More Original Poetry

All poems are the original work of Sheria Reid. Please do not copy without permission. Copyrighted.

A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time,

we played under hot yellow sun,

princess and lady-in-waiting,

searching far horizons for knights in armor,

knights with stalwart hearts and sturdy swords

to rescue princesses from vengeful dragons.

We moved on

from knights to princes

with surreal kisses to waken princesses from dreamless sleep

or with glass slippers to fit the feet,

and rescue princesses from dreaded drudgery.

And still we moved on,

to grown-up lovers

with warm, wet kisses amid tangled sheets,

whispered lies to soothe the heart and soul.

We moved on to where the magic goes

and a toad

no matter how sweetly kissed,

still remains a toad.

Confessions in a Dark Cafe 

I knew a brown-eyed man like you,

who liked dark cafes and slow moody blues.

When he entered rooms,

women fanned and sighed his name,

but his hands were mine alone.

I knew every line in his brow,

the curve of his mouth

suited my curves,

his tongue traced sweet heat along my spine.

We danced the rumba,

sometimes tangoed,

always his rhythm matched mine.

I tell you this,

but please know,

the fire in my eyes tonight burns for you alone.

It’s just that the light is dim in this café,

and for a moment,

your eyes were brown.

Eve’s Tale

“Eat,” he said.

“No,” I said

and listed the reasons why it was no go.

“Eat,” he said.

I sighed,

and explained the logic of self-denial.

But he persisted,

talking of wisdom and forbidden delight.

“Eat,” he said,

flicking my ear with his tongue,

whispering to me of my own desire.

Passions arose

as he licked the sweat from my neck.

“Eat,” he said,

and I intended merely to taste,

to soothe the fire that consumed my lips,

but the juice was cool,

and the flesh so sweet.

“Good,” he said

slithering away, leaving me to lick the pulp

from my hand.

“Eat,” I say.

His lips say no,

but I see his desire rising.

Soon. Soon.

Pandora Speaks

Do not think ill of me; I did not mean

To surrender to curiosity.

You see, the box with its locks sang to me,

A song most disturbing and yet serene.

At night it broke into my sleep.  In dreams

I danced, a captive to its wild melody.

In the day it sang tunes in a pagan key—

Notes sharp and clear and so piercingly keen!

In vain I sought to inundate myself

With chores, mundane tasks, women’s work and such,

Ironing and folding and placing on the shelf…

But the box it sang, wailed for my touch.

I will not lie, no serpent shared my sin;

Temptation called and I simply gave in.

Grey

Abandoned houses are always grey.

Brick, wood, stone,

doesn’t matter.

Grey wraps around them, down to the foundations,

masking remnants of childish laughter,

obscuring murmured conversations

over coffee or tea.

Grey washes away passion,

wipes up all evidence of desire.

Memories vanished,

dreams extinguished,

all signs that anyone loved there,

gone.

On Women and Nature 

It is the nature of women to be submissive.

I have this on good authority.

The fairer sex places the rope about the neck

and willingly bears the burdens the flesh is heir to,

all the while with faces wreathed in pleasant smiles…

for it is the nature of women to be submissive.

I have this on historical authority.

The weaker sex yields to lord and master

and so willingly with hearts a flutter

bear the burdens the flesh is heir to,

like Leda with wide open arms

displaying tempting, womanly charms—

for it is the nature of women to be submissive.

And if by chance nature fails,

If there is a slight mistake—

Joan rising out of the ash in full armored dress, or

Judith with a well-tempered blade relieving Holofernes of his head,

it can be said with great authority

that these are minor aberrations,

deviations in the psyche,

no doubt owed to raging hormones…

For it is the nature of women,

            it is the function of women;

            it is the purpose of women

            to be submissive.

 Comments are welcomed and appreciated.