PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

She is the princess of countless man ganders,

walking to introduce herself, an exalted presence

perambulating with poise around a mind castle. One

can tell by her incredible beauty, that this woman

would be your own relentless seduction burned

to defeat. Firebrick hair, the empress of its own

combed, lavish kingdom; a thousand brush stokes

more priceless than the finest oil paintings

by Renaissance masters. Stunning tresses waltzing

on her teasing shoulders repetitively hugging

incredible smiles and indulgent, rubicund skin.

Tandem stares by a roomful of cavaliers

were insatiably tense, jitters bundled by first look

at deep chartreuse sparkles from her confident

eyes, a warning to lionhearted knights their King may

be dethroned. A lady so beguile ravishing that she will

never be controlled, as wishful suitors dream

of smelling orchids and eating her luscious oyster,

a thought so fake in comparison to the actual

pearls birthed in her own juices, like those hung

around her supple neck, after spraying in private…

a diminutive mist from her gifted, French perfume.

Her skin, softer than cosseted baby fur on Himalayan

kittens, complete with purr conciliatory cuddles

that are reserved for the opulence of fantasy dreams,

thinking you could be one of her bed me down

suitors, with your sovereign face buried in a fortune

of cleavage; royalty breasts that would have most

men spotting their night shirts if they could see

them outside her maiden gown. Stacks probably more

at home in paradise, suckled by angels kissing them

in a muse, contemplating what most mortals will never

have - a fortuitous chance to be her only lover.

This woman’s body is still the little girl foreplay

driving men mad. A rhapsodized phallic jealousy,

that prays for a peek at the ruffles beneath her silk

and satin dress. Legs long, stretching upwards

to a festooned zenith, one can only imagine sits

on a velvet throne between her thighs. Envision

perversions men ruminate, sneaking off to sniff

seats where she sits or eliminates? Deviant men that

crave badly, as she becomes their perpetual

infatuation, rapture in excess; a fixed allure, cured

only by the cream in the palms of their own hands.

When naked one imagines this Siren becoming

her own Tyche, Goddess of fortune and fate. Loving

like Aphrodite and pleasing like Graces; Aglaja, Thalia,

and Euphrosyne ruling every banquet, ballroom dance,

social engagement and the exuberance of bards -

who elevate her to a work of art. These are runaway

yearnings you cannot physically touch, thoughts

of her become boundless, sedulous with anxiety as you

ponder – what if? Added to your trepidations

and fear, the sheer reality that you may not satisfy

her abysses and she may uncork yet another man.  

Still, this is the paramour moon face of a female

monarch, radiating an aura of precious belladonna,

your thoughts spoon into mesmerizing shapes, inhaling

flowers blooming in her meadow; beads of wetness

surrounding her spring rain orifice, rolling over moans

that spread her imperial extensions, wings far more

delicate than the Pearl Crescent Butterfly, locking one

into nirvana, submerging you in the briny oceans,

surrounding an idyllic island, floating into a rhythmic

thrust that withdraws like the tides, only to ride back

in again; blissful as music sung by doting Dolphins.

Men would gamble life to discharge their milky sperm

collage across her cervix gates. This is the woman

you want to be the mother of your children, your own

mother combined into your life’s mural. Progenies to

remind you that you were once standing at attention

outside her rotisserie doors. Reminiscence that makes

magic touch itself, because when caressing this lady

you also feel caressed, when kissing this lady you feel

kissed, when probing her, you feel probed; yes,

she is beautiful to look at, lovely to behold, because

what you spy is the feminine half of your own soul.