Long Feminine Poems
Long Feminine Poems. Below are the most popular long Feminine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Feminine poems by poem length and keyword.
MADAME MATISSE 1
green with envy
a master's wife-
portrait-not still life
MARGUERITE 2
oh marguerite
oh so sweet
in pretty dress,so neat
HAIR 3
la chevelure-
locks in shocks
matisse,ma cher
LORETTE 4
lorette,ma petite
so sad,so sweet
THE SISTER 5
one of three,enfamille
her gaze,engages,we
AN ODALISQUE 6
curve and shape,for sure
sans evrything,mais
concubine et paramour
STUDENT GIRL 7
greta moll-
still life,doll
ITALIAN GIRL 8
laurette,ma petite
model italiano,svelte
UPSTAIRS MAID 9
ever-present
never hurried or delayed
within dining-table laid
CHAPEAU GIRL 10
chapeau fleuri
feminine
charmante,mais oui
DAY-DREAMER 11
lost in thought
day-dreams hold sway
thoughts drift miles away
ANTOINETTE 12
portrait of still life
so calm,...and yet..
See my cartoons @matissemaidens.blogspot.com
What just happened yesterday
Must have been dreaming I guess
Met a beautiful stunning young lady
Left me in a helluva mess
Always thought I was in total control
But she knocked me back on my ass
Drooling from my gaping mouth
A totally out-of-control mess
Can't believe her feminine guile
Don't get me wrong, I ain't complaining
This is what love's all about
It belts you hard on the side of the head
Always prided myself in keeping cool
But exceptions still do happen
If you'd asked me a couple of days ago
Can't imagine it slackening
Just goes to show you my dear friends
No one's immune to the love bug
You could be as old as a hundred and six
Can still affect you like a drug
Patience,
Don't be greedy this is a 4 course meal save some of your appetite for desert trust me you will not be disappointed
It's the sweetest and most moist
of apple pie for you to eat from in to out
A recipe baked from right off the pages
of the feminine grand witches cookbook of seductive spells
It's
In part beatle bonnet
part butterfly
part eot of lemac
part pussycat
That comes delivered with a side of sticky fingers and lashings of my very own custard cream squirted right on
top
It's so darn sexy and moorish quite frankly i'd be
astonished if you don't ask for a 2nd or 3rd
helping
And ask if you can take the rest home
so you can have it for breakfast in bed in the
morning all over again
Go with the Flo, I've heard it said
Think I'm gonna give it a shot
What a sensual, passionate lady she is
Sure doesn't hide her plot
Always fires straight from the heart
Doesn't have ulterior motives
Whatever she's written is the way it is
No BS, no flowery emotive
Became attracted to her immediately
With her honest, up front style
Very appealing with no secret agenda
Maintaining her feminine guile
A gem to be sure here on Poetry Soup
A breath of fresh air to be sure
Just a wee poem to offer my friendship
As my silly humour she endures!
© Jack Ellison 2013
As my silly humour she endures!
Good morning Mr. Sunshine your journey's underway
Have you come across any pocket penguins on your rise today?
I'm looking for one specifically, on her I am sold
You would know her if you saw her, she's a beauty to behold
Well let me tell you some things more to help you to recall
First of all she sings like fire, she's brighter than them all
Secondly she's passionate in what she wants to do
She'll keep you on your toes so you'd better think things through
Thirdly, if she asks a question it's more likely than it's not
She already knows the answer she's just seeing what you've got
Fourthly she's so feminine, as womanly as they come
Her tastes are just impeccable, in all second to none
And finally, though this isn't all the things that I could here devise
She's got the most captivating, incredible blue eyes
A pocket penguin yes indeed, but what I say is true
I'd love to have her with me and if you knew her you would too
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
O souls of the Island,
I have silently
heard through
tropical torrents
and surpassed
a million miles
of the milky seas,
away from
mint-marine
silhouettes of my
utopian wonderland,
as strawberry
ripples and
coconut-scented
musings called
upon my
flamboyant spirit,
to explore those
ebony-emeralds
of universe and
envelop my hope in
creamy pink shells.
I have soaked in
sepia impressions,
ebbing as
crepe currents
on splitting shores
and windsurfed
through the
hibiscus rays
of life by forbidding
heartache hymns
of yesteryears,
from lurking in
jewelled hours
of today
and built a
kryptonite kayak
to sail in the
turquoise times
of tomorrow.
For, now I know
that the
opalescent ocean
has chosen me,
to return the
riveting spirit
of sage-rufescent
rivulets back to
the 'Heart of
Humanity's Cosmos',
shaped in
soft serenades
of seraphim.
When the
whispers of a
mauve french-rose,
blooming within,
will uncurl their
farthest wish
in silken twinkles,
my eyes will always
remember these
watercolor heights
splashing crayon dusks
and revealing
silver moon truths,
for there's more
beyond the
neon networks
of syzygy pearl skies
and chestnut reefs,
yearning to be
cherished by the
blonde alchemy of love.
So, I abandon
those sooty
regrets that snorkel
with their fragile fins in
kohl-lily gulfs
and observe these
constellations
of intuitions, formed
by the star-kissed
manta rays and
sketch sagacious
saudades laced
with hope, as a
halo around the
lilac Pole Star.
In this mortal
seascape of
the seventh heaven,
every orphan
of darkness
shimmers as
the beacon
of lustrous
sugar-scintilla that
shapes this world,
in ivory-smitten
spheres of
magically
diaphanous helix,
waltzing in whispers
of wind and water.
Every lava-skinned,
feminine flame
of doleful daffodils
was once a glittered
cherry-red gardenia,
laced with
cardinal buds,
who nurtured
velvet seeds
in the womb of
celeste compassion
and edenic empathy.
And like myself,
every sea-maiden of
sequined lush ruminations,
crowned with
purple plumerias,
is a whimsical wayfinder,
wishing for ~
white bells of serenity
and blue-star petals of peace.
Incessant motion in geometric perfection
Hermetic wisdom: as above, so below
Within form too shines moon glow
Divine feminine, bliss elation
Seasons, tides, menstrual cycle
Goddess is in each breath present
Causation of life forms to be sentient
Energy kinetic, each life pulse a miracle
Inspirations in all hearts, magic of lovers
Enigmatic caress, soul transforming
Suns light, beauteously reflecting
Answering our childlike prayers
Moonlight as Ida, appeasing fire
By her touch, cooling magnetic heat
Vivifying us in rapture, from head to feet
Moon feminine is what propels hearts desire
02-August-2021
Is The Moon Male or Female or Both Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Often I had crossed her path. She had been on my mind; a natural beauty some might say. These thoughts of her came and went. Did she think of me, and if so, what was the meaning of this transcendence? With no voice to inspire me, all inner direction was lost. Restless visions materialized. My meditation grew weak. Unfinished poems I had thought had promise were discarded and I retreated. I breathed deeply, and in doing so, I tried to conjure up something to jot down, but she was too evasive to stir creative juices. Embattled for words, I had nothing to say. It was the height of frustration; an abrupt halt to what had just begun. I walked about lost in a fog of notions.
Searching for something, what was it I sought? I remembered a postcard from long ago, a picture of a beautiful visage painted on a bridge made of stone. I had been stricken. A muse, who was she? A muse is a gift, is it not? Why was it that I could not make her my very own? Feminine, glowing, naked for all to see, I was sure she wouldn’t have minded helping me continue my novel’s journey. I waited under the pass and listened to the silence, a hollow echoing resonated and took on a foreboding and haunting mood. I left the tunnel in a scurried urgency.
A lady I saw once on a granite arch came to me in a dream one night. An oak tree was present, sprouting from it were branches twisted and gnarled. An obscure figure appeared. Her body was painted pink, her hair raven. There she was seated, in between her legs the genus specie; what a presentation. I saw myself trekking towards her, what would I find? Why she beckoned me, I had no explanation. Then she cried, whispering something softly in my mind. She told me all her long-held secrets, grim and bright. A gift for you, she mused—you will recognize me in time. Now I patiently sit at my typewriter and write.
Publicly
advertising
he doesn't tickle
her fancy.
If that's no lie,
then why
seek him out
surreptitiously?
Her terms of endearment
flow like honey off her lips,
but what are they worth?
Does she mean anything she says?
Profound confusion
blowing like smoke
in his mind
expands into
a mushroom cloud.
He endlessly wonders
if her attraction is true.
Her mixed messages
traps him
hook line and sinker
in chin-stroking discombobulation.
She relishes dangling
her feminine wiles
to him like a carrot.
When he comes close
to nibble at her charms,
she p u l l s away.
How cruel?
She's a struck match
that goes out in the frigid cold.
He can't seem to make
heads or tails
of her words and deeds.
What sort of game
is she playing?
It's perplexing.