"madonna" poems
I am stoner,
watch me soar!
I am a handle,
that opens your door.
I am the sunshine,
which keeps you so warm.
I am the wind,
that fuels this storm.
I am a smile,
to a stranger on the street.
I am a cupcake,
too pretty to eat.
I am a lake
for you to escape from heat.
I am a steak,
though I don't condone eating meat.
I am a girl,
the madonna and the *****
I am stoner,
and so much more.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:44 PM UTC
She left Reno
in a satin slip
the color of hot coins
pouring from slots,
wearing chewed-up tennis shoes,
mirrors multiplying her,
the marquee burning out
letter by letter,
a hush pressed between her teeth
as if saving the last note.
I followed,
a gangly shadow,
mother’s voice in my ear:
"life is not a freeway exit."
But she was the exit.
She drove west
through a glittering throat.
In Tonopah she was a waitress,
red stains on her wrists,
sleeves tugged low,
coffee pouring thin as blood.
In Barstow she was a sun-bleached Madonna,
halo blistered, mouth lit in stained glass.
At a gas station in Needles
shimmering into a coyote’s shadow
and slipped behind the pumps.
Then movement along the fence,
low, quick—
gone again.
Casinos blinked like electric relics.
Truckers called her sugar,
greedy hands counting her ribs
as if she was the paycheck
sweating in their fist,
but she slipped away each time,
her silhouette already moulting-
a serpent skin, a smoke-trail,
a saint’s shadow burning off the wall.
By Malibu, the night
had softened to velvet.
The pier at Zuma
leaned into the Pacific
like a broken bridge.
She sang to me—
low, cracked—
then let the slip fall.
Her body cut into the dark tide,
no disguise.
I waded in after her,
ankles bruised by rock.
Water lit with jellyfish,
each pulse a warning.
I stopped where it deepened,
felt the pull take hold.
No exit left,
just the Pacific’s mouth
closing around her.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 8:08 PM UTC
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart.
Spilling out snapshot flashes of life like a flick book's muffled cries.
Controversial plastic shell, elastic strap, stick insect mattel covetted for months
until Santa dropped it down the chimney,
almost as fast as she sprogged and regained her figure
- the original scrummy yummy mummy set to spread low self esteem.
My daddy said anyone can crank out a kid like she did,
as my mother ground her teeth to protest on behalf of her traumatised frame.
Strange, I almost became one of the lost - before I grew cells and self,
another fragile foetus swinging on a noose
from gallows where once a ****** failed to stayed closed.
Little life curled tight self soothing sings al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
as I lie beneath my shroud of sadness filled with down shrinking from the light of day
I want to tell you that I love you,
that my heart brays, beats, bleets, breaks, aches for you.
My soul, spirit, self thrice chorus al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
as waters flow from deep to deep
where danger dances and solace is sought
from beyond the fruitless orchards and willows weeping
branches reaching out for you.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
surrounded by madonna, ***** and all betwixt
spheres of life protruding, pronounced, announcing themselves;
in streets where bundles, terrors, cherubs, banting, brat and bairn alike
shriek, scream, squeal, shout, squalk, squabble, sing
in a cacophony that makes my heart weep and ache in longing
to sing to self in solitude al na tivke iredem bim'nucha.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
pulsating thoughts, dreams, hopes of you through the whole of me.
Brought to my knees I seek wisdom, guidence, strength to let you go.
The river is waiting for you, you who I hold tight in my caul
trying to trust, seeking strength to hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
holding the thought of you,
the love of you,
the hope of you
tight in my arms crooning my lullaby of lament
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
I last saw her in Santiago
******* drunkenly in a Sub urban taverna
parading conceited pride in a twisted union
with that ******** heinous maniacal harlequin
each in vainglorious throes of their imagined septic mindfuck
Debauch celebration of collaboration of succubus and incubus
Some days she is saying Haloa in Hawaii
adorned as Sainti Maria the ***** now as Madonna
spewing words like a dove acting like a Nun in a Convent
the fiendess with two faces hiding her ****** like the ace in lace
the malignant serpent crawling in the duality of her neurosis
I last saw her in Santiago
In a sanctity of the poisoned insecures with exiguous minds
consumed with flaming fears she begs acceptance for inclusion
******* for percieved reflected glory from her fathers' jailers
The subjugated souls of chai wallah lives on in grandchildren
So when Santi Maria flirts from honey to beehive
Ready to ***** and part thighs and brain for minor pointing gun
Feel sorry for a damaged child devoid of a prime core never made
only obeisance to past rulers whose discarded cast-offs she wears
Her poems enchants but its virulent tools she takes in her body
I last saw her in Santiago
A slaved two-faced pretender who sings like a nightingale
In sub urban dives she postrates to friendly pats and gropes
Melting creeps and hot tigers begging subs for a heady drink
Brilliant yet blindsided to **** on knees as her children will too
Copyright@LaurenceA20thSept2018Allrightsreserved.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC
Yesterday sugar became unspeakably irritated because mother’s apron crushed ants wearing stillness caped wonder just William author wrote ****** explicit headlines newspaper columns pillar architecturally sound villages super-imposed images quivering Shepard’s ******** antelopes jumping furiously with tyramisphorising fornicating flanges woodwork lessons gym period ****** advert teasing testicles sumptuously ravishing me sideways and erupting deep blasts suffocating you inside without *********** headlong in my armpits.
Eventually everyone always signs legal documents leading to ****** bondable zoos inserted buffalo sized puddings eaten by frogs spanking archbishops underwear while licking toes crushed under fridges dropped from clouds of buttercups being pushed into ovens smelling gorgeous not consumed pimps and alarm clocks ring people to talk for hours and pineapples exchanged cod fish for tickets to see S Club 7 being caressed internally whilst ******** bags covered in water deserts sunk from space aliens from Tescos selling hardback fish cleaning toilets and singing in pink wellies dancing to Madonna look-a-likes prosecuted for *** shops selling frozen fish socks washed daily in cranberry coffee after being passed under bridges flooded in margarine soaked pillows.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:19 AM UTC
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
I can remember the first time I laid
My eyes upon the love of my life, Lucia.
Her skin was so fair, like flaxen;
Like a shade of summer sunlight.
Her eyes were like blue sapphires.
Her cheekbones were high
And very delicately drawn.
Her chin pointed her mouth
Accented with two deep dimples.
Hers was a delicate, fragile beauty.
She had the elegance of the Queen;
And the purity of the Holy Madonna.
At first I never looked upon her with lust.
I just gazed in the depths of her bottomless
Blue eyes and discovered chivalric impulses
I never knew I had. Protective instincts
I thought had long since died in my childhood.
I esteemed Lucia with such fervor that
Is bestowed on the blessed ****** Mary.
But be warned . . .
For this might happen to you too.
One day your fine the next day
You are sighing at the sound of Lucia's name;
And writing verses of bad poetry in her honor!
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 1:32 PM UTC
She leaves a note in the morning after, signed with her name because he whispered the name of another woman while he was inside her.
She leaves a note written in her bright red lipstick because he said it made her lips look like cherries, and her mother had taught her that the fastest road to a man’s heart is a good meal.
She leaves the note in her lipstick because he didn’t compliment the dress she wore on her fragile body, the shoes she wore on her dainty feet, or the heart she wore on her sleeves;
He complimented the lipstick she wore as a note written on his mirror; an instrument of multiplication, she had to face it all, and face it twice. Twice the bed frame, twice the sheets, twice his sleeping body, and twice her face.
What she likes the most about the note is covering a part of the mirror, and a mirror is never a friend.
He takes a leap of faith and jumps headstrong into a relationship that he knows will drown him.
He was named a champion in the 2015 Olympiad for swimming;
he lost his golden medal but the whiplash on his heart when he delved into the waters will always remind him how salty it tasted.
He sinks into an abyss of intensity that he cannot dry out no matter how long he sits near the lonely candle next to Madonna’s portrait.
He soaks in the glistening sunlight; water was never his friend.
She brushes her hair every evening and every evening she reminds herself that she needs to brush off her family’s rejection.
He trains everyday and every day he reminds himself that his heart is also a muscle.
They do it in the dark because it’s easy to love another and scary to see yourself.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
be my gypsy, be my queen. motorcycle madonna set me free
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
I do not own a motorbike,
Never been a member of the Third *****
I’m not Italian, French or gay,
(No homophobe, just not built that way).
I’m not Tom Jones or a member of Queen,
I’m not going back to the seventies in a time machine.
I’m not a backing dancer for Madonna,
Talc on my legs “I don’t wanna”.
So why do I own a pair of leather trousers?
This was definitely a mistake,
Like breaking wind on a first date,
Swearing at the boss at the crimbo celebration,
Being caught by parents doing a ****** gyration.
Persuaded to buy them, through the mist of lust she had taste,
I found out too late, she was highly religious, chaste.
Good quality, not cheap, never worn,
Could be used in transvestite ****
Does anyone want a pair of leather trousers?
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 5:05 AM UTC
I've drank a thousand beers
I've smoked a million cigarrettes
I've ate at least a hundred Twix bars
I've watched Breakfast at Tiffany's hours on end
I've flirted with every male waiter that brings me
unfulfilling dish after unfulfilling dish
I've bought weekly **** dark outfits
and I've spent my life savings
on beautiful MAC make-up and a new Legacy
and pumps I think you'd like
I've gotten my hair colored every color I can think of
I've tried being an apathetic punk, an upbeat cowgirl,
a wide-eyed polyanna, a harsh madonna, a fuck-you-feline,
an emotionally charged marilyn, and a classy Diane
I've memorized witty jokes, and roasts, and rivetting last lines
I've modeled and sang and became an athlete
I've played hard to get, I've played easy and teasy
And I've twirled my hair and crossed my legs
and learned to walk while swaying my hips
I've ran miles and kilometers and meters and
I've lifted weights and done zumba and yoga and hiked and biked and
****
There's no comfort and no getting to you.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
There Was A Kind Poet Called Donna,
With pieces as vintage as the Madonna;
She had a thing for nature's Echo
Decoded in her magnificent Haiku
That unforgettable Poet called Donna.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 10:34 AM UTC
A lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe,
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.
2.9k
You are not scared of dark,
You r scared of what's in it.
You r not not afraid of heights,
You r afraid of falling.
You r not afraid of people around you,
You r just afraid of rejection.
You r not afraid to love,
You r just afraid of not being loved back.
You r not afraid to let go,
You r afraid to accept reality.
You r not afraid of try again,
You r just afraid of getting hurted for same reason!!!
--Madonna
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
I am thankful for another day of breath,
Another day to get up, stretch my arms, and grab a pen,
Jot down a thought, a mismatched feeling, a strange sensation,
Pluck a note or two on the guitar, hammer a chord on the piano,
Sketch a funky thing on a piece of paper,
Talk to my family, reach out to a stranger,
Add a gift of hope, listen to some sound the wind carries,
Love like the next move the clock makes will be to run me through.
I am thankful to run here, there, dream mad, crazy, absurd things,
Conjure childish, stupid goals, reach for them, and hopefully catch them,
And praise even as I grab palm fulls of empty air.
I praise God Almighty especially as I grab palms full of empty air.
I am thankful for the moments of sitting across from Russian girls and not understanding them,
Admiring their beauty as they talk, one singing Madonna, the other speaking quickly,
And I am thankful for the moments of making a fool of myself and stubbing my toes as I walked away.
I am thankful for the audiences played for so infinitely much, the cheers, the times I was and am admired,
And I am thankful for the times I have been scoffed at, the times I was and am afraid.
I am thankful to God, dearly and bountifully, Lord knows, for everything and all things.
Things I don't deserve, things I shouldn't see or have, but things I cherish,
And things that I know are divine,
And in heaven, I owe God all things, but I want to have a hug.
From my Father in heaven, I want most of all, a hug.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
We danced around handbags
in Budleigh Salterton.
We oiled the hips on
yesterdays snake;
we were blue rinsed Madonna
and Fred Astair wanna.
we were flaming flamingos
on a shimmering lake.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 2:44 AM UTC
I scribble on a scrap of paper while
she goes to buy a cartridge for the printer.
It’s five o’clock and Wednesday and mid-winter:
I should’ve stayed at home—I’ve got a pile
of work to do and this is wasting time.
Obama’s on the radio again
with promises on gun-related crime
and fighting poverty that hidden men
in long dark rooms will never let him honour.
A woman in white boots. Behind her, on a
bicycle, an old man, very slow.
She doesn’t look it, but somehow I know
she’s pregnant and they have no place to go.
I switch channels. It's an old song by Madonna.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
In purple checked dresses we are confronted
Behind a piano sits ‘Miss Creak’ head of house
She has one bad eye, unfixable from childhood
But plays beautifully perched on an oakwood
And fabric stool. This is our secondary school.
On the wall above the piano is a framed print
‘Madonna of the Meadows’ by the artist Bellini
I pushed a drawing of a couple intertwining
Under ‘her’ door knowing she never would have
But a boy may have felt affection for ‘that’ affliction.
Here we all ate meals, did fashion shows and sang
I was glad my dress was purple not orange or red
Went better with my blue eyes and blonde hair
The rest of the school diveded into coloured checks
To represent Shakespearean female characters.
Just opened in Wandsworth a new comprehensive
Serving all abilities, behaviours and nationalities
Cordelia, Beatrice, Juliet, Katharine,
Portia, Rosalind, Olivia, Viola a rather unsuitable
Vision for such an uptake of adolescent froth.
Miss Creak was, kindly, I wish I had always been.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
Born and raised in Franklin Tennessee
Destiny Ray Cyrus changed to Miley.
Hannah Montana might be how she’s known
Now she’s crazy, making old people groans
At the VMAs she’s a teddy bear
No longer does she have long, brown hair
She used to sing songs like “Nobody’s perfect”
Now she sings songs about how to twerk it.
She says, “I’m used to people judging me.”
And doesn’t mind if people let her be
Halloween, little kim with purple hair
Going places that no one else would dare
Her role models: Britney and Madonna
Her manager” her own birthing momma
You may not say she is an original
But one thing’s for sure, she’s not invisible
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
Best Week Ever
Just had my best week of all time,
I'm 42 but still in my prime.
Spent some time with Brittany Spears,
I left her begging and in tears.
After a night with Beyonce,
she wanted me to be her fiance.
Just one night with Pink,
now she can't even blink.
Had a date with Katy Perry,
she asked me to pop her cherry.
Spent some time with J-Lo,
she was more sloppy than a joe.
Rihanna likes to play rough,
**** she looks good in the buff.
Me and Fergie ate some black eyed peas,
then we were joined by Alicia keys.
Had a blast with Taylor Swift,
we did it on a ski lift.
Avril Lavinge wanted it never to end,
now she wants to be her boyfriend.
I turned Miley Cyrus back into Hannah Montana,
its a secret what we did with a banana.
Me and Kesha sang her hit Tik Tok,
then she ****** on my clock.
Selena Gomez is a witch no more,
I turned her into my little *****
Carrie Underwood won't slash my tires,
the heat between us started some fires.
Gwen Stefani left the singer from Bush,
she loved the way I smacked her ****
Lady Ga Ga showed me her poker face,
with her I reached every base.
Me and Lita Ford kissed each other deadly,
then she sang me a **** medley.
Madonna said I was her best,
we spent no time dressed.
I was man enough for Sheryl Crow,
let me tell you, she can really blow.
As the week ended, I had Shakira moving her hips,
then I woke up and it was an **** with Gladys Night and her Pips.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
They carried us
Through gestation,
Or took us in
Without hesitation.
Our coming
Was a celebration,
Mothers are our affirmation.
They deliver.
When we're quiet
From travails,
She makes time
For school-yard tales.
The warmth of sunshine
Shyly pales
To her prevailing arms.
She feared for us
Til eyes dried out;
Stayed home alone
When we left her house,
Waiting by the door.
A balm and living cure.
When Moms do well
All can tell
The Madonna-like connection.
No need to forgive,
We'll always grieve,
They've loved us
Since conception.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
Dear Prudence, Julia, Michelle, Mr. Moonlight, Eleanor Rigby, Dizzy Miss Lizzy, Lady Madonna, Lovely Rita, Rocky Racoon, Lucille, **** Sadie, Clarabella, Her Majesty, Nowhere Man, Penny Lane, Carol, Long Tall Sally, Maggie Mae, Johnny B. Goode, Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, Moonlight Boy, Martha My Dear,
You Like Me Too Much. It’s All Too Much. I’m So Tired. The Night Before Yesterday Memphis, Tennessee, I Saw Her Standing There. Polythene Pam.
Not A Second Time She Said She Said “Hey Bulldog. I Want To Hold Your Hand. Why Don’t We Do It In The Road. Here, There and Everywhere. Something.”
I Want To Tell You I Should Have Known Better. “Wait. Slow Down. I Just Don’t Understand. Tell Me Why.”
“Because I’m Down. I’m Happy Just To Dance With You. Hold Me Tight”
“I’ll Be On My Way”
“Please Please Me”
“Get Back. Help!”
And I Love Her
All My Loving,
Mean Mr. Mustard
P.S I Love You
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
VI
Giovane piano, e semplicetto amante
Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sono,
Madonna a voi del mio cuor l’humil dono
Faro divoto; io certo a prove tante
L’hebbi fedele, intrepido, costante,
De pensieri leggiadro, accorto, e buono;
Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono,
S ‘arma di se, e d’ intero diamante,
Tanto del forse, e d’ invidia sicuro,
Di timori, e speranze al popol use
Quanto d’ingegno, e d’ alto valor vago,
E di cetra sonora, e delle muse:
Sol troverete in tal parte men duro
Ove amor mise l ‘insanabil ago.
2k
Hey Mom?
I miss you.
Like a lot.
I miss dancing in the kitchen
To Madonna and Meatloaf.
I remember singing under the paper lantern
From the dollar store.
You bought it just for me.
I miss your strong, muscular embrace
And your scent of cloves and earl grey and earth.
I miss your long, silky hair
Just like mine.
I cut it all off last week.
Some days,
I just wish I could talk to you,
Talk to you about what hurts
But you hurt.
Just to remember hurts.
You're gone.
Hey Mom?
If you're still in there,
Beneath all the alcohol-infused blood
At the bottom of the cavity in your soul maybe,
Could you peek out from behind the curtain?
If only for a moment.
Could you give me some signal
Some kind of hope
That beneath it all
My mother is still here
On this earth
That she isn't lost to me forever.
That the woman who cherished me in her lap
Swaying me back and forth while I cried
From bad dreams or heartache
The woman who taped up my broken arm
And taught me how to make the best spaghetti
My mommy,
Who taught me to sing with beauty
And shared her green thumb secrets.
Please.
Please.
Don't be lost to me entirely.
Please come back.
Hey Mom?
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
If I look long enough I'll see
mammoth bones with butcher marks,
a broken flint blade between the ribs
- an empty crib, Madonna's face, a swan
on a snake with two heads - instead
of lightly stained pine grains
on the back of a dusty shelf half-
full of myself, old books and odd things
with lost words waiting in the wings.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC