“His tongue is a paintbrush
And I am the canvas
He fervently works
To create a masterpiece.”
© 2014 Enchanted Zaftig Poetry
I have discovered many friends lately, some very close to me, who are experiencing a profound and often difficult transition in their lives. This poem was written for you ~ and for everyone going through a life transformation.
In the innermost depths of Autumn,
In the interminable upswirl of leaves and earth,
Comes transition, change, an inevitable onset of life’s temporary slumber.
Different from Spring, this season brings with it the aroma of mortality and decay;
It is pungent and evident and swirls purposefully through the crisp, cool air that we breathe.
Yet with this decay, with this impending introduction to winter’s death,
Appears an opportunity for reawakening –
For rebuilding, refocusing and reexamining;
Like the accumulation of fallen leaves, we gather past thoughts, emotions and memories
And toss them together in a flickering pyre of flames
Proffering them to the earth like an organic offering on the altar of transformation.
By purging them from our bodies, minds and souls, we henceforth allow sufficient space
For a tiny seed of rebirth to germinate within us,
Slowly cultivating in the fertile soul of our acceptance and determination,
Preparing itself for bloom in the restorative sunlight of Spring.
© 2012 Enchanted Zaftig
For the man who purports to adore you
Who worships and reveres you and touches you in the darkness
But hesitates to proclaim his affection for you in the daylight.
For you are worth far more than that, Beautiful One.
… You are worth the moon and the stars and an entire symphony of song
You are worth the adoration of a man who will delight in your presence
Fully and completely, without reservation.
You are worth LOVE.
©2011 Enchanted Zaftig
Here is a poem for the season ~ like a zaftig ode to Autumn: bountiful, curvaceous, round, pumpkiny. A succulent feast!
by Lesleigh Owen © 2006
Autumn’s smooth, puffy bronze cheeks,
salty sweet chin
Gently creaking sounds of awakening,
Bones groaning like the cracking
of a rusty cellar door,
Autumn, with her dusty-wheat-scented breaths,
whose round, curving, gently drooping body
polishes the world into
smooth, gray contours
like newly-discovered amber
with never-popped air bubbles,
warm the room like vanilla-scented candlelight
as she envelops the world in her
spicy rolls of flesh
Summer’s not the time for me:
Sunlight that casts angular shadows in wide-open mouths
No more feeling the scrape of sand
sloughing over my dense curves,
trying to whittle down my folds of flesh
into smooth, plastic expanses of cookie cutter skin
No more poppy-scented laughs
that chime like dissonant dinner bells
and abrade my delicate ears
Bright white light
Take away my sight
Thin, hungry, sweaty bodies,
arms shaking, smiles flaking, biceps quaking
Frozen in flashes of sunlight on teeth
False idols of perfection
that die before they can ever
live a full-bodied life
Autumn, that sweet, round, wise, dangerous old woman
arrives slyly in her orange, Cinderella-like pumpkin –
as round and majestic as people –
tossing dried, crackling, russet leaves like confetti or candy:
“Throw me something, grandmother!”
Autumn: Happy, crisp, nutmeg, rounded season
My mouth opens and closes in happy little O’s
over words like “orange” and “clove,”
circular, bouncing words,
round, rich, and warm.
Leaves bend and snap beneath my ponderous weight
while the scent of earth weaves like cinnamon
through my sinuses.
Yawning, indolent light puffs gently through
twisted branches and desiccated leaves,
shining golden orange
like heaps of buttered, cinnamon-scented, steaming mashed yams
or lightly-oiled strings of spaghetti squash
Walking this cooling, linear stretch of sidewalk,
I am tempted to bite into the toothy, yellow winds
that crease around my body like well-starched sheets,
to jump high and far,
passing through the low-hanging laundry
snapping in the sky,
jump miles away from all scents of limestone and exhaust,
to throw my gray, woolen poncho over the clouds
and roll in the decaying scent of leaves
that stick to my face
like allspice on a baker’s hands
I can finally breathe beneath this nubby grayness
that stretches like a fluffy headscarf
over the dome of the sky.
Harvest time, time for rest
Shelving our immature dreams
And discovering reverence for plenty
At night, I eat ginger carrot soup for supper
and slurp pumpkin custard from heirloom dishes
My squash-shaped body, –
honored for its softness,
its life-affirming heaviness –
snuggles into the scratchy red blanket
crocheted for me by my mother
while I bounce children and tradition
on my plump, arthritic knees
and sip cocoa and warm candlelight.
Fatness and autumn:
Round, pumpkiny, bountiful:
A sensual feast
Fatness and autumn, –
lush and earth-scented as mounds of warm flesh –
dance together in gentle spirals
like leaves in a windstorm
Come evening time, Autumn and I sit
like old friends,
cackling on the front porch,
bellies bouncing together
while heavy, purple mugs of chamomile tea
warm our loving, generous,
He floats in and out
Like wings, like dreams
Brushing past my skin in tender touches
And quiet whispers
Swirling in speculation like a leaf caught in a whirlpool
Or a bird circling the clouds
With presence both tangible and elusive,
He is wrapped tightly in an illusion I cannot reach
In an existence I cannot share
Yet still I cling to the notion that one day he will return
To brush past my skin in tender touches
And quiet whispers.
©2011 Enchanted Zaftig
(contributed by guest author Ramon)
Time for an admiring man to speak up,
Of the subtle beauties of the plump gal.
The woman with more, not less. What did Tom Wolfe say? (regarding architecture): “Less isn’t more, less is a bore”.
Her architecture draws me, and sets both heart and loins aflame.
The repeating curves: pleasurable to look at (and study), far more to handle and caress.
Better still, to grab, to press. No frail petite china doll here, but robust, female and real.
Excess? Sure, why want less
Than you can fit into a handful? (as the French say). The efficient ‘European’ versus our American cult of More.
A famous (petite) Latina singer apologizes for her humble breasts.
I’ll take the mountain range. A deep valley for hands, face, manhood.
By contrast, male on extreme female. Kneel over me, ample bosom, soft and jiggly.
Bigger gal with your broad magnetic hips and round bottom, sensuous and mobile. Not lazy in bed but energetic, at once hungry and generous, in line with the generosity of your body. She gives more.
Silky contours, inside and out. Enough to sink into, hands, teeth, and totality. Explore it all, this vast land of love.
Not sinewy or sharp. No straight lines or angles; this is a gentle geometry of arcs.
The hesitant man’s fear: that the bigger woman needs a big man.
But she accepts her lover and is glad for his dedication. No need to fear her rejection.
She knows there are many ways to please, and be pleased.
A nibble of the toe, a kiss of the (dear!) double chin, a pluck of pink nipple. A caress behind chubby knee, puddle on pillowy belly, the rub of plump thighs. All warmth and wetness. No need to hold back; she won’t.
A woman to be loved and cherished. Give her all she deserves, and more.