A torch carried on forever, indeed,
for the aggressive rhymer in me,
is alive again, unshackled and freed,
rising to challenge another day, I see.
As I found myself lost deep in Tolkien,
with epic Star Wars, never ending,
surrounded in a geek paradise, serene,
optical illusions before me, suspending.
Life's songs on guitar strings strummed,
an epiphany unlike they've ever heard,
euphoric dreams in my visions hummed,
as I pen archaic word after archaic word.
Artistry is born only to be my brother,
encircled this star, a pentagram made,
my day is done, I have conquered another,
as the sun slowly brings down the shade.
A Word Collage For Chan Hurst
(Cyndi MacMillan's contest)
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014
To enchant the eye and tickle the tongue
with levels of nuance like well-aged wine,
to engage the ear and limber the lungs
as sea winds seasoned with fragrance of brine.
To hearten the soul or tear it apart,
to start with a sigh and end with a gasp,
to sharpen the mind and quicken the heart,
to aim one's reach to outdistance the grasp.
To roar like a lion and ever stand fast,
to bring out smiles and mitigate pain,
to tell the legends of histories past,
and teach their mistakes, not do them again.
© May 26, 2015
Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2015
If the blue sky was green and the green grass pale blue,
it just might change things for me and for you.
Would the clouds be mud brown and the soil bright white?
Perhaps you will say: "It doesn't seem right!"
If the seas were above and the stars down below,
imagine the distance a tall ship could go.
Would it rain all year round, would the sun ever shine?
Perhaps you can crack this quandary of mine!
If the world was a square and the universe round,
likely you'd say that would be quite profound.
Would the seasons still change, would the galaxies crash?
Perhaps you may find these questions too brash!
If true love was the rule and if hatred was scorned,
imagine your life in a place so adorned.
Would war be abolished and blind prejudice too?
Perhaps you will say: "Please take me with you!"
What if things were different than they now appear to be?
Wouldn't it be awesome if the seas were made of tea?
I wonder what it'd be like if the sands were shades of gray.
Would the people visit still and would the children play?
I'll bet that if the birds could speak they'd say a thing or two!
What if a fish could whistle or could hum a tune for you?
Imagine how you'd feel if you could breathe under the sea.
Or could fly up through the clouds and meet a hawk, or maybe three?
If I had a paintbrush big enough to paint the sky,
I'd paint it emerald green and leave the whole world wondering why.
The grass I'd color purple and the clay I'd change to blue.
Think of all the fun things we could think and say and do!
Wouldn't it be something if a child could stop a war?
And wouldn't you be stunned if hunger plagued the earth no more?
How grateful we would be to celebrate diversity.
How happy I would be to share with you my shady tree.
Copyright © The Seeker | Year Posted 2016
Self-gratification is the fruit of one's love,
making the artist's delighted face glow...
when every vision has been achieved,
and each intention joyfully revealed.
He will envision the shape and colors,
then transfer those images to canvas;
and with the gentles strokes of his brush...
real faces will appear and suddenly blush.
Thinker and dreamer, let passion and imagination flow,
don't be distracted by worries or external sounds below;
work diligently with your brush, transcending your own credibility...
but later, it would be too hilarious to scream out your insanity.
Self-gratification is the fruit of one's love...
that enduring, timeless legacy hard to ignore;
when others show admiration, you'll be so pleased
and motivated to add more laurels to your prestige.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
Why is it poetry, is a like dirty word and talked of in undertones?
It’s like a naughty postcard, more flesh than there are bones.
Poets tend to deny their art, “I’m not a poet, I’m a rhym-er”
Come on you lot get stuck in don’t be a poetry two-timer.
After a glass of alcohol some may admit-“I like a little verse”
“But no I m not into poetry…” It’s like a speech they did rehearse.
Now poems I’m getting good at, but famous poets I don’t know any
Don’t ask me if I’m a poet, because in wages I don’t earn a penny.
Now rhyme I am not bad at, but at free verse I would stink
As for haiku, senryu, and other forms, I stink I really think…
I listened to some so called poets; decry their art the other day
They denied their art while they listened, to what each other had to say.
Standing there with their poems held high, “I’m not a poet” they all said
Well get down from the microphone and let’s hear a poet instead…
They pass their poems around the table, like some black market currency
Not wanting anyone to see it, but they are at a reading for poetry.
So be loud and proud you poets stand firm for what you believe in
Tell them you are a poet, and just get used to all the teasing
I used to be a shy poet and I write verse with some frivolity
But the definition in my dictionary says “words with a pleasing quality.”
So now I am open to judgement from all of you wonderful poets
You have all commented on my work, but do you really know it?
You all have qualities that scare me, you really seem so clever
So can I finally admit to being a poet, from now on and forever?
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2012
Description of The Funeral of Atala (Funérailles d'Atala or Atala au tombeau), 1808, Louvre
I sauntered through the Louvre, observing art.
One painting struck me for its quality
of sadness; I could see a young man’s heart
was clearly broken by a tragedy.
The man is Indian; he’s in a cave
with an old man who holds the shoulders of
a woman they’ll be putting in her grave.
The Indian is mourning for his love.
He’s sitting, clinging to her draped knees, and
though for me this image was unclear,
a crucifix is clutched inside her hand.
Outside upon a hill, a cross is near.
The artist was recalling the sad scene
of Atala, a woman who was mired
in mental conflict. She was torn between
religious vows and the one man she loved.
Although the heroine wears virgin white,
some sensuality is shown with grace.
The day is waning, and the sun’s last light
caresses her fair bosom and her face.
The focus is this woman, but my eyes
go to the half-nude Indian whose skin
is brown, in contrast to the girl who lies
dead by her own hand for fear she would sin!
The novel that explored Atala’s woe
inspired more than one painter in the time
romanticism had begun to grow,
but Girodet’s work of art for me is prime!
Written May 9, 2017 for the Celebration of Art Contest of Kim Rodrigues
Note: I can't find a French syllable counter, but English puts the artist's name Girodet at three syllables.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2017
Beside a gilded wall of white a dainty bench is resting;
Victorian accents swirl about the ornate room, providing
An elegance, a beauty in each line and curve, attesting
To cultured tastes and upscale life, and hours spent deciding
What shapes and colors best would suit the airy, springtime feeling:
But looking closely, something there upon the bench reposes,
A lady's fan and soft kid gloves, their jumbled state revealing
What hasty movements cast them all aside when fragrant roses
Arrived in state with baby's breath, and some white note, nigh hidden
In bursting blooms of rainbow hue, by unknown hands delivered:
And having noted thus, the eye could not but roam unbidden
To she who holds the rose bouquet, to she who slightly shivered
With thoughts that youths so oft imagine, thoughts that made her giddy
And blushed her cheeks the color of the rosy dress cascading
With lacy ruffles from her shoulders, looking just as pretty
As her face, which looks for all the world like roses never fading;
Two lips like shiny cherries, or the poppies that she tends to,
Complexion like a creamy rose with hints of pink surrounding
The fragile outer curling of its leaves; brown eyes that send you
A warm, quick-spreading feeling, like the first hot sunrays bounding
Thro' seas of blue to make the greengrass grow. Now look, she's taking
The little note from out among the stems; perhaps with quiet
And careful steps the message could be read; I have to try it.
"My dearest Rose, I never could imagine so befitting
A name for one who does resemble all that man finds charming
In lovely blossoms: beauty surely, grace as they are flitting
In breezes sweet of scent, and frailty, which I find disarming;
So here's a gift no prettier and sweet than you. Sincerely,
A man that loves you more than you could know.
Quatrains of decapentasyllabic verse followed by a single line of iambic pentameter.
Written by Isaiah Zerbst. Published for the first time January 26, 2015.
Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2015
*Inspired by Edmund Blair Leighton's painting of the same title
She wanders into the garden,
A glorious book in her hand.
It's bound by the loveliest cloth,
And the story inside is grand.
The story provides an escape
From a life of duties and rules.
The characters become good friends
And prose adorns pages like jewels.
As lavender perfumes the air,
It mingles with wind through the trees.
She loses her place for a time
As pages are blown by the breeze.
Surrounded by flowers and shrubs
And shaded by trees that seclude,
She clutches the book to her chest
And basks in this sweet solitude.
Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013
Together the Owl and the PusyCat were married
Then again sailed out over the deep blue seas
Searching forever for the great Land of Nod,
To the place where they could find true peace.
True peace, true peace… Where they could find true peace.
The love that twined forever within their hearts
They sought throughout all the wonderous lands
Going to the place where they would live in peace,
A place where true peace, rules and lives in the hearts of the land.
The land, the land… Where true peace lives in the heart of the land.
Alas, the love of the heart, though truly not easy to find…
Is easier to find than the love of peace, found throughout the land.
So it’s said they will continue to sail, until that day comes true,
And when they land for the final time, will be up to me and you.
Me and you, me and you… That day will be up to me and you.
Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2012
Etchings of silhouettes on an easel made of wood,
ebony charcoal releases a spiritual imagination-
Abstract or contemporary pastels on a blank canvas-
I’ve found that my artisan abilities are my greatest creation.
Oils creating a fine landscape of grandpa’s old rocking chair,
my first painted picture was a still framed bowl of fruit-
Sketch pads filled with passionate memories I’ve drawn,
for since a young girl I have been talented and astute.
The arts have always been a mystery to my soul,
every blank page a new way to express my intimate feelings-
I’ve traveled to Tuscany and seen the mountains of Colorado,
and each experience is a masterpiece filled with much healing.
I have been asked by a poet what is my greatest practiced passion,
yes, of course writing verses is definitely on the top of my chart-
And even though my heart releases gentleness as I write my rhymes,
my absolute greatest passion is the gift I hold for my lovely art.
Practiced Passion Contest
November 18, 2016
Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2016
Mornings of rubies and sapphires are fine
Afternoons of Topaz and turquoise divine
Evenings with Emeralds shine bright
But nothing compares to a Black Diamond night
Copyright © Joseph May | Year Posted 2012
I am so far out of my element
It almost seems unreal
When in truth, which I always seek to find
Pretence is all that I feel
In this, my second language
I aim to express the glistening skin
That hides the shallow graves of conscience
Trapped so deep within
The pottery I shape in craft
Though pedistilled and on display
A camouflage that’s merely drafted
words of wisdom most portray
And in the spirit of fairness
As a virtue which we all possess
Accept my resignation
For this sport has had its best
I’m off to party hard and waste
My life as best as I know how
The animal within this chest
Needs freedom to survive for now
The playing game of words
is but a winding road that’s filled with stone
I’m parched in parts unheeded
As my cluttered soul heads home
Copyright © Brandon Basson | Year Posted 2006
The dandelion sat along on the hill
watching the rose's play.
He asked to join the fun and games;
is it all right if I stay?
The rose's said, you can not play,
for you are not one of us.
Go back to your hill to your grassy clump,
and don't you make a fuss.
For we are tall with our beautiful stems
and nicely shaped leaves.
Our petals are grand,
the best in the land,
so stay away you weed.
A beautiful flower, tall and grand,
you are, the dandelion sighed.
Your petals are grand, the best in the land,
but i'd rather be pretty inside.
For the rose's and their beauty so grand,
will fade and wither with time,
but the dandelion's beauty within,
is one thing that will never die.
Copyright © Ricci Hardt | Year Posted 2010
I ponder marks cut into cliffs
or drawn in caves within the earth
and wonder if I have the gift
to leave a mark of equal worth.
As jet planes streak across the sky,
I think of modern man's advance;
will my profile engraved in stone
say only, "She excelled in dance?"
With silver trophies on my wall
and music thumping in my brain,
I long to weave a warm refrain
one worthy of someone’s recall.
Will sweet notes fall on future ears,
spit from my heart onto the page
and brand me as the wise old sage
whose written words a world reveres?
I read yarns penned by bards of old
and learn of fame poets begat.
Within my breast a yearning burns,
a wish that I could write like that.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
We photographed this shoot
Against frosted glass
In the shape of hearts
That captured her class
Her long blond hair
Catches the light
Her curvaceous shape
My love for her grows
White silk robe
In midriff drape
This vista, my view
I am left agape
Our shoot closes
The applause we take
As i turn to my Tink's
My darling, its you who makes
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2010
Paste on your passion smile
Crisp all your words
as you settle yourself
to be self-consumed, heard
Whisper sweet nothings
which only you know
Don't stop the banter,
the words or the flow
You've reached the summit
of the loneliest point
You're king of the vacancy
best in the joint
Write all your poems
on the back of your hand
and read them at supper
of cream pie and sand
Your siblings will stand up
and whisper applause
You've felt all emotion
and ridden all stars
They bid you good-bye
for you're out of their league
and to think you just wanted
to be heard, succeed...
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2005
He was the bard from Stratford, and as a teenager
he helped his father in his trade; he married and had children
and became the most popular and admired play writer
in all England...acting was also his other pleasurable passion.
Curious Queen Elisabeth was one of the thousand spectators,
who came to see him in the Globe theater...she shed tears,
and was stunned by the performance of his timeless plays,
and yet, some of his fellow-poets criticized him for his writings!
I wish I had lived in that Victorian era so intellectual and refined,
and had met him in person and had showed him my ample admiration;
I would have asked him the secret, which made him so legendary and loved...
and he would have whispered it to me, to make me revel in that revelation!
I have read his inspiring works, and tragedies rampantly occur
from " Romeo and Juliet"...the Verona's immortal lovers, through" Hamlet "
whose insanity was undoubtedly caused by the specter of his father;
and why didn't Shakespeare choose less dramatic plays not ending in death?
He wanted to teach us indelible lessons to show us how the human spirit
can be passionate, adamant, loveless, envious, cruel, unfair and treacherous...
to outline all kinds of guilt: from murder to envy so well-expressed with eloquence;
it's no mystery to anyone how he conjured up such plots with grief, madness and wit!
Shakespeare was no ordinary kid, and he played with his siblings on Henley Street,
neighbors saw him trot to his grammar school, later he would make everyone weep;
early in adolescence, did his prodigious mind envision one from a vague thought?
It's no wonder that he is widely read even today...hear his speak, he'll impart worth!
Entered in Amy Green's contest, " Wow Me With Inspiration "
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010
I grab the holder of my secrets, and dip him into black then red.
I do not mix them, so when I stroke my reveal; they accompany one another.
I wish it was easier to speak as others would, but instead I let myself shed.
without words and a knife, I bleed myself on this canvas, and let my brush smother.
Copyright © Jessica Arteaga | Year Posted 2009
Filled up with quips like a clanking balloon
blown up with coins not with air
Clittering, clatter on golden paved streets
his winsome words, plenty to share
Brilliant performance, he's taking his bow
on a bed of burnt peacock feathers
The skycap he wears filled with holes and with tears
has protected him well from the weather
The crowd gangly gathers with popcorn and fruit
with the wish and the will just to laugh
He juggles emotions with unending devotion
and doubles his jokes up by half
By the end of the night the whole room is alight
with marshmallow bellies still shaking
From the butt of all jokes to a friend of all folks
he's a super star right in the making...
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2005
Chinese Ribbon Dance
Ribbons fly in wide circles
Flung by hands of maidens fair,
As they dance with turns and twists,
Satin ribbons fill the air.
Loops of wonder, colors soft
Like a rainbow, mesmerize…
Music, synchronized, combine
Gifts of art through ears and eyes.
Ribbon circles rise and fall
Twisting, turning high and low...
Follow movements of skilled hands,
Twirl in endless color flow.
Round and round and round they go,
Ribbons foster mystic trance
Through the art of maidens fair…
Dancers of the Ribbon Dance.
© Sandra M. Haight 2015
All Rights Reserved
Contest: Chinese New Year & Celebrations
Theme: Ribbon Dance
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015
Our exquisite Queen of passion
Rides on a dazzling white horse
Within her hand she wields a pen
Describing adventures of course
She takes us to many places
So our own psyches we can explore
To the thoughts of former lovers
Or through imaginary doors
Within her realm she is fearless
A true warrior of the mind
Some say the passion whisperer
She can give color to the blind
The fountain of her thoughts endless
With her we travel back in time
To former days of gallantry
As we engage in every line
Mesmerized by her artistry
As we follow her where she goes
Eileen's sexy has no limits
Ooh la la licious as it flows
Dedicated to Eileen, our queen of passion.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015
Ruffling gold blooms and leaves, hue dimmed by time
A gilded frame holding a slice of life’s history
I’m drawn into the younger man, the vision sublime
Sailing stolidly upstream towards his destiny
A castle in the sky, all ether and phantasm
Drawing him nigh with its ivory flirtation
The possible reap of his boundless enthusiasm
Limited only by blossoming imagination
As he departs, I do wish to share my blessing of age
Hard-won patience and placid perspective
If only to inform him, to act as his sage…
But would it deter him from his futile objective?
A glance as he navigates, back to the angel he calls
Warm reassurance for his doubting mind
Far behind the angel, a modest castle's solid walls
Little does he know, the home he will find
Vainglorious dreams bathe in youthful euphoria
With volcanic demands upon fate and destiny
Unpretentious walls’ comfort to replace phantasmagoria
Brash strivings supplanted by consistent humility
I envy him not, his naive, headstrong trouble
Through pitched battles, my dream castle faded away
So lovely, yet impossible to heal the burst bubble
Such ethereal visions life's truth did betray
For Contest:Within a Gilded Frame
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Inspired by "The Voyage of Life--Youth" One of a series by Thomas Cole.
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
She faced the fury of an angry sea
Screaming to the wind “You’ll not get me!
For I’m no stranger to crushing waves,
and have no desire for a watery grave.
"So bring on your worst, I’ll meet it head on,
and still be standing, when you’ve moved on.
I’ll set up an easel and take up my brush;
I’ll paint till it’s finished in the post-storm hush.
"All those who view it will relive again
the force of the storm, and the thundering din.
I’ll treasure the memory as they pause to inspect;
I’ll count my blessings, as I rest and reflect."
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
*Inspired by George Dunlop Leslie's painting of the same title
The wizard's slumbering garden
spins magic with ivy thread.
The lure of this mystical web
snares the beauteous girl in red.
He christens this damsel "Scarlet"
for the hue of her crimson gown,
for the tint of her blooming cheeks
that contrast the ashen ground.
The garden robs her rubescence
to fuel the wizard's dark spells,
draining her beauty and vibrance
until Scarlet becomes a mere shell.
But to her, this yard rivals Eden,
teeming with flowers and fruit,
bursting with colour and light,
from tallest tree to deepest root.
But her vision is mere mirage
in a garden half-dying and grim,
in a graveyard of latent runes
that veil this labyrinth of sin.
Here in the wizard's garden,
warm breath and cold death collide.
In the guise of a noble pardon,
Scarlet becomes his blind bride.
For Isaiah's "George Dunlop Leslie" contest
Here is a link to the painting: http://www.victorianweb.org/painting/misc/leslie1.html
Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013
Some people say he scribbles when
they see that boy draw.
But once I took a closer look;
this is what I saw.
I saw imagination in
every shape he drew.
Where loopy circles interlocked,
he had colored blue.
Stick figures walked across his page,
but at a second glance,
I noticed one or two of them
had done a little dance!
He’s very young to focus so,
and this you need to know.
Encourage him, for he might be
our very next *Van Gogh.
* Pronouncing Van Gogh's name the most common American way. I am used to it and it is easier to rhyme with something that way!
Written 11/14/2015 for Oil Paintings 1-2-3 any Poem form Contest of Eve Roper
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
When I search for blue
Which blue should I use
Is my blue a violet
Or is my blue a blue
When I need a sunset
Of orange and yellow hues
To describe a moment
Making words a view
Today my red is velvet
Yesterday a rose
On lips red is passion
And without words they propose
The sky has expressions
Shades of grays and blues
Sometimes it shows its rainbow
A splinder of its colorful use
Green gives birth to many colours
Innumerable flowers and fruit
They smell and taste delicious
With sented petals and flavorful roots
Colours tell us something
Words can never supply
Colours measure sweetness
And colours measure life
In the winter is snow
Made of purest white
In the midnight hour
Black is the darkest night
When we want attention
We make our colours bright
To mirror images in our minds
And gives the readers sight
Exotic and erotic names
Doesn't fit my fancy
But there are those that tightly hold
Strong colours in their fantasies
When red is mauve and purple fuchsia
And whites confused with peril
Seems like colours were once all men
But now some colours are girls
Copyright © The Situation | Year Posted 2013
Tonight we play our favorite duet
to an audience of celestial stars.
Variations over years; a song we never forget,
stroking familiar notes within each bar.
Andante: pianissimo: slow caresses as whispers,
giving attention to those sensitive keys.
Each to the other, a part we deliver;
Entwined we perform with such ease.
Allegro: increasing our synchronized tempo
as our chorus delightfully sings through.
Vibrating heartstrings deeply now flow;
enjoying our art as if new.
Vivo! As the beat of two hearts now race.
Crescendo! Intensively, climax is reached.
Pausing in arc at this euphoric place;
echos in afterglow; encores in dreams.
Copyright © Arlene Smith | Year Posted 2014
From the depths of choppy waters,
Emerges the shell of man.
Draped in an aquatic robe,
Deliberately...making his stand.
With New York at his shoulders,
And the Big Apple by his side.
His robust presence emerged,
Creating...the evening tide.
The sun boldly illuminates,
The way for birds to fly.
As the world protrudes the heavens,
Through an M.C. Escher sky.
Copyright © Raul Moreno | Year Posted 2010
I stood on top the leaning tower of Pisa
And watched as the tourists walked by.
I felt just a little bit closer to heaven
When surrounded by her bells in the sky.
I visited Rome in the springtime,
With its colorful flowers galore.
Seeing Saint Peters sparkle in sunlight,
You couldn't ask for much more.
I have ventured down and around
A narrow cobblestone street,
And marveled at ruins near the edge of the city
Where the old and new come to meet.
While viewing the beautiful fountain of Trevi
And watching as young lovers kissed,
I could feel the cool breezes blowing
As the fountain caressed my face with its mist.
I remember the wonder of Michelangelo's David
And the pigeons that flocked to his arms.
How proudly he stands in the city of Florence
With her glorious art that defines her charms.
Beautiful Italy, where rolling hills of
Vineyards produce the finest wine,
And its grapes so plump and juicy
Can withstand the test of time.
In Venice, the city of romance,
Where lights in the evening dance on the sea;
Where all of one's cares seem to vanish,
And all of your worries will flee.
Oh beautiful Italy,
Where lover’s dreams come true.
A land of love and romance
Where I fell in love with you.
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2010
His hands are mesmerizing;
They move with easy grace.
With wide palms and long fingers,
He stirs this breathless place.
His melody is haunting;
It strikes my deepest chord.
His hands pluck at my heartstrings,
Touch regions unexplored.
I can't help but imagine
Just how those hands would feel
Playing tunes against my skin -
A world of notes unsealed.
He concentrates so deeply,
Immersed in making art.
And here I sit - Pathetic!
Jealous of a damned guitar!
Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2012