between two lovers under duvet covers
I am the softness of lips and the sensation made by the flick of a passionate tongue
I am that empty space you try to fill with another one
So when you think you hear nothing
When you think you’re all alone
I am every word, every adlib of your favorite song
Every stroke every morning when you brush your hair
I am your deep breath because, baby, I am your air
I am everything pleasurable—every pleasure experienced since your creation
And it all stems from the balance of my concentration during this poetic intrapersonal conversation
I am everything virtuous
I am the eye of the storm
I am your hope, your future
I am the pages of your favorite novel whose cover is worn
I am air, I am sky
I am the clouds, and the Sun’s heat
But most importantly, to my core
I am Queen Poetess B…
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
What poem will you wear, when first we meet?
How will I recognition-you,
when you transverse my land?
Unknown our faces, our voices,
Only silent words electronic exchanged
Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea?
Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state,
Your chest bear a witness-sign?
The Arrivals Board flashes:
une poétesse est arrivé
eine Dichterin ist angekomme
a poetess has arrived
una poetisa ha llegado
Will there be a haiku in your hair,
A limerick exposed by raucous grin,
Or just ten words
allotted for your entire visit?
**Desperate to locate
Urgent to sensate
Matters I take
Into two cupped hands,
On the shoeshine stand
Climb and recite-shout**
Know me by my words,
Know me by the lilt lyrical
Of my American accented,
Canadian Tongue of my mother
Know me by my words,
Carved by time on my forehead,
Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul,
Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming
Poems are the thorns in my palms,
See me crucified, bleeding stanzas
Upon my shoeshine stand cross
Recitation resuscitation welcoming:
Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria
But if this should fail your attention to secure,
Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming,
Look for the crowd gathered round,
A man of moderate height, in a tall hat,
Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful
Reciting the Gettysburg Address
Either way,
Should be easy peasy to find me,
Grab your bag, off to short-term parking
This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets
Arriving poetess from a foreign land
Is there any other way?
------------------------------
Postscipt
**Alas, five years on and I know in my heart
that you are not coming...**
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing
It must have the same effects as walking on the moon
It must trend faster than a meteor as it hurdles through cyber space
I refused to love any man, who dislikes my poetry,
My man must support my passion ..
not only the warmth of my body
but the passion within this poetess, my secretive mind he must be able to balance:
Without wondering why a woman like me is so naturally secretive
I am always embracing the dark side of my creativity
Dropping little hints here and there throughout the years,
Sidney J. Harris once said something that left pondering thoughts
He said “When he hears somebody sighs,
'Life is hard,' he’s always tempted to ask them, 'Compared to what?'
I would simply say dog-gone it: Compared to struggling poets whose tries to make a living as a writer
While an upcoming rapper like Chief Keef
signed a several-million dollar deal
with offending lyrics in today music industries:
I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing,
With lots of intense emotion bursting through each line:
Because a poem can’t exist without a poet's multiple voices
and most of all his divine missions
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
the comforting warmth of the morning sun,
like I had known it from the days of yesteryears.
the familiar scent of dew-kissed grass,
a fresh aroma that brought forth the tide of gratitude laden tears.
I had foreseen the day to be just as before...
I had planned to play out my morning as I had rehearsed.
but your message had foiled all that I thought I knew...
it brought about the smile that eternity had kept pursed.
your words were laced with the flowers of spring...
they set at ease the unapparent apprehension I've always kept.
they spoke of compliments meant only for the worthiest quills,
I've read them in disbelief as I think not of myself, an adept...
truly you are one that's generous and so very kind.
for your words flew off the page and had struck home;
bearing the stoutest of hope and most selfless of wishes.
they had provided direction in these vague circles that I roam.
so now allow me to thank you dear poetess...
for drawing the sunrise clear into my view.
I shall revel and bask in its delightful rays...
because your words had painted today in the brightest hue...
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
Is a poet still a poet
If they do not write?
A journal gathering dust,
But a yearning to write.
Am I still a poet
Without my inner light?
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
how many generations can
lay with you in your bed?
Matriarch Mama,
honorific due you,
title earned, not learned,
and now a teaching PhDs of
Matriachal Science
let us have tea,
a tea party in you garden,
and the granddaughters
dressed in their church finest,
running noisy but that's ok,
mass is over, and the party
is now a backyard affair
me, a recorder,
standing in the corner,
invisible observing,
leaning on that old banyan tree,
smile playing on
my eyes,
counting
cousins daughters sisters,
and best of the best,
grand babies wilding in their Sunday finery,
even seeing
invisible fathers standing beside me,
but espy only one
Matriarch Mama,
sallying forth,
gunslinger of poetry,
nobody messes with Sally,
she is the brood defender,
poetess not
of the day
she is a
generational inscriber,
an author of a
gene pool of life's best,
her existence,
from heaven, sent a manna,
to feed-across-time
just one family,
an ordinary,
if such there was,
Matriarch Mama
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
Ek sehmi si khwaish dabi rehti hai palko talle,
ek nayaab pankho ki talaash hai shayad usse..
Aksar khamoshi Ke lafzon Mei pucha karti hai,
"Aye dost, itna bata, kis gunaah Ka illzam hai mujhpe?"
---------
A beautiful English translation by fellow poetess Sukeerti:
A scared little wish stays embedded underneath the lashes of my eyes;
Perhaps, it's searching for a pair of flight feathers- rare and precious,
As often, in lyrics enclosed by quietude, this wish questions me-
"O friend of mine, please let me know, what sin am I a convict of?"
PS: Do check out her work; they seldom fail to touch you deep down.
Her profile: http://hellopoetry.com/sukeerti/
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
I love a programmer
He is always there making codes
On different ways in order
To show how much he loves you so
There are times when he would
Just throw some complex hints at me
With utmost best I could
Try to find the meaning and see
See that maybe I'm right
With the theory that I have made
And maybe, just maybe
My words rhyme with what's in your head
But sometimes I want to
Just let go and then erase it
Sometimes I want you to
Be brave enough to just admit
That I'm something to you
Not a computer you play with
That your feelings are true
There's no condition that you need
I am afraid to feel
The tragic end of a sonnet
Where two lovers for real
Are mere strangers who'll never ever meet
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 6:17 AM UTC
•
I've known an extraordinary lady,
'Cause I wrote poems in HP,
Well, I thank HP a lot,
That I have the opportunity,
To know a person like her!
And found out we have the same nationality,
Not only that, she write these exceptional and amazing poems!!
I was overwhelmed!
And blithesomely chatted her,
She replied,
We have a good talk,
I was so broken into splinters those times,
I could hardly remember the throe,
But her words glare brightest in my heart,
She inspired me,
With the hurting truth,
Well, I knew truth hurts,
Then we always chat,
We exchange phone numbers,
And texting even not in HP,
'Cause I knew she is so much busy,
But I'm still texting her telling,
"I'M SO GLAD TO BE Your FRIEND."
And that,
"Ohayou Gozaimasu, konnichiwa & konnbanwa"
"Kiotsukete kudasai Roan-chan!"
Oh yeah!
We love Japan, and their language,
That made me love her even more.
(Love as friend okay?!)
We exchange google+ & fb,
And saw her angelic face,
Scattering over her timeline,
I saw a beautiful soul,
Dancing and gleaming inside of her,
She's indeed a very good friend,
When I have heartaches and tribulations,
I share her my pain and sorrows,
She's like the sun in the noon time,
Heating me up with her love and care,
But even though I have not met her personally,
I knew for sure that I'm so much blessed,
To know such a golden spirit,
Such rare being in the amidst,
And I do knew,
That God will lead us together,
To spend time personally as friends,
Together with Ma'am Sally,
As what she told me,
"We should have this ~poetess date~ "
How I long for that day!
I really pray to God,
*That He will give you,
The best of the life,*
*Give you good health,
To continue enjoying life to it's fullest,*
*To have many more birthdays to come,
For you to see more,
Of the beauty of God's creation,*
*And to find,
That very right man,
That your heart longs to find,
For quiet elongated time.*
*I pray also,
That you will remain,
To be light to all people,*
*And be that very good friend,
Everyone longs for,*
In this beautiful day,
I pray you will be the happiest person alive,
And celebrate this marvelous day,
God had given you.
"Maligayang Kaarawan Aking Kaibigan."
© Earl Jane
♥ E.J.C.S.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
**Exquisitely flawed in all the right places
Like the keys on the piano that sits abandoned
Your ebony keys complement my ivory so well
But dust collects and you never notice
So I fall away quietly
Retreating like a soldier
Who knows he will not win the inner battle before him**
*Quietly quietly
Silently go
Where no one sees you
Nobody knows
I built up my fortress
A place full of pride
Full of hatred
Your pent up lies
A promise broken
A heart is torn
I'll stay in my castle
Where my poetess is reborn*
***Quietly quietly
Silently go
Where all the others fear to tread
I will lye down this weary head
Exquisitely flawed in all the right places
You are the man with many faces***
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
A soul, a survivor of an emptied dark pit
We calleth the planet-globe; Certes a western
Mountain glow. She giveth all, even to those
Who cometh with hatred, she's outspoken,
Unbroken, willing and thus patient. A prophetess
Of the clandestine; her poetry as wine to relax
Men and boy's, girl's who knoweth none joy- she
Bringeth the finest of lingo. Even with her own
Worries, she let's thine head, with her comforting
Word's- relax upon thine pillow. She's verily a
Poetess of the native land's meadow's. O' soul-
Survivor, with an open heart and kindred-spirit.
Only if everyone couldst seeith thy light, they'd
All come near it.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Birthday dedicated to soul-survivor....
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
I did not intend this,
A lust for soft hands, lips like rose.
I woke with it already in my veins.
But my love is not my own; they stole my reigns.
After taking what was left of my voice.
It isn't my choice.
Slowly the fear of myself becomes too strong.
Lost in the rhythm of this sapphic song.
I was bred from the blood of a great poetess,
A Greek Goddess who loved both Zeus and Aphrodite ferocious.
Unashamed of the lust in her hips,
Born to a world who saw no difference.
Daughter of Sappho why do you cry?
Please don't lose your life to a lie.
You can do nothing wrong in love,
Pray that Aphrodite is generous from above.
May she show you that true love transcends gender.
Dare Cupid to prove the existence of such splendor.
May the Goddess in your bones,
Find refuge on the beaches of ******
The people who disagree fear your unknown,
They cannot comprehend the grandiose.
When they demonize you,
Remind them Lucifer was once angel too.
Be too large in love for them,
Do not succumb to their strange,
Better yet prove that you will not be condemned.
Be the catalyst of change.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
I wish that I
could fall in love
with a female,
for she would make
a far better muse than
the gruff sailors and musicians
and drunks and men
in general that I am
inclined to crave.
to write about
a painted pout or
skin that brushes against
your own like nylon,
sunlight shining through
the window onto a Cupid's bow
and dancing down to
a delicate clavicle, or
black eyelashes that bat
and blink remorse
into your cavernous heart,
to muse over such aesthetic
delights, would be
ecstasy for my poetess heart.
I linger, staring, at beautiful
women, androgynous women,
delicate, feline women,
stringing words
together in my head
over long legs and
hair that flutters like silk,
and they think I'm crazy
or in love with them.
well, maybe I am crazy,
but I crawl into bed each night
with my snarling, gleaming,
mahogany gentleman,
and I love him madly,
my rugged muse.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
*Writing
has set
me free.
It is
something
nobody
can ever
take away
from me.*
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 9:07 PM UTC
Them: So you're a lover, a fighter, a rebel, a matyr, an activist, and a poetess. May we ask who inspired you?
Me: Tupac.
Them: Tupac who?
Me: The greatest **** I ever knew.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
Dear Spanish breeze,
You rolled up my inspirational sleeves.
You gave me a glorious sight and placed me in an inventive light.
I call you a thief in the night for robbing words out of my mouth.
You guide my fingertips and the lips of my pen
by kisses of daydreams and endless ideas.
I am a home where the sweetest poems abide in.
Ready to come out and imprint a thousand pages.
What a delight to travel through poetic time of this artistic city.
Dear Spanish sun,
You burned my lack of poetic desire.
You colored my inventiveness like you darkened my skin.
I admire the way you have inspired me to become the poetess i aspire to be.
Your ravishing art undressed the indecisive poetess in me.
So here I stand emotionally naked in front of written truth
ready to loose myself in your Catalan atmosphere.
"Rest your ears darling and let your eyes whisper poetic visuals," you say.
And i close my eyes. I travel through this dream till forever ends.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
String pickers,
violinists
Poets
Bad Boys
The lot of you
We fall in Love
with you
a thousand times a day
We listen to your songs
poems
Voices,
over and over
Common thread in crystals
cloud bursts of feeling
that you each sharpen
daily
You
Bad Boys Of Poetry
You
cut we
black butterflies
and
dark diamond
poetesses
daily,
hourly
We butterfly bats
dance,
sing
write!
Yet,
you
Bad Boys Of Poetry
Still
Lie, there in
to your ownselves,
and say
"No one loves me,
I'm alone
Forgotten"
Well,
No.
We each see
as we wish
Pluck your strings!
Sing your songs!
But know,
you're LOVED
A thousand times a day
By black butterflies
and dark diamonds
Poetesses
~only a poetess
A
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
Silent writer shifts poetic,
she, whom critics name neurotic;
despite all, she stays ecstatic
trifling shy, a bit exotic.
Watch her pen on paper flutter,
words pour out in a cascade;
not a word does her mouth mutter,
living a mute masquerade.
Streams of passion does she write,
guided by the Moon serene;
recording words by candlelight,
in life a hermit, in truth a queen.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC
When a published poet dies,
A shooting star falls.
The universe cries
And rainbows hugs waterfalls.
When an old poet dies,
A new poet is born.
Nature lights up a million fireflies,
And a ship gives a tot on its horn.
When a young poet dies,
A Crack appears in a crystal ball.
A Fountain pen dries,
And a sad poem appears on a wall.
When an old poetess dies,
For a while the wind will cease.
Petals will fall from Lillies,
And disappear without a trace.
When a great poetess dies,
Fallen poets observe silence.
The men adorn black bow ties,
And the ladies dress in elegance.
When any poet dies,
The world loses a bright mind.
Shakespeare appears across the skies,
Waving to those of us left behind.
When a poor poet dies,
Nothing at all happens.
The world goes about its duties
He goes on to rest with other legends.
#IvanBrooksPoetry
29/7/2018
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
Someone once asked me,
“What did you do
to become a poetess?”
I said,"nothing.
I only broke the dam of emotions
I had built over the years.
The flood of emotions
themselves turned
into poems
and I became
a poetess."
(I have my doubts)
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 7:22 AM UTC
#
*She makes love to him with words
spilling ink of passion on paper.
She creates the sensual mood
with each stroke of her pen
splattered on the sheets.
She caresses his flesh
in every love letter.
She kisses up and down his
length in sentences and prose.
She tastes all his masculine scent
without ever speaking a word.
She bites his lip and tilts her
hips in between the lines.
She paints a picture that
makes him hard for his
release and it only
took her mind.*
#
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
If only
Someone senses
Unsaid
Unseen
Either ***** is a mad
Or a poet(Poetess)
Or could be the both
A test
Is enough
Pour some liquid in a glass
Ask, what do you see?
I don’t know what
Mad replies
Poet(Poetess) never makes
Let you down
When ***** is full,
***** sees half empty
When ***** is thirsty,
***** sees half filled
Only if
You are sensible enough
You will know
When to add
More liquid
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC