Long Femme fatale Poems
Long Femme fatale Poems. Below are the most popular long Femme fatale by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Femme fatale poems by poem length and keyword.
A fierce and bold woman, is the villain
when she calls out disrespect.
She is despised by weak individuals full of hate and self-neglect.
An authentic woman intimidated to people who are fake.
No matter how much she is villainized, her confidence won't break.
A woman who has fought most of her battles on her own is a villain to cowards without a backbone.
A sexy femme fatale who unapologetically shines,
Is villainized by people who don't have spines.
A fearless woman who has her own back
is villainized for surviving even the most vicious attack.
Wounded but not defeated, she proudly stands tall.
She is villainized for rising stronger after every fall.
MOTHER OF MOUNTAINS
Oh mountain mother if I may,
put forth my praise of thee,
of noble strength, steadfast and true,
Your full beauty none can see.
Violently birthed by mother earth,
jutting up through the dirt and trees.
Stretching toward the sun and stars,
catching clouds upon the breeze.
Dinosaurs walked in the shadow
of your majestic purple face,
adorned with gleaming snow white locks,
foothills flow from your embrace.
Glacial ice cuting slowly deep,
it's lines expose your age.
Your regal peak, stern and steep,
like a brash old mother sage.
A universal femme fatale,
invoking art and reverie.
You can not be moved or conquered
nor captured by mere poetry.
Grand words praise your nobility,
songs strive your peaks to soar,
by mortal tongue, no justice done,
as your truth transcends all lore.
I wore my sins like velvet lace,
Then set your garden all ablaze.
I never once said I was kind--
I only promised not to mind.
The chandelier you loved? It fell.
I laughed and called it “doing well.”
Your rules were quaint, but far too tight--
I loosened them with fire and bite.
Abandon all grace here, my dear--
The wine is sharp, the end is near.
The guests are ghosts, the cake’s a knife--
Let’s toast to your once-perfect life.
I dance in boots of shattered glass,
My lipstick’s poison, bold as brass.
The night is young, the mess is mine--
Now smile, love. You’re doing fine.
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
One click closer to a naughty mama.
One click closer to a blue chanteuse.
One click closer to a prima donna.
One click closer to a femme fatale.
One click closer to a black deed done.
One click closer to oblivion.
One click closer to a foxy diva.
One click closer to a sweet coquette.
One click closer to a rogue enchantress.
One click closer to a teasing vamp.
One click closer to a death head’s grin.
One click closer to oblivion.
One click closer to a nagging harpy.
One click closer to a nasty scold.
One click closer to a fussy trollop.
One click closer to a brazen shrew.
One click closer, it’s Euclidian.
One click closer to oblivion.
One click closer to an eager hussy.
One click closer to a .
One click closer to a savage mistress.
One click closer to an ardent tart.
One click closer lets Delilah win.
One click closer to oblivion.
What do I call that young coquette?
My shadow self; my silhouette.
Those clothes, that hair, a cigarette.
The joie de vivre; the vain regret.
What sort of pithy epithet
will she recall, lest I forget?
Perhaps, instead a sobriquet
for who I was back in the day.
But what would she wish to portray?
Somewhat naive, a bit risqué?
A wounded child or power play?
“All that and more!” is what she’d say.
That girl who played a victim game
(though she would make the counter-claim).
A femme fatale; a wild flame.
A spirit not a soul could tame.
Both full of pride and full of shame,
all contradiction just the same.
It all feels now as but a dream,
that martyr of her own regime.
A fog of war; a distant scream.
An echo of one’s disesteem.
A soldier who would self-redeem
and break her shackles at the seam.
Now when she comes to mind I smile,
recalling each and every mile
we marched and fought in rank and file.
We failed, we wailed, we shed the guile
to wake and heal and reconcile
a misspent youth and life worthwhile.
*****************************
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
She is a vixen, a siren, a flobbergooser, a tramp.
Because she wears a dress? I asked, confused.
Because she wears a red dress.
There are answering murmurs.
I am working on the Alzheimer’s unit
This is the first thing these three women have agreed on.
Don’t look at her! Don’t speak to her! Don’t…..
“HI!” Doris says as the flobbergooser approaches our table.
Her dress is gorgeous – red with tiny pink and yellow birds.
She has the best smile, and she returns the “hi”.
They decide to include her; she sits at the fourth chair.
I hear them oohing and ahhing about her dress.
So is she a vixen? A siren? A tramp? A flobbergooser?
I smile as I fix them hot fudge sundaes.
“You are a femme fatale!” One yells out.
The others nod.
The red-dressed woman smiles.
“At least I’m not a flobbergooser!” She yells.
They laugh until they fall into their hot fudge sundaes.
Best place ever to work.
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
Starring Miss Clara Bow
Here's a tidbit you may not know
About the silent screen siren Miss Clara Bow:
All her films were a hit,
What she had was called "It",
And the '20s were lit with Miss Bow in the show.
Then There Was Theda
The vamp Theda Bara was quite a gal
On the screen in her roles as a "femme fatale".
She wore costumes revealing
That were often scene-stealing
But were still quite appealing to male co-stars, et al.
Naughty Nita Naldi
Silent screen star Nita Naldi was an Irish dolly
Who began her career in the Ziegfeld Follies.
She was pursued in films by paramours,
Such as R. Valentino and J. Barrymore,
And finally "talked" on TV in the '50s, by golly.