"specula" poems
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
The witch whirled around her golden cauldron,
Her shoes clacking on the stone floor as she
Chants in a language that's now forgotten;
Perhaps chanting to awake the ancients.
Her voice resonates in tune with the smoke,
As it rises in ever growing wisps
Like the clouds that shift to veil the moon’s face.
“Fumus! specula!” she cries as she stirs,
She’d lift the wooden spoon from the bubbling
Cauldron only to find that it’s melted.
Still, she'd flick through her potions book, searching
As her eyes would flash verdant as glow-worms.
Against the starry night sky—Constellations
In their own right against the cave’s night sky.
She’d cast madly in a fervor as bolts
Of lightning illuminate the night sky.
Knowing what’s good for them, the ravens scatter,
Their shadowy bodies blocking the moon.
Still, the witch would brew, throwing anything,
And everything into that dreaded void.
Outside, the cicadas would hum madly,
While the moon would drip silver in the brew.
Madness is found behind her vibrant eyes,
As she stoppers the potions into vials.
Lining her shelves with the odd colored vials,
She waits, hoping for someone to visit;
Waiting for someone to knock at her door.
And yet, after all this, no one will come,
So the witch sits drinking her tea, alone,
Watching as the ravens fly though the night
Preparing to brew another potion
That will never be shared.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 12:20 PM UTC