Long Madame Poems
Long Madame Poems. Below are the most popular long Madame by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Madame poems by poem length and keyword.
The rib of Eve is fashion's price
A sadistic trap of six-inch heels
Some masochist's torture device
Or for added bust appeal
To wrap the torso so austere
And lift upon bands of steel
The French grandly name the brassiere
Paris, an exacting Madame
Wielding her whip of sharp cashmere
No slouching, suck in that diaphragm!
A lady glides on blistered feet
Starved to belong, sweet tooth be damned
No sweat allowed in any heat
Only single digit sizes impress
Shunning all those more than petite
Sisters, what happened to progress?
Our feminist freedoms manifold
We deserve to be a mess!
Gray is lovelier than gold...
4/12/19
For Quirky Tercets contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Kind and nice lady,
We are not eternal,
Not you, not me, not them,
Hurry to love me,
Marie Gaëlle,
We are not eternal,
Not you, not me, not them
Hurry to think about it,
Little mom,
We are not eternal,
Not you, not me, not the Pope
Hurry to sleep,
Poet friend,
We are not eternal,
Not you, not me, not them,
Hurry and write to the mountains,
Frequent traveler,
We are not eternal,
Not you, not me, not them,
Hurry up and visit New York,
Marie Catherine,
We are not eternal,
Not you, not me, not them,
Hurry to kiss me,
Marie Gaëlle,
We are not eternal,
Neither you nor I, do not wait,
Hurry up and write to me,
Hurry up, little girl,
To dance and sing,
Your chocolate taste haunts me,
Hurry up and eat oranges,
Poor nephews, poor nieces,
Poor schoolchildren, poor schoolgirls,
We are not eternal,
The sea will remain, not us, in heaven,
Love her like a sister,
I am not eternal
Hurry up little girl, hurry up little girl.
Gentille madame,
Nous ne sommes pas éternels,
Ni toi, ni moi, ni eux,
Dépêche-toi de m’aimer,
Marie Gaëlle,
Nous ne sommes pas éternels,
Ni toi, ni moi, ni eux
Dépêche-toi d’y penser,
Petite maman,
Nous ne sommes pas éternels,
Ni toi, ni moi, ni le Pape
Dépêche-toi de dormir,
Ami poète,
Nous ne sommes pas éternels,
Ni toi, ni moi, ni eux,
Dépêche-toi d’écrire aux montagnes,
Grand voyageur,
Nous ne sommes pas éternels,
Ni toi, ni moi, ni eux,
Dépêche-toi de visiter New York,
Marie Catherine,
Nous ne sommes pas éternels,
Ni toi, ni moi, ni eux,
Dépêche-toi de m’embrasser,
Marie Gaëlle,
Nous ne sommes pas éternels,
Ni toi, ni moi, n’attends pas,
Dépêche-toi de m’écrire,
Dépêche-toi, fillette,
De danser et chanter,
Ton goût de chocolat me hante,
Dépêche-toi de manger des oranges,
Pauvres neveux, pauvres nièces,
Pauvres collégiens, pauvres collégiennes,
Nous ne sommes pas éternels,
La mer restera, pas nous, au ciel,
Aimez-la comme une sœur,
Je ne suis pas éternel
Dépêche-toi fillette, dépêche-toi fillette.
Sir, ‘tis a letter for your eyes only, oddly, ‘tis a brown envelope used?”
—“Pray tell, why did you say, oddly, madame?”
“It hails from the palace, a place of dignity, but to forward itself a respite with commonality, breeds a different sort.”
—“Ah! That explains that (holding the unopened envelope in his hand raised), for across our channel is abuzz, as war wreaks havoc beyond our shores, I beg that I be naught caught by any challenges, as an announcing envelope may hail an affront at my very doorsteps. Plainly, it draws none to wonder, for it lacks interest for the few who seek cover from our English weather, their ruse.“
“Really, here in England!”
—”That madman is naught an idiot, but diabolical. Give him no measure, for he’ll want more without end, for that’s his intent. Our nation has long been at risk, and I fear that the contents of this envelope may ripen our unsheathed souls to hail victory in its due course.”
“I dislike war.”
—”Madame, it's naught the matter of ‘dislike or like’, nevertheless, it’s a matter of our very survival that will purpose our furtherance of our ‘likes or dislikes’, their proper argument to entertain our future.”
“Maybe, the palace seeks peace.”
—”If it be so, then I challenge that ‘word’ with its homophone and not homonym from that depressing madman, with due respect, madame.”
“Well, open it, sir, for the king awaits—I trust—for an answer?”
—”Very well, tut-tut. Hm, I’m asked to be the next Prime Minister!”
“Oh my, and what of Chamberlin?”
—”He will probably be a thorn in my rose; unfortunately, it is rumored, yet prepared will I be, to exchange it with a lily. Well, I am off to the palace and there will I see that purplish king, or brown if it be so hush-hush.”
O lady, banish my monochrome days
and weave your coppery threads into
a dim red florescence of coyote words;
There you stand draped in beige chiffon
against preternatural piety of a striptease sea
continuously playing with Prussian blue pastels.
O lady, gallantly unleash your plump cherubs
and licentious cats with that timeless witchery
of a vanilla Guerlain perfume dart;
Throw a dusty rain-soaked rose, Madame Pompadour;
I am flying into another sugary abyss of setting suns
and Fragonard silks of flickering coral.
Is it the fighting of heavenly dragons? Is it Boucher's
brushstrokes that bring us April showers
and the music of irises and champagne pearls?
Have they yet arrived? The throng asked; they looked like a mob.
Who is it? The Queen Mother? Queried an elegant snob.
Better than that, one said as a limousine pulled up; a cat strutted out.
It‘s John Singer Sargent’s Madame X and Monsieur Z without a doubt!
Monsieur Z turned to give the commoners an elegant gracious bow.
Then he gave his paw to Madame X, who emerged looking like a wow.
The crowd went wild, throwing carnations and roses in their path.
They took their time, trying to ignore the cheers and aftermath.
Their evening out was the talk of all London, for it had been awhile.
The Examiner had the best photo now of Monsieur Z with a huge smile.
Madame X’s photographs were mostly of her sweet luscious behind.
Her satin black dress draped so low, these photos would be a find.
You are beautiful Madame X assured his comrade, Monsieur Z.
Expecting a forthcoming compliment, but it was not to be.
She did not want to give him false hope, for she loved another.
She was actually thinking of pawing him off on her mother.
He was seven years old, so in cat years that was forty-two.
Whereas she was twenty one, and had lots of living to do.
Let’s go home early, he whispered in her ear, with cat-like hope.
She thought it was a great idea; with her mother he could watch a TV soap.
Heaven sent famed foodie pearl named after a chap from Kent
Treat with street cred neat feat stuff spread betwixt slice of bread
Hell bent that sarnie blarney intent as naans bent unfurl rotis curl
Tastebuds tamed twirl senses swirl a shame came from an Earl
If spice thrills are your vice or instead perhaps fills you with dread
Across the map.. bam.. bao..bahn mi or a bap.. cash well spent
Gutter scam peanut butter and jam glut just an instagram sham
Tut..cram full of ham..croque monsieur or more glam his madame
Or unctuous wheeze of the rambunctious tease of the Portuguese
Place booked am already hooked on a cheese toasty pan cooked
Slutty don’t give a damn.. a smutty chip butty lovely calorie slam
Wham bam decadent event prevent Hawaiian trying frying spam
Not being hasty Reubens are as tasty as cigars from the Cubans
Top grub can’t snub or choose a sub over jurassic classic the Club
Bocadillo peccadillo maybe tyro with gyro bambino with baby panino
Bespoked umami army of smoked salmon bagels or rye & pastrami
Shawarma true performer why magic number is 3 top of the tree BLT
Warren Zevon when terminal tumour did linger even had seminal humour
No rumour since a boy no glitch the singer was a finger food consumer
This baby boomer’s final pitch said without a hitch what made life rich
Not being a snitch Warren a quote hatched as knew couldn’t be matched
What did bewitch scratched that itch you can’t ditch because life’s a b*tch
The highlight another delight just dispatched so must “Enjoy Every Sandwich”
Anna et le BAISER FRANÇAIS
French Verse Anna and the FRENCH KISS
Ahhh !! Ooh la-la-moi dame,
Pipi ah, madame.
Fille, dis-tu nous.
Poisson-langue.
Un vœu profond.
Un bonheur préféré, collant et concis
En combinant cela. Lutte de langue, langues.
Toucher, saliver Bliss. Des lèvres douces et succulentes.
Embrasser ...
Amour prolongé l'un pour l'autre.
Amore, belle Anna- Je t'aime tellement.
Je pourrais juste te manger.
Comme je saliver 500 à 1000 raisons différentes. Pourquoi?
Pourquoi devrions-nous cracher les échanges,
Oh la la...
Et à la lumière du jour sous le soleil.
Et tandis que l'ombre de la lune brillamment fuit.
Nous embrassons français
Sucer le visage.
Intime, passionné
Oh, Anna un tel dilemme.
Comme une bouche sur la paille
Nous nous retirons.
Pénétrer une telle ruée
Baiser de langue, alléchant,
exprimer, passion érotique.
Anna Dopamine,
Oh! Anna Endorphines,
ouh ! Anna Ocytocine, ahh ! Oh!
VENEZ ICI FILLE parce que vous ne voulez pas manquer,
ce baiser français
Vous n'avez pas besoin de parler, "ooh la la" ! Pipi, ma fille.
Anna tu connais mon désir le plus cher mon vœu glorieux.
Est-ce que tu viens ici ma fille, viens mon amour allons-nous embrasser français.
8/21/21 ©
a lone woman is painted
her face stands out for me
she looks so heavenly
although she has been painted stiff
there are no flowing lines
no graceful strokes
but the artist has captured
a deep sadness within her
and her painted rosy cheeks
the artist has captured her dignity
charm and demure
yet I feel her pain in his painted strokes
her gown is quite lovely
soft and rich
a forest green velvet
with white lace peaking out
she sits on a gilded chair
her folded hands
rest upon a white mink fur coat,
behind a window view
of a frozen lake and trees
her hair falls in lovely waves
though she appears posed and stiff
as was the manner in portraits
of the day
_______________________________________
October 11, 2019
Poetry/Ekphrasis/A Painted Portrait- by Theophile Hamel
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1187-825-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted into the FFI Blog Series 24- Ekphrasis
Brian Strand
Podium Place 2
Inspiration-Portrait of- Madame Lemoyne-Angers
By Theophile Hamel (1817-1870)
Canadian Portrait Painter
To you my precious Valentine,
I raise my glass of wine!
Tho' you have driven me to drink,
'Tis you I truly love (I think)!
You are so lovely to me my dear.
I shall always want you very near!
Tho' you have the couth of a battering ram,
You're still my darling Valentine, madame!
Happy Valentine's Day to you my sweet!
Ours is a romance with love replete.
But when whispering sweet nothings in my ear,
Please refrain from burping up your beer!
Happy Valentine's Day to you my beloved wife.
Without you 'twould be a very dismal life.
I'm looking forward to romantic years ahead,
Tho' the dye of your hair be purple, black or red!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Entry for Carol Eastman's "Humor Contest"
I am very young in spirit, never weak: guess my actual age?
I keep a positive outlook by avoiding negativeness and rage!
Twenty years from now, I'll be wrinkly and gray losing more hair than today;
I'll spend hours in devoted prayer, molding real faces out of plaster and clay!
Anywhere in the lovely Italian countryside emotions seem to rise from inside,
I'll sit and paint those life-like images singing an aria from Madame Butterfly:
thinking of New York's friendly faces and that girl who never became my bride,
but staring at the ticking watch will increase sadness, minutes will not speed by!
Can anyone imagine how I'll react when all the hearts I've broken
will finally smile and feel some empathy, although vivid is their memory?
Time, distance and forgiveness won't allow bitterness to reawaken...
isn't this something everyone should reflect upon and think it thoroughly?
For now, any sad thought on being old must be put aside;
all I can hope for is getting there on the smoothest ride!
Written on 4/ 23/2017