Best Impressionist Poems
Long ago at twilight we pledged our sweet
love amid trees stretching stark and bare
Yet at our rendezvous the very next night
I was alone in my despair
Now in the sunset of my days, again
In the pastoral Eden I stand with you
In a bliss beyond love, our souls
coalesce as we begin our lives anew
I’m too caught up in
your dabs of red and purple
to step back and see
the flowers you claim
to have created.
“It shall be a Masterpiece
worthy of the Louvre,”
but I can’t do anything
except watch you repeatedly dip
the brush in the colors of your lies
and throw them at the canvas.
“I’m painting you, my love.”
I saw your pencil sketches,
but only began to fear
when you began to make them permanent,
dragging oils across my
indistinct image.
Now all I can see is
my reflection in the frame,
squinting, trying to make
sense of it all as
you’re phoning the gallery.
“A Masterpiece,
behold my creation,
the perfection of the form
in divine inspiration!
My colors, my themes,
in perfect combination.”
As though you need them
to define me.
closed lids consciousness adrift
a paint brush dipped in colored drips
to swirl in the well of ink that slowly swells
to paint the canvas of my soul
these lingerings of auras and colorful pulses
the black and grey shadows of horror
the metachrysilis of life in subterfuge
hidden and suppressed
overflowing in waves and subsiding to crest
these flickering images
of dawn and dusk
faces fluttering in places long gone
smiles and tears fading in wavering place
van Gogh spyche bindings
these dreams not quite so clear
emerging growth bounds forth
bursting from eyes awoke
Plein air and picturesque,free flowing
and festooned in tonal harmony
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Describe what you see my love, she queries
A game they often play in the depths of the forest
He replies, Turgid are the woodlands densely they’ve died back
creeping where no life is seen,
between the flowery meadow's cracks
The poplars have shed their leaves leaving violet trunks bare
For it isn’t rare, sun light that shan’t filter thru the canopy
Entrapped is the pale old plant ivy green
However, the white roses striving and yet flutily parade
whilst tolerating the languorous shade
As he describes his innermost inhibitions
without interference or shame
In the distance, expanding their horizons together
Both aware 'tis a harbinger of the end game
You swept in like a French impressionist with the leaves blowing in the air.
You snapped a photograph of me swinging and my long blonde hair.
We made love all night long, and shared a life that wasn’t at all wrong.
Now the haystacks are on fire, and the water lilies are gone.
I dared to embrace a pure boundless movement for creativity, exploring my subconscious like a Dali art form.
All I could see were fields of corn, with a lake full of whispers, as you walked away into your ring of fire.
Walking away from our dreams and desires.
I wonder who you now admire, with your social climbing, and condescending tone.
I tried to remain in composure in my mind full of strife.
As you took your vows and threw them down in an angry game of knives.
Now Monet, and Dali have left; the only thing I have left is this oil painting of Picasso, where the elderly man sings, his ruined clothing and a bucket full of dreams.
As he panhandles at night he hunches over his guitar with no one in sight, reminds me of my time on the streets, where I was left with abuse and no place to eat.
You swept in like a French impressionist with a camera in hand, ready to take advantage of my hair and the pure white sand. The haystacks caught fire, and the lilies have died, and now you have a new wife by your side.