Long Madonna Poems
Long Madonna Poems. Below are the most popular long Madonna by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Madonna poems by poem length and keyword.
Being in one place too long,
being in one form to long,
never being able to tolerate a blank page,
or empty air,
for fear of what someone else
will put in it if you don't
Wanting to feel safe, surrounded by enemies
who call themselves friends
A white knight dreamer in purgatory
edged on an endless field of victims
with hands outstretched.
A stereotypical Madonna
white in a field of gray
A wick less, often witless, foil
of coils of gray matter around things
which matter not at all.
Making acquaintances,
cloaking them in the garb of friendship
even while they toss sticks
on the pyres of the all life.
For what after all is a friend...
Who after all can truly know
as each of us confront and are confronted
by our own hells
and hope without much hope
for the outstretched hand to be ungloved
and touch the skin of our lives.
The velvet night does come
and time for sleep
Velvet shades close over my eyes
i come to you
Meet me in the stars
within silverlight
My moonlight madonna
of the shining stars
I love to drown
deep within your eyes
To lose my soul
within your glory's soul
We shall be one soul
beside the starlight stream
In a wondrous night
within love's beautiful dream
As the velvet night comes
I will wait for you
within my dreams
Wherever you go i will follow
even if it's among the stars
Come to me my precious love
i want to lose myself
in the magic of your mystery
I want our souls to become one
and just let ecstasy unfold
The stars
they are shining so bright
I'll meet you
in the world of dreams
Our lips meet
i drink in your essence
The kiss you give
takes me to divine
We lie together
by the starlight stream
The moon touching us
with silver grace
I hold you close
and i know heaven
I live within the magic
of your dreams
Let me lose myself
within your eyes
Life comes to me
within love's dreams
I love to share
my lover's kiss
it is pure bliss
Your sweet kisses
are my greatest pleasure
I love lying next to you
amongst the stars
As the moon caresses us
it unlocks a fiery passion
When i look into your eyes
i see forever
I live wherever you are
my love, it's magic
I don't want to leave this place
it's so magical
the ultimate fantasy
There’s a lot of talk
about when the music died;
But the Summer of 1958?
That was a different time;
There were three born,
each with the same goal:
to redefine everything,
to change the world;
All have been called royal;
Prince, and Michael;
Just one spot left,
This one meant for a girl;
She hit us like a french kiss in 1983;
An artist getting played on pop stations
but she was singing R & B;
In the 90’s she was Dita
putting everyone to task;
Right now, her fans know her
simply as Madame X;
All have been called royal
We lost Prince, we lost Michael
Just one left, the Material Girl;
They call Madonna a legend,
the Queen of Pop;
Whenever anyone asks ‘Why’?
The fans say
the lyrics speak for themselves,
‘I can’t, Icon two letters apart’.
Ya know baby you're usually right
Center cut, intherace, that's your place
On target, red carpet, gotomarket
Hittin' the bull's eye, 'n baby, I'm your guy
Smack-Dab babe
Like the Nile, you flow the right way
Like Carlyle, know what ta say
With you, I'm okay
If ever I'm off and stray
Grab meaway, gimme a jab
Baby, that's Smack-Dab
You're like Ophelia, Antonin Scailia, multimedia, memorabilia
Honey, you're KarmannGhia! Oh, callmea cab
Baby, you're Smack-Dab
You're Lash La Rue, Peggy Sue, Scooby Doo, Mister Magoo
Honey, You're Super Glue! Wow! Back to the lab
Baby, you're Smack-Dab
You're so sure
We're at that stage, we needa sage
Honey, you're the rage!
Baby, you're Smack-Dab
You're like Al Gore, Dorothy Lamour, Dinah Shore, Za Za Gabor
Honey, you're no bore! Ain't never drab
Baby, you're Smack-Dab
You're so fab
Fit as a fiddle, Nelson Riddle, heat upthe griddle
Honey, you're in the middle!
Baby, you're Smack-Dab
You're Buster Crabbe, Colin McNab, take a stab, my bar tab
Honey, you're my rehab! Ah, the gift a gab
Baby, you're Smack-Dab
While it's true only you I adore
I really oughtta tell you more
Baby, Imma big time loser, a simple fleck
Honey, you're a sure winner, a stacked deck
You're my Madonna, only one I wanna
Someday you'll get rings 'n things
For now your praises, it's me who sings
I'd rope a Picasso with my trusty lasso
Ya know I'd buyeth, if I saw a good Wyeth
Honey, you're the latest 'n the greatest
Baby, that's Smack-Dab
....On Receiving my Nursing Cap......
On the shores of Lake Michigan, I bowed my head,
and received my nursing cap.
At Madonna de LaStrada Chapel, long before the
days there was a life overcome with Apps!
In those days we wore uniforms, white stockings
and white shoes.
Rules were strict, there was no " dress as you like"
loose rules.
I miss those days, of caring directly for others.
Learning to give injections, scared the life out of me
and my nursing school sisters and brothers!
I admire those who give their days and nights, to
work with the very ill.
But memories of wrapping dead bodies in bags,
still gives me a chill!
There were no computers back then, we wrote notes
neatly down.
At bedtime, we gave those who chose, a wonderful
massage and nightly rub down!
Midway through nursing school, God sent to me,
my love!
I gave up nursing school, eloped, and became both
wife, and turtedove!
Still, those tender moments, I love so to recall.
Loyola University, in Evanston, Saint Francis Hospital,
And caring for my patients, most of all!
3/28/2021
~1~
Notes: I changed majors and attended other universities
to get a Bachelor of Education.
Major: Science Minor: Philosphy
I did teach in elementary schools in Chicago and later in
the San Francisco Unified School District.
I attended the University of Chicago after that, to study
famous painters, sculpturers and classical music.
Répéter Depuis le Début
The Pink Studio, by Henri Matisse, 1911.
Perception fuses like melted rose quartz,
fuses on the lens of Matisse’s puzzled eyes
like the naiveté of childhood returned to age.
Melted images rose in two dimensions,
rose in repetition, mothering the pieces.
Quartz, genteel rosé, shown in transcendence,
fuses on the lens of Matisse’s puzzled eyes
on naysayers & followers, his morphosis reigns.
The stimulus silent, light’s effect returned, burned
lens now open to the madness of pattern, pieces
of left brain obliterated; right reinforced; art,
Matisse’s obsession oozed from his pores
puzzled synapses explored and explored,
eyes dry as a bone, from sleepless nights, sigh.
Like the naiveté of childhood returned to age,
the Madonna appears, or the muse Aphrodite reborn,
naiveté sexless tasted clean, pure, purged in white.
Of the patterns outside, he’d reproduce those within
childhood wide-eyed he approached & there he
returned again & again paying homage to the core,
to reiterate images in pieces of two dimensions
age left the left brain obliterated – reinforced the right.
Melted images rose in two dimensions.
Images, giving meaning to negative space,
rose ground beneath the pestle of repetition
in loops, sockets, knobs, holes, tabs, slots & keys
two halves male-female, left-right, up-down
dimensions all an idiocracy depicted his fright,
rose in repetition, mothering pieces,
in loops, sockets, knobs, holes, tabs, slots & keys
repetition reiterated, quartz ground beneath the pestle
mothering the pieces of two dimensions,
pieces of puzzles conjoining parts triangularly staged.
Quartz, genteel rosé, shown in transcendence.
Genteel, childlike, Matisse adored illumination, art
rose with repetition, a mothering of the pieces,
shown in the dance, in stance, in transfigured delight,
in loops, sockets, knobs, holes, tabs, slots & keys,
transcendence an illusion, of optics, of light.
First Published in Ekphrastic: writing and art on art and writing 2016
Ars Longa
It finally happened!
Someone in the East Wing
Goateed a Madonna and redid a Rembrant
a la de Kooning.
A blond with Vogue patterns
is crouched on the hall--
She's eyeing a Van Gogh
eyeing her from the wall.
We judge from the blushes
of blue-rinsed ladies in fur
Rude comments were made
on the audio tour.
The guards commandeer
Donatellos for targets
and are cleaning their pistols
with snips of Vermeer.
The staff in the Art Shoppe
is selling originals
and hanging the copies
in Gallery Five.
They're burning the Monets
they've tattooed Apollo,
crowds clamor outside
to get in on the fun.
Cars circle the gallery
in infinite coils--
curbside parturitions
here a boy there a girl.
Heroes are labeled on signs in front yards,
People on sidewalks wave hand-painted posters,
And ABC announces designated heroes,
As if I can’t spot one for myself.
Today, with the Covid-19 pandemic,
Medical personnel at all levels are labeled heroes,
But weren’t they heroes before working long shifts
Saving lives in an emergency room?
Or rushing to deliver a baby with a mother in crises?
Or their constant susceptibility to catching a
Deadly disease from those they serve?
Or our veterans, who endure months away from home
At a time, in foreign countries where they are not
Always welcome, and who may return
Without a limb—a job—a family—a home.
They’re honored and labeled heroes only when they win.
Police and firefighters are labeled heroes
As soon as they die in the line of duty.
But weren’t they heroes just yesterday, before they died,
When they rescued the bank employees
From gunmen in that hostage situation?
Or put out that fire before it
Wiped out a whole block of homes?
It may be that spouses and kids think
They’re heroes every day
When they come home at the
End of their shifts—or from foreign wars.
Some people think that Madonna, or Meg Ryan,
Or Angelina Jolie are heroes for adopting
Children from third world countries,
Or that Oprah Winfrey is a hero
For establishing a girls school in Africa.
But I think the 10-year-old boy in Florida
Who is on a mission to run one mile and one dollar
At a time to support fallen police officers is more of a hero.
Or the young single mother working full time
And getting her master’s degree.
Or the 26-year-old man who saved a 77-year-old woman
trapped in her car after plunging head first into a creek.
Or the man who risked icy waters of a canal
To save a dog stranded on a broken bridge.
I suppose there is no one definition of a hero,
But I don’t think it’s the sports star who simply makes big bucks,
Or the reality show star who has given
Birth to multiple children,
Or the movie star who tells people how to live
Their lives while living in a glass house.
No, I think heroes are everyday people,
Living out their lives as best they can
While respecting and not hurting others—
And while loving as best they can.
Many are my favorite things,
but nothing is more exciting
that ravishingly beautiful sexy ladies:
those seen in a movie theater
who light up the wide screen under
the Califonia's palm trees swaying.
Marilyn Monroe was an exceptional beauty,
not to mention the elegant Audrey Hepburn,
who many times made my silly heart burn;
and what about Sophia Loren, the Italian sex-symbol,
who attracted men of all ages, and entertained them all,
right after World War II had devasted her beloved Italy?
Today there are more glamorous stars,
and Madonna is one of them for her fabulous
acting in "Evita"...and her, big blue eyes
captured the audiences as she brightly danced;
lots of folks thought she was lewd, but what other choice
did she have, if not rise to power and be admired?
Allow me to list some more sensational beauties:
Angeline Jolie with her dusky complexion and pretty eyes;
a powerful sexiness that woos audiences worldwide,
but is it her talent or sex appleal that people admire?
And finally, another gorgeous actress, July Roberts, who besides her stunning
looks, she was brilliant in, "Pretty Woman" and "My best Friend's Wedding."
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
Breathe laden islands rise and fall
beneath the steam graced surface of clear water,
capped with rosettes, red-brown, silken, warm,
beaded with water running in rivers
down mountainsides of flesh, puddling,
in the darken depression of navel.
The water rises, about kneecaps
pristine and alabaster in hue.
Angular shoulders hug the far end of the tub.
A slender neck held aloft, crowned with auburn hair
and hazel eyes, changling orbs, of green and gold
an a oval face rivaling Modigliani’s Madonna.
A ruddy glow spreads across high cheekbones.
The rising water submerges all,
but porcelain neck and upturned face,
tendrils, tresses, coil, splay on still water.
Lids droop languidly, lips pout petulantly,
and still the water rises
buoying delicate arms, ending in fingers
...avidly playing.. upon
the pearl white key to desire.