Best Madame Poems
When I pierced your eyes,
I knew you were not of this world.
Memory stirred—
I had met you before,
in Egypt,
among forgotten corridors of time.
You smiled,
and I whispered your name:
Helena Petrovna Blavatsky…
Your aura healed
before it touched my skin.
You kissed my right dimple
as we gazed upon the Sun.
“Focus,” you said,
“Ray Seven shall birth The Secret Doctrine,
a key to the seventh dimension.
Fragments only they will grasp—
but a golden age will come.”
Then softly you added:
“When you meet my soul sister Annie Besant
in England,
pass her this kiss I have given you.”
In the winter of 1916,
I met that Diamond Soul.
She kissed me gently,
then whispered no more:
“I have launched the All India Home Rule League—
and I am exhorted.”
That night, beneath the oil lamp’s glow,
they circled me in silence.
Blavatsky, Besant, and Olcott—
their hands upon my shoulders,
their eyes burning with forgotten fire.
No words, only a current
rushed through my blood,
a vow sealed in invisible flame.
I was initiated—
not as a man,
but as a keeper of the hidden path.
As I turned to leave,
Colonel Henry Steel Olcott
called me from the USA:
“We are forming a school
to study the knowledge of God.”
I stepped out of the room,
lost in that knowledge.
Now I stand in the Now—
wondering still
Am I human…
or God?
Hashish smoke trails her
along a dusky corridor
Aka the hall of fires
where mirage chimeras unleash
Encumbered with hands splayed
her crystal ball lumens
wires ghostly apparitions
mnemonic attachments
What mystery ensues
a phantasmagoria
of horror nudging
the demonic
Sitters drenched
in profuse sweat
fainting one by one
Alas unconscious
their fate met?
Coroners couldn’t ‘ve clarified
Described as an arctic chill
bolting across the sector
through each limp body
claiming mortality
As icy temps rise
Hypothermia responsible!
for the fatality, for their demise
Latter days professing onto
recordings of a gathering that took place
confessing that a séance
performed by a mysterious woman
in a trance—was the case.
The
Moon is waxing
First quarter crescent
The beckoning begins
Nodding, gurgling
Opening realms unseen
to the naked eye
Madame
Mystic, psychic,
a beguiling storyteller
and Medium
Down in a cellar, along with a Ouija
volumes of her writings discovered
delving into société espirita
The Goldilocks of the occults
Esoteric subjects,
a burgeoning interest
Astral travels,
unexplained laws of nature,
powers latent in man
Madame channeled
ascended masters
The Voice of the Silence
The Two Paths
The Seven Portals
"gifts" from the specters
This time Madame stands
to receive between intervals
and only he is seated
Warning him of dark spirits
a dimension outside
of our physical time-space reality
shadowing, making absence
of light a necessity
To invoke them
another nod
Continues unabated
Reveal the truth!
By sacred decree, by order
Behind the phenomenon
details of schemes came to light
Denounced as Black Magic
she was no longer to fright
Marked as a fraud
it all a façade
The moon is waning
Third quarter
One little sidestep off the beaten track,
Is a colorful garden of dazzling shades,
With blood red geraniums of scintillating hue
Interspersed by those of white and baby pink,
Where beauty sings mysteriously,
Reigning in every theme, a place of bliss
Where silence speaks for itself,
Where bees are the only intruders, I suppose.
A place to feast the eyes and relax,
Reminding one of the Garden of Eden!
At its center is someone, in blossoming beauty.
Not sure if she is sitting on the edge of a boulder,
Or simply crouching on the carpet of grass,
Or is it a statue set up amid the array of flowers?
An angelic form so intent on what she does,
Lost to the world, her face bent,
But eyes moving up and down,
In tandem with the sewing needle in hand.
Is she stitching a frock for her little girl,
Sitting close to her mother’s feet?
A starlet fallen from the night sky,
Or a cherubim dropped down from heaven’s height,
In flowing azure blue frock with golden hair.
She too, like her mother, is so absorbed,
Pouring her soul in to the open book in her lap.
May be a ploy employed by the mother,
Not to disturb her in her work.
Oh, vagrant winds, come not close,
To disturb the tranquility of the two
Wholly sinking into what they are doing.
Kindly veer in another direction
And don’t interrupt their solitude!
April.22. 2023
A Brian Strand Premiere . No1210 Poetry Contest
This is based on Claude Monet's famous painting- Madame- Monet-and-child, where he has pictured his wife Camille and child in his garden.
Have you met my lady cat
A most prestigious aristocrat
She's of extremely dignified ascent
Genuine regal blue blood descent
Everyday might as well be a holiday
My lady’s a class act in every way
Elegant and graceful as they come
Madame de Pompadour quite venturesome
Prances proud in her queenly manner
That's how she graces my humble manor
AP: 3rd place 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on September 6, 2020 for contest COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (5) sponsored by BRIAN STRAND
In her estate in the hills lives prim Madame Chic
Who’s chauffeured way down into town every week
She tells the homeless to wash
Oh, you’ll never be posh!
You should bathe everyday like my poodle Monique!
5/9/23
Madame Scarecrow
First hair spa and salon returned complexion
I sat cross legged before my boss blushingly
Fingers quickly transcripting notes
While eyeing him coyly
With fashionista smudged moony eyes
Thought I was no less than the ultimate
Egyptian Queen Cleopatra
In the sultry heat the fan at high speed
Aired my valuable gel sprayed hair
The naughty little heart a-fluttering
Sang romantic lyrics of the dear sixties
Dictation over and my skeletony legs
Catwalked out of my Tom Cruise's office only
To be called back- an overwhelming retreat
Ego overflowing in every stray nerve
Porcupine gelled straws not in my office,
Please Madame Scarecrow?
September 17, 2015
Contest: My Most Embarrassing Moment
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
Honey Glaze Bun
A herd of hoof ran across her back
Her mind drifting into slumber
Her midnights rendezvous became dangerous acts
while the itinerant
Slept in every alley on Delaney Street
An exhausted prosecutor
Release her back to the cruelty of the dark street
Where broken lamps on
The Great White Way generates
Little or no heat
And the deafening sound of the siren
Kept her awake
.
Until the blonde blue eye stranger pulled up
In a dark limousine rolled down the window
And whispered
“Hello honey bun
Come on in
Your place or mine
Let’s be discreet.
Half a mile down the dark road
The hooded stranger
Poetry became a reality
An old Shakespearean
Surface
Let not my love be called idolatry,
………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Her gentle nature, soft like rain
held fragile beauty, like her name
In this fragrant blossom, he found bliss
Eluded her with a tender kiss
And gentle strokes would touch her cheek
A promised love he wouldn't keep
With fickled breath, he took her heart
He toyed with her, he played a part,
He stole her love, then sailed away
And told her he'd be back some day
Her face looked out from ocean shore
With undying hope, a child she bore
Sun and moon would hear her song, faint sweet echo of a song
her cradled child, the days grew long
They waited in the ocean's breeze
With futile hopes that wouldn't cease
The stars were shining, love was crying
With pining ache, her heart was dying
Convinced his love had been so pure
She learned a truth,... could not endure
Another shore he had a wife
In disgrace, she took her life!
BUTTERFLY!! ... Butterfly!! ... butterfly..................
In France there once was a free petting zoo
Into which walked curvy Madame Leroux --
As she braced to sit
Tight dress ripped a bit --
Precocious kid said, I think I'll pet you
July 29, 2019
A Limerick, Old or New: Your Personal
Favorite Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
. She punishes you,
With her electric fingers,
Defending herself.
Madame Lionell , sitting under a tree ,
asking God , the time of her free ,
the world being so wild ,
showing anger on the lady - who is naked BLIND .
There were none to feel her pain ,
except the neighbors - who thought their gain ,
the new lives then , kicking the world ,
showing anger on the lady who is in the blind world .
She started thinking of all her sins ,
from the ancient times - playing with the teens ,
but she cried on and on - screaming , shouting , and she smiled ! ,
thanking God for that behavior - which seemed her so wild .
The new lives thinking about their cradle ,
for getting those pain and those trouble ,
she thought a while for their father ,
who would think for those tiny heirs - she said "RATHER."
Now , the fearful dark night grew ,
decreasing pain for both the sinew ,
bearing the pain for months well ,
again , thinking for her husband's farewell .
Oh my dear leaving alone ,
can't utter a word for my bones ,
remembering the words which you told ,
"NEVER THINK OF SILVER BUT ONLY GOLD !. "
Now I feel the calmness of my pain ,
feel joyful for my new veins ,
not feeding them with the words of love ,
but their fathers peaceful words of dove!.
The darkness grew more forever ,
the brightness grew for them - for me never ,
she dream t a while - the dilemma of fame ,
" Will my son keep the importance of our name ?"
(In late June, 1914, Austria declared war
on Serbia, thus initiating the First World War.
In Paris, this was ignored, because Henriette
Callaux had been found Not Guilty. De
minimis non curat lex = "the law does not
extend to trivialities". Proust, in his novels,
wrote about his romantic affairs, but because
he was gay, had to feminise names, like
"Albertine". Boule de suif = ball of suet, the
French version, 100 years ago, of "babe".
7. Conclusion
And still, we label you the weaker sex!
Vienna drew the sabre on the Serbs?
Yes, but - de minimis non curat lex!
The crowds which crammed along Parisian kerbs
were there to cheer Acquitted Henriette.
She'd sobbed and swooned, and mooned and spooned, and won!
Her husband never placed a safer bet:
they even let her keep her little gun!
So, gentlemen, those terms diminutive,
those "ines" and "ettes" -- just leave them all to Proust.
Beware her underwear, where waits a chiv!
The merry widow's black, and home to roost!
When passion immolates you in its flames,
whenever pulses race, and blood runs high,
and (worse still!) you resort to nookie names --
my little chickadee, my cutie pie,
ma boule de suif, my little bit of fluff -
beware what's lurking in a woman's ****!
The bric-a-brac shop waits on Rue Nationale.
In a sleepy French town.
It opens at ten,
And closes at one,
Till three.
Then on till seven in the evening.
Madame opens the shutters
Before going to feed her little dog,
Hettie.
Hettie's toenails clip clop on the ceramic tiles.
Madame feeds her green beans and tuna from a tin.
Hettie barks.
Madame sits at her counter
And waits for mail.
A customer comes in.
"Bonjour!"
"Bonjour. Ca va?"
A deal is done on a 1920s doll.
Three hundred euros until Christmas.
A good gift for a collector.
But no more customer's today.
All is quiet.
Evening comes.
Hettie barks.
She eats and drinks.
Madame is always kind. Hettie knows.
She clip clops to her basket again.
Madame thinks about her man in England.
She smiles, but no-one sees.
She shuts the shutters and puts out the lights.
Another evening alone with Hettie and the TV.
Her man is waiting. Her man is waiting.
Madame Butterfly
Sara L Russell 10th July 2012
The painted lady waiting in the wings
Now parts her lips to sing her lover's name;
She enters, arms spread outwards as she sings
Like some fantastic orchid made of flame.
She scatters fragrant petals in the hall
And yet more petals round the master bed
Her sweet song echoes like a linnet's call
Her swirling silks are edged with golden thread.
Then comes a telegram from overseas
To say her love will not return again
The lady falls, still singing, to her knees;
Her heartbeat speeds, like wings beating in vain.
Such is the way of love made through a lie;
Like chloroform, to kill a butterfly.