The Miracle of a Woman
In all her naked glory
The femininity of perfection,
The definition of a goddess defined,
Birthed from the power of Mother Nature,
Divinity of the divine.
***
The flowing of her precious curves,
Moulding the figure of curvaceous ideology,
Drawn in fantasy, surfing in erotica,
Heavenly made with no apology.
***
Softness hiding the fullness of her strength,
Shimmering deep below the silken surface,
Iron fisted, emotionally charged,
Womanhood in pregnant service.
***
Sinewy definition strokes her bones,
Nurturing the toughness of her destiny,
Raising the next generation within her name,
Pretension without but full of empathy.
***
Cloudburst laughter peels from her lips,
Loving the tenderness of life’s wishes,
Revolving around the systematic delights,
Dancing between the dashes and swishes.
***
Hero’s are birthed from within her womb,
Shouldering the temperament of daily necessities,
The organisational structure of possibilities,
Drawn from the ether of multiple complexities.
***
Purity rife within the daylight hours,
Sunshine and scents of a bouquet of flowers,
Drenching her in the rainbow hues,
Drawing into her strength from multiple powers.
***
On the setting of the sun and darkness avails,
A torrid of emotions typically explode,
Her sensuality famous in the blackest of nights,
Ecstasy her gift on those she chooses to bestow.
***
Made of moonshine and patchwork lace,
Silken to the touch of gracious fingertips,
Tiny pants eclipse the silent hours,
Gasps of pleasure escape her trembling lips.
***
She is honoured with blessings of sheer delight,
Loving in wonder adorned upon this earth,
Showered in beauty and the ultimate perfection,
Shadowed in the wonder of the miracle of birth.
***
Treasured for her grace and stunning beauty,
Every inch designed with magical delight,
Loved and treasured as she deserves,
And yet still she struggles with the fight.
***
Life trembles within her veins as it takes its toll,
Wrinkles and sags mar her perfection,
The hard yards are done and she’s left a shell,
The marks indelibly strewn across her fair complexion.
***
Lost in the aging shadow of death,
Forgotten, crumbling within all her glory,
Aged, fading into extinction,
The degrading end to her powerful story.
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Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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Comments (4)
This is incredible. Well done, as always.
Or the wizened end to her glorious story. We have a funeral tomorrow for one such incredible woman who lived to see 93, having raised not only her chidren but also a great grandchild to adulthood.
Lovely, yet melancholy!!! Sending hugs!!!💖💖💕
No matter how powerful, divine or kind, all good things must come to an end. It't so sad but it is the inevitable circle of life. Loved your poem my friend!