For all of those who enjoy prose poetry, I will be writing in prose, excerpts from a poem called “21rst Century Woman”. I plan to write several excerpts over the next several weeks. I hope you enjoy it.
I have never sought comfort in the arms of a man,
Till later, much later,
As my life had mostly been on course, mostly, except for times of control,
And its loss, concomitantly getting help, not pleading help, but advice,
Because as you know women are such helpless creatures.
The other half, continued coming and going, like the doors of a fancy hotel,
Endlessly circular with a potential to trap
if you don’t get out quickly.
I found him sitting alone, head to toe in black,
Stooped over a drink, alone.
In mourning black, because he had been bitten hard,
By circumstances and advantage, not his own.
He lifted his drink and smiled, I smiled back, because I too was alone.
The crowd was mixed, upwardly seeking, homogeneous and without character,
Mainly because they were CEO’s of small firms
and grey-suited solicitors,
But he wasn’t a solicitor and he was younger than most.
The day was orange, as was the sky and my dress too, at sun set,
The flower in my hair, not real, but wilting nonetheless, in the oppressive heat.
A lovely evening, me standing on a verandah outside, overlooking a prim golf course.
A perfect setting for conversations lacking the appeal of controversy,
Because of this I had drunk too much, but then again, I always drank too much.
I didn’t mind being alone, mostly because I am used to it,
Perhaps he had gotten used to it as well.
So, as twilight descended on a humid evening, in a far away land,
I happened upon the cross roads of laughter and absurdity,
A place called serendipity.
I remembered the meaning of abandon too,
Over smiles without conversation because the music was too loud,
And on that warm, yet wholly uninviting evening,
I remained in the moment, and somehow that moment, was enough.
tarabridgetmoore
21rst Century Woman (Part I-Continued)
Tags: 21rst Century Woman, Author Comments, Dance, Desire, Men, Modern poetry, Mystery, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Relationships, Romance, Soul, Soul Mate, women, Writing
Twilight finally descended,
With darkness coming slowly,
amongst murmuring voices.
Eyes,
retreating now from the veiled
pretense of their quiet disdain.
For he was unlike the other men,
his hands had been weathered,
by the gathering of red earth
under strong fingers.
A life of sun,
and unforgiving winds had fallen upon his brow
and shaped the deeply etched rivulets,
around his unusual face.
For he could make whole again,
Given to him by the power of dreaming,
That, which was forsaken,
in the place that had given him life.
As water might to a seed
which finds life from adversity,
amongst canyons of parched soil.
He was not ashamed of this
and so we danced, under the gleam
of pressing heat and white, flashing lights,
Beads of perspiration lining the fading
tint of my lips.
Hypnotized by the breathless air and
the feel of his hands along the curve of
my hips.
And slowly I am drawn
towards the core of something raw,
Aware of heightened senses,
primal, seductive.
Awakened by something indefinable.
My feet fade into nothingness,
Spiralling downwards,
into the night which falls away to wondrous stars,
Where did they come from so suddenly?
When I awaken I am wilted and without strength,
And I find him there in a halo of light;
Dark eyes peering into mine, inscrutable,
For his arms have encircled me as the halo
of the sun might,
And in those arms for one brief moment,
I catch a glimpse of new beginnings.