Ode to Women

Oh, let us sing of men who pierce the shroud of lies,
Who spurn the waif’s frail ghost, that skeletal lament,
Not snared by hollow ribs or vacant, glassy eyes,
But chase a blazing soul, a spirit’s wild ascent.
The world spins tales of stick-thin queens in glossed parade,
A waifish specter, brittle as a winter reed,
Yet men of worth forsake this cold, unyielding charade,
For living flames of flesh, where truth and pulse succeed.

No fashion scroll, with its icy, sculpted gleam,
Can cage their sight to frames of frost and jutting bone,
Those ink-wrought shades, where hips like knives cut through the dream,
A lifeless husk, no spark of earth’s deep tone.
For woman’s form, her hips a broad and tawny plain,
Her thighs a rolling sea, with waves of might unfurled,
Spills wide in splendor, shattering the glossed refrain,
A chorus vast, not muted for one world.

Some bear the stretch of stars across their skin’s expanse,
A galaxy of marks where life has carved its song,
Others rise like oaks, with trunks of rooted stance,
Their arms a canopy where strength has grown so long.
Her waist may arc like dunes beneath a desert sky,
Or swell like ripened fruit, heavy with sunlit grace,
Each shape a saga, etched where shallow rules run dry,
A vivid quilt of being, stitched through time and space.

Intelligence, their beacon, cuts through fog and din,
To depths where confidence blooms wild as prairie flame,
A woman’s roar, a gust that shakes the soul within,
Outstrips the waif’s faint sigh, its whispered, fragile claim.
Her body’s truth, each roll a river’s tender bend,
Each height a peak where storms have kissed the stone,
Defies the starved ideal that fashion’s hands defend,
A boundless range, not boxed in monochrome.

No painted lie, with limbs like twigs in brittle rows,
Can match the swell of breasts that crest like dawn’s first tide,
They shun the runway’s drift, its gaunt and pallid throes,
For bellies soft as loam, where seeds of life reside.
Her legs may tower, thick as columns hewn from clay,
Or curve like vines that twist through forest’s green embrace,
The glossy myth dissolves in forms that break away,
As worthy men exalt this choir of human grace.

Acceptance braids their sight, a cord of molten hue,
No blade to shave her peaks or hollow out her streams,
They see her prairies vast, her cliffs in morning dew,
A soul unbound, not stitched to fit tight seams.
Her shoulders square like boulders, weathered, bold, and free,
Her back a windswept ridge, unbowed by fleeting trends,
These are the anthems drowning fashion’s thin decree,
A symphony of shapes where sameness ends.

So lift a glass to men whose eyes ignite the dawn,
Who scorn the waif, the glossed and famished shell,
Who flee the frail parade where flesh is pinched and drawn,
To kneel at hearths where wild diversity dwells.
In self-assured and bold, they forge their radiant creed,
A woman’s soul, her form, a tempest’s vivid sprawl,
Not starved ideals that wither in their need,
But living fields of power, fierce and tall.

For men worth praising, worth the heart’s deep cheer,
See past the waif’s dim shade, its frail and fleeting spell,
They clasp the real, the short, the broad, the sheer,
And in that clasp, their truest wisdom swell.