Best Femme Fatale Poems
You clipped my wings
You cured my flirt
You blinded my sight
From bevy of beauties.
I'm a toy in your palm
Administered unto your wish
And, like powerful Samson
I'm doomed!
Love,
Sweet bait
Covering a naked hook
The cemetary of my life.
They may call me some kind of psycho,
The thing is they are so right though.
I leave the auction sick, my mettle frayed
A ghost, I fear, in oil clutched near my side
No doubt, a ghost for which I've dearly paid!
How best to next proceed, I must decide
The painting I have bought portrays a man
laid out upon a bed as if he sleeps
A woman stands beside the low divan
Offhand, I'd guess a mistress that he keeps
I recognize the bloke who's laying prone
A classless dog and local alley cat
His past and family folk remain unknown
but those with whom he spoke called him "Merat"
I peer more closely at the racy scene;
Beside Merat, a pool of crimson red
The woman's face is cool, if not serene,
quite out of place, considering the bed!
I take my time in staring at the girl,
and make an observation I can't bear
my hands begin to shake, the air to swirl,
for that's my naked wife who's painted there!
As I trudge home, it's hell that fills my head
and passing by a doorsill with a bin,
I tell myself it's I who will be dead
if I don't shove the dreadful painting in
My mind is blank as I bypass the stairs
and free from fear of my assassin wife,
I steer my thoughts past murder and affairs,
then pull her near and thank her for my life
I left, and crept to my room
And slept
I Wept
And Kept you in the haven of my soul like a pet.
Femme fatale
I will tell your tale
Till you sell me your soul.
You are so beautiful
So wicked
So charming.
Fickle you!
I adore your momentarily sweetness
And each and every slap on my numb cheek.
I know, deep down the unseen crevice of your heart,
Your love for me is powerful than Viagra
You are a beautiful nightmare,
So wicked
So charming
That everyone wants to see in their dreams.
Refined dame with polished frame
Strewing rose petals from lofty pedestal
Sparkling eyes from which stardust flies
Bright smile spindling on embroidered dial
Pallid face shrouded with humble grace
High cheek bones with sculptor's chisel honed
Coiffed strands of hair so De Rigueur
Elegant neck sharing femininity with regal dignity
Voluptuous bosom with silky folds rolled
Roon paps flowing with sweet, sugary saps
Frothy balloon hovering over silted cocoon
Swiveled hips whose billowy curves in rhythm swerve
Heart-shaped hands from which dexterous tendrils
expand
Long, shapely legs with slithering grooves bathed in silky
lube
Dainty feet whose comely features do entreat
I’m Packing and She’s Packing
I’m a film noir private eye and I’ve got my eye on this voluptuous dame. I’m investigating the murder of her rich husband and searching for clues. Because deep in my gut, her sweet demeanor made me suspicious and I smelled a rat no matter how much charm she exuded.
My research told me she used to be a barmaid in a well heeled club and her gentlemen friends (they weren’t gentlemen) sought her out and she could pick and choose. During my questioning , her sorrow consisted of martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
I questioned her candidly and she answered as well in a sultry way. I was tempted but I had to be hard and in control of my misguided hormones. but I was determined seek the truth.
she swayed me
But I was on to her
time will tell
The Private Eye and the Femme Fatale
Halibun Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
April 25, 2019
[Paraphrase-translation of the song from Lady Snowblood.]
Bright dusk buried in snow
Only the sound of a baying hound
And my wooden geta break the silence
I stride with the weight of Heaven on my mind
I embrace these nights
My paper umbrella is more than it seems
I have walked this path of a woman's life
But my tears will not again
Damp the ground where I must go.
Ah, the winding river path
A path under lamplights
Cranes stand frozen in the weeping rain
Unable to move
My silhouette upon the ice of a frozen pond.
I show no emotion
There will be no more tears
The paper umbrella falls from the blade
I stride the bitter path of a woman
Dragging my heart upon this journey.
Perfection,
As your femme fatale walks into existence.
With eyes like that, there is no resistance,
No steering away or meeting halfway,
Her coloured eyes and deadly stare,
As you are forcefully pulled into her sinful lair.
You try to avoid the Siren song,
But deep inside, you love it,
Crave it, enslaved by it, nurture it, self-torture,
Enjoying every moment as it cuts deeply through,
A pain and pleasure you once never knew.
This is Medusa,
A work of art made with the demon's tools.
This is an hourglass,
With a perfect shape, but also a ticking timer,
As the burden gets heavier the longer you're with her,
She's numbering your days as the sand quickly transfers,
To your drenching heart, she is the only saboteur.
This is angelic,
With golden hair and a timeless physical relic.
This is demonic,
Her song harmonic, her punishment tectonic.
She is the ground of all being,
And she'll encompass and crush you whilst she is freeing.
Through his door she wafts, all eye candy and cigarette smoke. Feigning fear and need with a promise of earthly delights in trade. He, standing strongly alone, listens attentively but always sees more than is shown. Seemingly he melts in her warm, feminine hands, to be molded into someone more useful but easily discarded. Each play their games, vying for goals not perceived by the other. The hand may be more swift than the eye, but the heart… the heart is always quicker still. In the end, neither gains what they search for but both receive more than anticipated.
There can be no trust
‘Tween those who routinely lie
And those who seek truth.
5/3/2019
Pick A Title, Vol 4 - Haibun Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
4th Place winner 5/24/19
Pulp fiction had nothing on him. He was a man’s man. A protagonist
of his own making, self-reliant, and self-assured. Marlow kept his wisecracks
to the bare minimum when meeting a new client. Dames were not as compliant as they used to be, and they carried their own derringers now.
More dangerous than ten years ago. He leaned back in his chair, enjoying a swallow of nicotine from his favorite cigarette. He had heard this woman was stacked. Mrs. What? He reached for his paper. Mrs. Stanton. She sounded stacked, a real femme fatale. A harsh knock came on his outside door.
not a woman’s knock, and yet, there she was.
“she’s a murderess
This mattered not to him now
Private eye smitten”
Written 4-29-2019
Contest: Pick a title, volume 4 – Haibun
Prompt #2: The private eye and the femme fatale
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
I'm not an 'ingénue' anymore - that’s been vitiated.
I'm not innocent, pure, naive or vulnerable -
which are technically, 'ingénue' requirements
(I don’t make the rules).
That being said, if no one has an objection,
in terms of narrative trajectory, I'd like to be
considered a 'fémme fatale' until further notice.
.
.
Songs for this:
HEATED by Beyoncé
Hysterical Us by Magdalena Bay
A black widow spider spins a silk thread
into a near-transparent dream catcher;
filling her with joy, and her meals with dread.
A very cunning, deadly flycatcher
ready to pounce and mummify her food:
she lies in wait, like a body snatcher.
Any damaged web gets quickly renewed
with her sticky silk, resetting her trap:
so, struggling insects remain firmly glued.
She secures victims in a woven wrap:
ensuring they remain alive and fresh
until she sups: draining them of their sap.
Liquefying bugs, entangled in mesh:
she flaunts a scarlet hourglass belly patch
and fangs that inject poison into flesh.
Males must escape as soon as they detach,
for to this femme fatale, they're a fair catch.
The phone's ringin', gettin' louder and louder,
As it gets closer to her ear.
She rolls over, tryna clear the haze,
And sees a name she ain't too clear.
"Femme Fatale," it says, and she's confused,
Wondering who this person could be.
A text comes through from the same unknown,
Saying "agoraphobiac" in a message with a pic of her, but she can't see.
She's in a concert, with faces she don't know,
And wonders how she got there, in such a public show.
She never leaves the house, the blinds always shut,
But there she is, in places she's not.
Her body starts to rise, blood pressure high,
She screams in frustration, "Oh my!
Another crisis hits, and she's floating,
To the cabinet, arms and breath a-holdin'.
Last week, a bull was sleepin' in her tub,
The week before, she was beamed up in a UFO.
Her wrist is scarred, she's slaughtered before,
But the phone's ringin' still, more and more.
She rolls the other way, tryna clear her mind,
And sees a name that's all too familiar this time.
"Agoraphobiac," it reads, and she sighs,
Another crisis comin', she can't deny.
For her, it was a cinch to tantalize
each man who let his gaze rest on her face.
With honey-colored hair and almond eyes,
she’d catch most men’s attention anyplace!
The brightness of her smile was a facade,
which any man caught up with her would soon
discover! Oh, she was a ruthless fraud
whose soul was more the dark side of the moon!
At first she would enrapture -then in time,
bewilder each poor sap she’d taken in.
To cause fallacious dreams is not a crime,
but what she did to those men was a sin.
So curious were they to get to know
that femme fatale that foolishily they took
the plunge into her vortex with its flow
of endless greed – like fish caught on her hook.
She’d take those fish – the men that she’d suck dry -
eviscerate them, and when she was done,
just toss them to the dirt – her grand goodbye!
Their trail, once scarlet, faded in the sun.
June 28, 2018 for John Hamilton's Eight Word Challenge-7 Poetry Contest
Danger lurks
In dangerous curves,
A sure perk
For taut greedy nerves.
Danger waits
For that needy space,
A sure bait
To anchor mad trace.
Danger hints
In a tempting lure,
Ponder mint
Of feelings unsure.
Danger farms
As femme fatale stalks,
Arm these arms
For sexy grooves walk.
Danger dams
Pulse of crude address,
Like baked ham
Touch drowns in duress.
Leon Enriquez
26 April 2017
Singapore