Best Madonna Poems
The sky sings soprano,
spellbound by supernova flares,
and I sigh ~ veiled in vengeance ~
pursuing cosmic conquest,
hauntingly unafraid.
I feed the vortex with vicious verses,
bleeding into leading winds,
salt-glazed passion gripping my pulse
as light rests along
midribs of merciful emerald,
feathers blooming into blue-moon rarity,
cloaking the cadence of my soul
when my heart grows heavy with its hurt.
I remain ... starved ...
of sensuous sunlight ~
to photosynthesize my sphinx spirit,
to chlorophyll my
femme-fatale fragrance,
vowing an oath to my muse:
the steady twigs of living cosmos,
the glistening gardens
spilling across the guardians of galaxies,
kissing inked essence with searing sparks
that awaken my desire to dance
through nocturnal night
into dreaming dawns ~
an indomitable storm,
too ferocious
for cynical hands to worship.
Still I stand ~ shameless ~
at the altar of adoration,
where love becomes a painted promise
defining the delicacy of my design.
But why does it feel like a divine curse
to perceive the tremors of time,
to taste the tears of unseen rain,
as empathy drains the empyrean
from an enlightened intellect,
and telepathic twilight trembles,
breathless ~ blazed ~ baptized ~
beneath the weight
I hold within my veins ~
for I feel every ray of darkness
d e e p e r
than your dusk could ever behold…
O blue-rose, ethereal warmth,
I am the chosen feeler,
the zealous healer
of wayward wanderers,
seducing the quivering thorns
of unquenched silence.
I heed what the lips
of the eyes cannot speak.
I rise fully awake
within this celestial transformation,
where this fervent force
stays dangerously unconcerned…
Wild horses, prairies, desert canyons,
Native Indians, brush landscapes
by 'Dean of Western Painters'
known as Olaf Wieghorst.
His contrast boldness,
softened with light
blended hues,
stirred my
heart.
Inspired to capture his moving art,
passion pushed to reproduce his
famed Navaho masterpiece;
every brushstroke chosen
to grasp his canyon,
mother and child
on stone bluff
framed by
rock.
Canvas print of beauty speaks
She was born of petal's peaks
fearless and brave, never weak
Edvard Munch was Norwegian not Greek
13/01/2022
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
30 syllables / 7-7-7-9
howmanysyllables.com
" Lind30 "
She precisely folded
the baby clothes and being
a long time laundromat
habitual, I recognized the signs.
Obsession at the laundromat level
is usually the last attempt
at order in a life without.
The two blackened puffy eyes
and the swollen lip were
not too subtle clues and
the bent nose and scar upon
the cheek told more of what
she was going home to.
She worked with such care,
such intense deliberation,
there, in the holy golden glow
of the afternoon sunlight,
an American Madonna, and
I wondered, after she left,
what I should have done, and
what I could possibly do.
The Green Madonna
She arrived draped in constellations,
wearing a crown woven from the silver bones of moons,
her emerald hands folded in a prayer
older than the first star.
The galaxies bowed.
Not from fear,
but from recognition.
For she was Mantis,
Celestial Madonna,
keeper of forgotten hymns
and patron saint of wandering souls.
Her eyes held entire nebulae,
spiraling cathedrals of light
where comets burned like votive candles
before an altar without end.
She spoke no words.
The universe listened anyway.
Planets turned more slowly
to hear the rustle of her wings,
vast and jeweled,
stretching across the velvet architecture of eternity.
Each movement scattered stardust
into the dark places between worlds,
and new suns were born
from the fragments.
She wandered the heavens barefoot,
her feet touching neither cloud nor stone,
leaving trails of luminous roses
that bloomed in the vacuum of space.
The angels followed at a distance.
Not because they were commanded.
Because beauty itself
had become a destination.
In her breast burned a sacred flame,
neither mercy nor judgment,
but something greater:
understanding.
She knew the language of the broken.
The dialect of the lonely.
The silent prayers spoken by hearts
too weary to believe they would be heard.
And so she gathered them.
The exiles.
The dreamers.
The forgotten children of distant worlds.
She carried them beneath her mantle of stars,
where no wound was mocked,
no tear was wasted,
and no soul was abandoned.
Above her,
the heavens unfolded like a jeweled fan.
Below her,
the darkness learned to sing.
And there,
upon a throne carved from dawn itself,
Mantis sat as Celestial Madonna,
Mother of Starlight,
Queen of the Infinite Bloom,
her wings embracing creation
as though the universe
were a child finally returned home. ?????
You thought me spineless,
so in a fit of anger you tore mine out,
Bloodless, I rose sword swallower,
strengthened by my tattered paper edges.
The abyss of your barren soul wrapped me in
gauze, shrouded me on parallel partitions;
nailed to the crossbars of your lust;
only mother me did you revere.
All hail the hidden seal*-- nailed to the missing cross,
white cloaked, virginal, tresses unbound-- lay me not
across the landscape of your desire-- grovel at my shrine.
The Broken Column by Frida Kahlo’s
*the word seal has been used to comply
with Soup Guidelines
First Published in Dual Coast Magazine Issue 1 2014
Forgetting is a vain refugee camp,
Madonna, for still these walls get
breached, amidst the daily, frenzied
barter of honed art for bread,
While slaking arid, thirsty hours with
bits of loving, or even in deep sleep's
opiate-laced salve; your shrill wail
ricochets on palisades of silence,
Wrecking dreams, when your arms
thrust out, ghost-like haunt heart's
corridors to pained remembrance
of your hearth bulldozed to jagged
Rubble, grating deep your ample
loins that Gaza noon of nightmare,
hooking deeper yet the piercing
scythes of questions as regards
Your fate and of your son's. Again,
the mind turns, tosses on this bed
of dusty shards and tear-anointed
debris as you once more scream
Your picture-perfect, front-page,
silent pain, yet made more potent
than all sounds heard down old
Palestine when wailing, wreathed
The wretched walls bedaubed with blood
of innocents, when wanton death and
mayhem, too, by Herod's mighty hand
decreed, made firm, held sway.
madonna
the eternal form
cradles her child
unbidden miracles attend
her smile of love
Your name will never elude my memory
Every day I recall you like a recent story
A myriad of thoughts about you clouds my memory
The school that made me
The four walls that raised me
The principal that trained me
The teachers that disciplined me
The books that enlightened me
The challenges that strengthened me
Oh! My sweet alma mater
Now I’m alone
Left to face this world so cold.
No need anyway
I knew I’d grow up someday
I need not be scared
When I know I can’t be dared
I’ve been baptized with wisdom
And I’ve acquired all I need and more
Now it’s time for me to prove to the world
That Madonna remains the best school for all.
Faultless art is ceased in silence
Quite often curious how achieved
Never a month a year ever deep
Stories never apprise as much
Sculptures an paintings score
Medusa a fallen angel's myth
Hue'd by an artists true life
Roaring a cry to let not die
To love water pale Madonna
Gave texture purity an life
25/04/2017
'Like the silence that screams, cursing solitude...
whispers of faith sing patiently with prayers.'
(Quoted by Regina Mc Intosh)
Hung suspended from hive rafters hexagonal
Leader Lady Ruler Bee gorges imprudent
Heavy duty seeps striped desirous abdominal
Workers hover, rush beneath Queen exuberant
Team enthusiasm pumps a syrup scaffold
Propolis produces massed mission belligerent
Numb buzzing bumblers fumble fated cuckold
Hunger for cohesion, gold body encompass
Busy anonymous paupers, sources unresolved
Eager in sweetness, clan clustered accomplice
Reverently fulfills each gluttonous request
Swift need swords stung in caustic redundance
Plump with pupae, flightless wings flouresced
Polar iceberg cream honey hearts can't ingest
13th January 2021
Written for Contest: Terza Rima Quote
Sponsor: Regina Mc Intosh
In the Cave of the Madonna ( Village of Topollia Crete 1994 )
I formed a square of brick
a block house of the future
and the years like dust lay thick
around my door
many footsteps answer like dreams
upon my floor
I built a synthetic artery into the mountain side
And there beneath a hollow cave
I found inside
the minarets of aeons
forming in a habitat of drips and spires
consorting with empathy in the dim dark
evolving beauty
drip drip after drop of centuries
Here, I formed a square of brick
and white shrine painted
to house the endless time
of my soul
the worshipful desires of my domicile and heart
I designed to entomb and liberate
before this sanctum
of the mountains core
to feel here in this high and inaccessible place
a little closer to my troubled God
Far from close and so difficult to traverse
the winding pathways of stones and rock
the sheer cliffs of my life longs work
Long ago I forgot the peace of the valley
the walls and road interrupted my view
into serenity
but occasionally
when the night is close
I hear the drips of those forming spires
and expanses of time open
a vista where my ancestry and history
breathes for a second
and my only answer to this mystery
is my house of brick
shrine of white
Madonna church
My religion
MADONNA
Doctor told ‘Congrats Ma’am. You are pregnant.
Your heart beats go fast rapid and vibrant.
News is really grand.
Go and tell your husband.
He will rejoice turning jubilant.’
Lady replied ’I am not married.
Then how this great grand news will be carried?’
‘Fine. Go to your lover.
He is a proud father.
Bright green signal, but not alarming red.’
‘I have no lover’. Lady had to sigh.
‘So what? At dawn break stare at Eastern Sky.
You need not to worry.
Don’t be sad or sorry.
Bethlehem star, you are sure to descry.’
03/14/23
A Strand Premiere No. 1198
Contest by Brian Strand
Madonna
Doctor told ’Congrats Ma’am, you are pregnant.
Tell your husband or lover to rejoice.’
She sighed ‘Me lone, no lover to enchant.’
‘Look at Bethlehem Star: Only choice.’
12/21/20
'Christmas -Chatuska' Contest by Andrea Dietrich
For she's running away from the backlashes
of her past.
Bringing the old into the new...
trying to kill the memories
that soaks the soul in a tainted
mask.
For she's lost in her own infatuation.
Being lead astray by words of deception
yet, she hasn't learned the lesson that
one needs not to prove ones
flaws and imperfections.
Always under the eyes of inspection
Trying to avoid dirty looks, gestures and
long awaited rejections.
For she is a beauty... hidden from what
she doesn't see.
For maybe oneday...she'll awake from the dream
and realize that she's much more than a
poor mans fantasy.
Living out of bags...going room to room
Searching for the security...
she once had and knew.
Going through the dances of the night...
became the role of a broken soul.
For she had no one to console...
yet, bold,cold,and untold stories
began to unfold.
Leaving her with more bruised emotions
and more despair to hold.
For one day she'd awaken to a new day...
excepting forgiveness and praise.
For she was blessed in awakening to
see another day.
Realizing that she was and is worth more.
when she
bowed her head, kneeled down and
prayed.
The End!