Feminity poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of feminity poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on feminity are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
I have createdA rainbowJust for youFor in my dreamsI see youWhen I’m awakeI imagine youAll becauseOf your exquisiteQualitiesThat is so beautifulAnd lovelyThat helps me throughIn my lonelyExistence here inThis country…
The pulse seems tranquil and still, But they don’t have blood in it filled. Strange, the brain is at bark within. Why this uneasiness seems like an attaching shark? I do sit and endeavour to settle it down, But for
Mental Illness not just a topic of discussion. A subject that many distance themselves from. As if they will suffer severe repercussion. The true reality of this illness is cast down. Ignored and simply dismissed. Biological and spiritually. This illness
I travelled back a mile by the canal in sunshine, sky so fresh that early hour was nourishment and I gulped-down the air. Those path-side plants are nearly at their full, I watched a bristling, bulbous stem unroll, blue dragonflies,
After the rain wets the ground, a damp, naked silence, floats in air on the wrong side of the moon. A strange mist, like a post coital whiff envelops you savagely. The testa breaks. A forest heaves beneath your nails.
Nobody ever saw her break She carried around an awful ache A smile that could warm your heart Slowly frowned at she fell apart Nobody knew of her silent struggles Not one person knew of her troubles Her inner demons
A plug dismantles a temper unveils a pink bullet-hole on the fore-head. A butterfly flutters and then sits on the lips, offers an apology for the smile. The water blooms in eyes cascading to chest for measuring the mounts. Who
There’s a mask that everyone wears To shield who they really are inside To hide ugly scars and bury fear So none will know of his inner strife There was a nervous man He had a violently palpitating heart It
Eyes do speak. It’s funny how they perceive the things around. The broken conversations heard by fully complexed ears. I believed that I’d be ok. The conclusions that eyes draw. Never making sense of the words heard. I believed it
Heavens descended Agni, Varuna, Indra & Yama¹ lined up To witness a Swayamvar² Of a heart with a soul, A reunion on earth & a Meghdutam³ With a cloud as pen The universe as canvas Was asked to describe The
Who am I? Sometimes I wonder… I am a disciple…stumbling along an old, rocky path An angel? No…just a woman… Straining just to touch the hem of His garment Longing to be closer, ever closer to Him I am a
On this so cold night Laying alone I ponder How warm the bed would have felt With you having in here. Your legs wrapped around mine Spooning, curves settled so perfect That’s why it’s said “made magically for each other”.
Fire smoulders and branches crackle which smears the ground blackish grey ashen Feed these flames that rise and dance around naked orange red and blue with passion The ascension lifts hearts to warm our blood to create a vital archaic
(Written for my little brother Eric, Feb. ’85, when I was 14). As he cuddled softly in my arms like a helpless young fawn, I could feel his heart race with fear and see his fists clench with every boom
There was a strange carnality in flowing robes, a waiver penetrates in incorporeal ellipse. I must speak of him in his absence combating for the actuality. Knowing lust manifolds, yields a prayer, primrose opens the eyes. The knowledge liberating –
All leaders are enough capable To remove problems analyzable; They set few goals achievable, And strive to solve snags tangle. Ready to meet challenges triple Without any hurry or hustle. Calm in disasters are as a temple Faith and hope
It’s nice in here, warm and cozy And dark and oh-so-quiet Except for the strange ‘thump-thump’ And the occasional words of love. I’ve heard mama talking to me Telling me of the world out there She talks about squirrels and
Measure life with eyes all subtleties And find to what length world has changed Since our early childhood; our celestial bonhomie. Happy days dwelt with us in continuity We raced to all pleasure field under careful watch of parents And
In early spring, The Indian Paintbrush, A lush plant, Begins appearing in every color of the spectrum. Continually blooming throughout the summer, Across Dad’s trap-line. The spectrum of colors, Indicate the different minerals that are found in the soil. The
Ghost and my girlfriend: She came closer and closer Just a millimetre away Her lips were from mine And the moment Was greater than fine I wanted to tell her my feelings Especially from last few days To disclose the
Watching as half my existence has passed And all that is left are memories, that on my brain have been cast The rest of my age will find strength in autumn and winter remembrance As I wander through the freshness
An individual can create a movement, so large and monumentous, it swallows deprivation whole. Fulfil missions from God, for family friends, and even foes. Angel of darkness, do not misinterpret though. Not crazy or lazy , step back and listen
She had changed colours to please her eyes her soft sight covers the earth , her fond beauty dumbs the earth , commenting ‘silence ‘. She was green back in her old days , had changed, green to golden .
Absorbed in the eyes of a magnificent soaring Bald Eagle; a pristine alpine amphitheater, high in the Cascade Mountain Range. As early fall unfolds. This astute amphitheater fully clothed in the brisk autumn colors: Scarlet red, bright hues of orange,
Motherhood — Is it a blessing or a hidden challenge Or both of them finely rolled Into a status unique and strange ? A privilege granted by the supreme Maker To all female beings here on the earth Deeming them
Give me something to chew, a savage numbness is engulfing my brain. Water level was rising and the time of rented happiness was over. Pheromones were showing true likeness in hate, violence was brilliantly portrayed and death was hideous. Attachment
Inspiration, a nest of love, robust, tough, and polite, the queen of queens, and its only right, yet I feel wrong, for in this life, I was not able to treat you right, all the diamonds in this earth do
Night after night, watching your face shimmer with tears, night after night, watching your face burrow into my breast, I have wondered, my love, full of misery and mystery, I have wondered. This being, so incredibly sad, this being, so
The dead moon’s framed portrait Hung from the prussian blue sky, Staring downwards into the Lighted lonely city – With a well practiced air Of indifference. The pond with green waters And a cemented bank, Where local kids wash their
Love like dewdrops, Awakens and glistens, Dances in my heart, Like flowers of spring. I behold you everywhere, In my heart’s deepest desire. With a song in my soul, In the quicksand of times. A soothing balm of life, The moonbeams