Poetry Archives - Page 6 of 6

A.H. Scott: Threaded by Choice

Tony_Ward_Studio_group_fashion_picture_theater_scene_couture_glamour_jewelry_women_multiculturalism_choice_democracy_ — Photography by Tony Ward, Copyright 2016

Poetry by A. H. Scott

“THREADED BY CHOICE”

If a world be a stage, then a stage be a world

Enough room for all, no need to crowd

Together we are with common bonds unbowed

Theatrics of fashion

Baby, take a bow

We’re all fibers in this play called life right now

Headliner, eyeliner

Spotlight, coiffed

Casual and sophisticated, like a flower anticipating bloom

Theatrics of fashion

For all, there is room

Rose petals from this bouquet flourish with shades so divine

Ladies nine, oh so fine

Soloist and chorus prepare their performance

Hemlines and fitted fabric may not look similar

But, all which is couture caresses their perimeter

Satin, silk, cotton, gabardine and chiffon

Threading that needle of equality we know we can’t go wrong

Flash of fashion’s sway with style that’s soaring

Without the combination of colors life would be boring

A single fiber from each has a hell of a lot to teach

Threaded by choice is a decision made

Strength of unity only can persuade

Woven threads together make for fabrics that pop with exuberance and swoon

Colors delight beneath sun and moon

Life’s beauty is the flair of a spectacular rainbow

Miracle it is, for that variety is what we make it so

Threaded by choice

Love is the swatch that overrules hate

Threaded by choice is one we all must make

Theatrics of fashion, we all have our place

Our hues may be different, but we all are of one human race

About The Author: A.H. Scott is a poet based in New York City and frequent contributor to Tony Ward Studio. To read additional poetry by A. H. Scott, go here: https://tonywardstudio.com/blog/h-scott-stain-indifference/

A.H. Scott: Stain of Indifference

Tony_Ward_Photography_early_work_house_of_prayer_portrait_young_black_girl_braids_portraiture_art — Tony Ward: House of Prayer, Portraits. 1980.

Posted on July 16, 2016 by A.H. Scott

Stain of Indifference

Stain of indifference

Cotton white beams bright under the blazing sun

Oh no, don’t worry…but, that was yesterday

Clasped between fingers, crop collected

Indifference of bullwhip’s sting detected

Oh no, don’t worry….but, that was yesterday

Evolved from that time of blight, we proclaim it day and night

Yet, stain of indifference is that white flag of surrender

Back to your life, back to work

A few days of grumbling over injustice occurs

With clockwork’s precision we shed a tear and commiserate in how tragic it all is

Oh no, don’t worry…..but, that was yesterday

Then it comes as it does like heaven’s tears raining down

On his back a man lies lifeless on the ground

Would the world have known who he was without that video on the cell phone?

Body cams malfunction

Well, isn’t that grand?

Oh no, don’t worry…..but, that was yesterday

Tragedy like this can’t possibly happen again?

What was seen by all must have been some kind of mistake

Or, is something so dire in the summer wind filled with an oncoming heartbreak

Cotton callin’ from fields far away

White fabric stained with crimson as sun beams through car window

Can you hear it now?

Oh no, don’t worry….but, that was yesterday

Man moans as he takes his last breath

Can you see him now?

Steel held with a death grip in hand and pointing at her with command

Peacemaker claiming a righteous stand

Oh no, don’t worry…but that was yesterday

Innocence of babe ripped away as she sits in back seat

Imagine what she saw

Imagine what she heard

Imagine at such a tender age to console her mother she had to find the right word

Oh no, don’t worry….but, that was yesterday

Imagine as she grows

Who knows? Who knows?

Maybe that stain of indifference is now etched in her heart

A new generation seeing yesterday as today and tomorrow

Those who are silent in these interesting times, won’t have reason or rhyme

Who is mattered and who is not becomes a call and response if we cannot see our fellow human beings as ourselves

Political pariahs blame the victim as they always do

Yet, each of us has a stake in uniting together, too

In between the particles of black and white it is ever so clear

Stain of indifference to the fabric of humanity’s core it will tear

Judgment from towers of white is faulted upon sin for those who have never walked in the skin another has lived in

Yiran Zhang: Friday in Chinatown

Photography and Poetry by Yiran Zhang

FRIDAY IN CHINATOWN

It is Friday, just like another day in Chinatown.

It is Chinatown, just like another town in New York.

It is New York, just like another city in the world.

But,

There lives a group of people,

A special kind I shall say,

Who work so hard

To make a living in this tiny corner of the world.

Different gangs gather on at the end of every week.

Senior citizens gamble in the park,

Fathers work in the seafood market,

Moms shop for fruits for the family,

Young couples dine in a fancy restaurant,

Teenage girls select bakery items.

Crowds come and go,

But they will unite at the end.

Asian Americans are their official names.

But they call themselves Chinese, Taiwanese, or Japanese.

Old ones live on Asian tradition and images of homeland

Young ones rebel out their Asian heritage.

It is the heaven,

It is the hell.

It is Friday in Chinatown around the world.

bout The Author: Yiran Zhang is a senior enrolled in the Wharton School of Business, University of Pennsylvania. Class of 2016. To read additional articles by Yiran Zhang, type the author’s name in the search bar at the bottom of the page and click the search icon.

A. H. Scott: Drawn

Poetry by A. H. Scott

DRAWN

Man to woman

Woman to man

Drawn

Woman to woman

Man to man

Human to human

Drawn

Crossing each other’s worlds unplanned

Was it that certain coolness of his stride?

Could he bring out her wild side?

Drawn

Just looking at him, she knew

Excitement and fascination drew her in

Luckily for her, magnetism was mutual

She was anxious for a thrill

He was a man who had that drive and will

Drawn

Moth to flame

Drawn

Into desire’s web without any blame

Choice to explore one another without shame

Drawn

Flirtation and arousal tease the senses in that delicious dance of introductions between man and woman

Drawn

A few dates here and there

They both enjoyed each other’s time

Nothing much to write home about

Drawn

For the first time in her life, a man tapped her core

Beyond those slim folds so moist

Her inner flame rejoiced

Drawn

She’d never been with a man like him

Cocky and so damned, self assured

He had women in his bed without snapping a finger

Sophisticated seduction was his trigger

Vanilla was her life

Amaretto swirl was what he could deliver

Boring was one thing he never was

In his world, she took trust into her own hands

Drawn

He was a man, not a boy

She was a woman, not a girl

Debonair swashbuckler caressed her pearl, as adventure on this night took both for a whirl

Treasured most between them was trust

Drawn

Head rested on pillow, as she waited for him to begin

One hand patted her bare ass, while the other held instrument of amusement

Drizzle of red wax flowed downward onto alabaster skin

Whistle of cool breath from his lips kept the degrees at a minimum, as she flinched from contact with that candle

Resembling Red Hots candy, a quintet of color nestled onto right cheek of her ass

Just like the flavor of fiery cinnamon, this visual stirred his senses

Slightly she purred for him

Drawn

A few whispers into her ear were a sonnet so nastily sweet

Drawn

Fingers flicked off the wax onto the sheet

He took her without haste

Not a moment of entering her would be put to waste

She invited him in deep, for a promise of fulfilling his wanting was one which she always would keep

Legs wrapped around his back were nothing compared to unwrapping the inhibitions she’d had before him

She knew he had others, yet didn’t care

No way in hell would she regret anything they’d chose to share

Opening her eyes to sensual surprise was his lesson for this night

As for teaching him something, it was her becoming attuned to the ecstasy of delight

His touch, his whisper, or even wax melted on flesh was a melody she absorbed in her soul

Spirit of this encounter would never grow old

Curiosity eternal

Drawn

About The Author: A.H. Scott is a poet based in New York City and frequent contributor to Tony Ward Erotica. To read additional poetry by A. H. Scott, go to the search bar at the bottom of the page, type in author’s name: click the search icon.