Women Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Women, of all sorts
Dress to impress, seeking for consorts –
Oh, the image all men made them contort
I’d rather have my woman, with a fedora on her head
With French-tipped fingernails, and blistered feet from too much ballet
Oh, how her eyes gleamed like emeralds or any kind of gem from afar,
And when in near contact, like stars exploding with a mirth
That a mother feels when witnessing vivid births,

Women, of all the kinds of women in the world
From coquette, to ladylike, to a woman with a man’s strut,
All the women who drink wine, and smoke cigarettes,
And still, to the women who don’t, and preserve their true sanctioned beauty,
Whichever, whatever, or perhaps, wherever in the world,
There’d be scores of women – from different countries,
But still, should a man need them all – if so, then what good
Is a heart?

I know all women, but I am poor with names,
I apologize, and I do not wager every little name,
I do not take them as faces though faces come and faces go,
And the daffodils bloom, and the tears of a woman drops on the
Surly grass like raindrops – an emollient drizzle,
This I am sure of, and as much as I am afraid to admit,
A woman of simple prowess and beauty, is but a profound riddle

Woman, I do not wish to take you to bed,
And make love, or talk about economics and movie stars,
I wish to tell you – that I am troubled, and that I am trying to alter my soul
So that when the noon time comes and you are still asleep,
In the very first bloom of the immense moon, I will tell you how much
I have changed in the years, and that I am ready – as a dauntless knight
To take on any villain, tyrant – any kind, to get not to your skin,
Not to your bosom, not to your lips, not to your hips or waist, or cheekbones,
But to your heart

But to this very faint streak of the Sun,
I am lost, without a woman – and yet, with or without a woman,
I shall find the means to live, but not the extremes to die, for to die
Is to lose sight of you, to lose you in the scriptures, to lose you in tombs,
In requiems and in every endeavor towards the pearly gates –
If one should ask me, “When shall you die? ” It will be a rhetoric –
For the only question is that, “Are you willing to die for a woman? ”
There, I shall answer that vehemently, with fanciful sincerity,
Yes I am, and I am not afraid to admit – I will not scour behind
The falseness of each and every man, though I have been there
And it is not a pleasant, plush feeling – And so forgive me,
To all the women whom I have hurt – and to the only woman,
That continues to hurt me, and hence, I hurt her too,
With every twinge, I should be grateful for I feel alive,
In your breath, that I devour, that is –

The Sun is spinning, as if to coil the mountains,
I have grown weary of sunsets – Spare me, good Lord,
For I only see the sunrise in her hair, in the creases of her hands,
In her simian jowl, in her soothing voice, in her iridescence,
I have blundered long, and I shall embrace change longer –
Woman, women, I do not care; The only woman I know,
And will come to know, if life should thwart me a million times,
Then a million times more in one single breath alone shall I decide
To be acquainted to you and your ways, and right there, like a budding tulip,
I will look for the way to your heart, and there, I shall live forever.