Woman

She's born of another
and to others;
a mother.
A friend like the rose
gentle and thorny
cultured and principled
free, like the living rivers.
All of her is beauty
inside and out
like how he desires.
She speaks truth
but in words;
moussed with fire
over a tongue that rolls;
whilst his kiss, is acquired.
She can foretell the future
from the feelings in her gut
that may have forgiven
the heavy soils of the past
but not forgotten its smell.
Inquisitive as a shadow, yet,
as mysterious as dark.
A conundrum, sunk in attraction,
as his approach
she meets with decorum
and a hint of seduction
watch you shiver to your liver,
tickle your spine,
like drops of frozen wine
as each eyelash, shuts against another
like; ka-boo--oom! -...
your brain capsizes; whooom!
you hear your heart drum,
as from her words she relays persistence.
Strong,
the power behind his very essence
yet gifted with palms,
that have minimal use of friction,
placed on your skin,
drives you to tumescence.
She makes him look handsome,
his ego, bigger than it is
her sanctum, innermost of which they both lay
site of eternal worship
isn't it amazing how she makes a house a home.
Yet all this she may
and everyday still hold her own,
is as a dove is, to the very core of her bone,
but her path if you cross as you may,
you'll find exactly,
where raging dragons lay.

Fimisola-Samuel

My Kind of woman: A valentine in words

She is graceful like a ballet 

peaceful like the violin 

well spoken like words 

and her beauty is penned in figurative lines

that reveal the artistry 

of her creators stencil.

Her figure and curves 

are calligraphycally exotic,

like a pencil

her smile shades away tears 

that endless years of blue and black 

have collected.

In her eyes is the suns beautiful glare

into which when i stare

my glory is reflected

for like a crystals glare 

the best about me 

she brings out and bears.

Her faith is strong,

elegantly unmatched,

it's the bone that collars my neck.

She touches me 

and heals my wreck.

Her cotton soft hands

laced in pearls of love

strum my efforts with joy

and when I drown in rivers

they wrap around me in faith.

She makes the stars shine brighter

and her smile adds an 'er to the words; 

sexy,

and pretty,

prettier than all other

oh what a cutie.

The skin that sleeves her hands 

simply is; to touch, soothing.

Calming, relaxing,

are the words she airs,

she dispenses them with glory

intelligently sophisticated 

and yet no ounce of pride.

My Joy, My kinda woman

                                                        Woman by window: patent place

whose soulfulness 

moves my body 

to the rhythm of her blues,

whose pulse is the tempo 

to which my heart dances.

My kinda woman 

who has hands

and is willing to use them

and still respect me as her man,

guide and provider.

Whose occupation not need be a chef

but handles her business well enough

it keeps me wanting more

no precautions about concoctions 

just pure satisfaction.

whose warmth not only radiate

from the silky smooth 

and beauty

of her ravishing nakedness,

what unharmed pulchritude

that so delicately keeps me insatiable

it's awing effect

like a butterfly out its cocoon,

but  also from knowing 

I wake beside the grandmother

of my childrens' children

and her infinite beauty

even in they yet unborn.

I know what you're selling 

and I'm very happily buying

you're such a beautiful conundrum

i hear drums sounding immaculate

it's my heart beating

to the tune of your love.

So I'm testing this river with both feet 

walking on flaming coal

to place all my eggs in a basket

at your door,

open your heart 

and let trust be the bridge

between the gaps of our heart

and love the screw

that keeps 'em together...

Love you this valentine and beyond...

Fimisola-Samuel

2/13/2011

Beautiful Weakness

On a bright sunny day
you're the cloud that pours down rain
soaked and heavy,
I continue all the way.
Through the fresh summer days
you're the little pollen grain
that makes me wheeze through another day
the beautiful flower, I need to smell again.
Through the stormy weather
you were the nights darkest hour
but through it all
you sheltered me beneath your umbrella.
In the dark of the night
when in my sleep I'd dream
you're my nightmare
but when i pray, it's to dream you over again.
The days roll by
left only in the pages of memory
some forgotten and some, we'd like to be
but you're a page-so beautifully written
it be impossible to.