Best Abstract. Poems
Astound me with visual auroras
swaths of rainbows in chorus
that leap across lofty skies
strange intriguing patterns that rise
iridescent visions of midnight forests.
Mind bending colors turn sinister
haunting hues no longer minister
I awaken from dystopian dreams
seeking solace from simple means
I bask inside sunlight’s perimeter.
Written on 3/17/2018
It seemed at first , a colour burst
Of dots and crooked lines ,
As I watched my "artful expert"
See how he defines
The colourful expression
That is hidden the frame ,
With a twenty thousand price tag
By some non-descript no-name .
" IT'S GOT CHARACTER ; REAL EXPRESSION ,
AND I REALLY FEEL HIS PAIN .
I CAN SEE JUST WHERE HE'S COMING FROM ,
AND WHAT HE HOPES TO GAIN .
FROM THE WAY HE STROKES THE CANVASS
CAN'T YOU FEEL HIS HURT AND FEAR .
IT'S ALL THERE IN THE PAINTING ....
OH SORRY !!!.... IT'S ABSTRACT .... MY DEAR " .
I am aware it's abstract .
I can hear it in your voice .
With your patronising accent ,
And your condescending choice
Of every single cliche ,
They thought you in art school .
And you couldn't draw a line straight
With a pencil and a rule .
Of course the painting's abstract .
How I hate that blessed word .
I found it in my dictionary ,
Between abstain and absurd .
You see ; the word , it just means nothing
And I think it should be banned .
Except , he framed and hung his abstract ,
And now he's charging twenty grand .
Paris Down Under
I heard the thunder
all the kangaroos hid
children screamed in fear
the witch, her brew asunder
I calmed the innocent
peace is within my sphere
I danced with a Wolfe
Birds took a glance at philosophy
A druid mumbles
give peace a chance
I swallowed a lemon
said are crazy Sheilas in sanity?
Life full of questions
answers fly in the wind
just remember these wise words
ignore the ugly echo's
of skeletons in the wind
I am in a room,
With a brush and a broom.
Casually looking into the window,
But unable to see the rainbow.
My eyes unable to comprehend,
For the window was stained.
Clouded with colours of bleakness,
Darkened by Disappointments,
Reddened by Rejection,
Dimmed by Dejection,
Smudged by Self-doubt,
And Clouded by Criticism in and out.
My mind hovered back,
When things weren't so abstract.
The window was so clean,
That I could see future foreseen.
The rainbow was blooming bright,
As I viewed the world with great delight.
Suddenly I came back to senses,
I rose my brush as a reflex.
Maybe it just needed some cleaning,
As I thought deeming.
I looked again at the window of life,
Sure enough it needed healing all right.
27/03/23
NOTE: Inspiration taken by Book:- Attitude is everything by Jeff Keller
Mesmerized clarity
builds to crescendo
never more hollow than these
Colors the forefront
blanket expressions
narrowly missing disease
Outlying chambers
kaleidoscope distance
maneuvering playfully lost
The bearded man crumbles
along the great coast
nascency carelessly tossed
One can but ponder
diligent details
tragic circumference of light
The searing is scored
malevolent mischief
never abandoning flight
Belligerence echoes
along the dark pathway
silently centering in
The mindless enigma
deception of thunder
the meadowlark's shadows begin
3/9/19
I saw a painting as a younger man;
some artwork I enjoyed - this not so much.
Not ready yet for abstract, off I ran
to view portraits, landscapes, still lifes and such.
A decade later, we met up again;
I still was not sure what there was to see.
Less hurried, I felt more receptive then.
"My kid could paint this", scoffed a man near me.
I'm sixty now, and see with dimmer eyes
yet now they catch things I missed in my youth.
I gaze, and let a narrative arise -
it asks me: what is beauty, life, and truth?
Therein consists the artist's foremost task:
to raise the questions we have yet to ask.
// An ekphrasis on the painting "The Connoisseur"
by American painter Norman Rockwell //
Dedicated to artist N.
It was the spring so frantic that
even the ancient gallows at
the city square spawned a green sprout.
I read my poetry aloud
to you, my first, my awkward and
ecstatic poems that I penned
last night to sing your abstract art,
your cold and unresponsive heart,
your gray-blue eyes and the prune sleet
on my lone way home. Oh, how sweet
you are, young rhymes! Years later I
see that not fondness but those my
first trials of pen resulted in
my happiness, my gloom akin
to deepest hell, my grace, my curse,
my sleeplessness and this small verse.
You married a long time ago,
I sing of other beauties, though,
in spring the memories about
you still make ancient gallows sprout.
She stood in thrall to the Magyar
As, one hand cupped to a breast,
The other picked careful notes
From the guitar against his chest,
So they made a living figure
Sensuous and statuesque
Yet in in its way
Both comic and grotesque.
His foot tapped the rhythm
As he sang words of passion,
The stroking of his fingers
Near driving her to distraction.
An elegant Corps de Ballet pirouetted,
Here and there across the stage
And the blind percussionist thrashed
A kettle drum in state of frenzied rage.
The watcher watched from his dream
As the spotlight lowered to dim
Then swung slowly around to
Focus its harsh beam on him.
It was almost all too much
For any mortal man to take
So, screaming with despair,
He was rudely thrust awake.
Both woman and Magyar seared
To the very depths of his brain
His heart beating wildly to
Near bursting from the strain.
Images slowly fading
Until no longer there
He slipped back to sleep free
From any trace of his nightmare.
The puppet master eased the strings,
Let his marionettes hang limp and slack
Before packing them away
In their carrier on his back.
It was all a strange happening
In the name and cause of Art
Into which each participant
Unconsciously took his part.
The stage disappeared
The theatre was gone
The World of Abstract Dreams
Slowly shivered and moved on.
To allow no repeat
Of this macabre joke
The mirror resonated wildly
Until, shattering, it broke.
Am I to journey still, upon the steps of night then day,
to where upon my path a rock, leans gently as I pray
I am the Holy route of Christ's enlightened path
freely captured & abstract, I am the opposite of math
It started long ago
As CDs in the car
Overtime hours spent in a retail store
A gift on a date, kept on an old dresser
The idea we are all connected in some way.
From my father and my older brother
In the car rides then, I learned
Why my ideas were foiled
Learning to hate myself in a therapeutic way
A gift from them, to keep in my mind
On my unstable shelf, in my pocket
Keeping me in contact with my brothers
However far apart, we share lines; they’d make me smile
It can bring me relief, a wilted rose,
Abstract art. My parents saw
Tin foil boats in the bathroom sink, they held
Together above the clear ocean
Searching for the porcelain shore
Holding the cargo of our dreams, overweight
Mine drifting far apart from the rest
Vessels that sank with time.
Into the ocean it drove me
Beyond the depths where the sun can’t grasp
But I found them, I returned to them on land
They hand me their CD; inside is their promise.
It’s cheap tickets, that I can come back home,
It’s hearing my family beyond my room
Wondering if their legacy is safe with me
I learned on my ride home to show my
Inner glow, cut deep drilled
Sorrow with their razor blade, but
Am I porcelain, or just the clay I had lost in the fire.
Past the heat, molding the remnants
Of the foil beside my mind
Reminding me of my parents, their embrace
My everlasting friends, telling me
“I hope you're happy.”
reset at zero
all things homogeneous
return and be one
"Through Windows Abstract Ad Infinitum"
Ascending plural through the Sun
becomes One
Seen through different windows
Seams sewn in souls strung like pearls cast out into the world
Everyone is written into The Story, all accounted for, not gone unsung
Sun through the plural Ascending
One becomes
Windows different, though seen
(Lovejoy-Burton/September 2018)
Abstract minds
Choices to reason
Words having power and freedom
To be thy self
All rights reserved
A.camacho jr.
1996 -2015
once soothing to two
wherever time was
(throughout our relationship at times there was harmony)
lovers
in the moment
(that moment in time when we engaged in sex)
in music of the man who nature dances to
(god was with us)
wrestle in the wind
feel their existence
(and in our love of nature we felt our existence and we were with god)
on nothing they roll
(our love levitated us)
unaware of cold
(we felt nothing but one another)
swim the desert sand
(lost in our unconscious)
and she
wearing his smoking jacket
(and when it was done we were still one)
then it starts again
(our sexual experience continues)
the touch of chains
as they mesh explosive
on the edge of a steel rip
(bondage and trust on the cutting edge of our experimentation)
an hour of talking
(we talk)
then their bare flesh together
in their source
timed
(once again we bond in the making of love)
the crackling sound
of their intercourse
(our sounds like fireworks)
as in a filmstrip
(and we go beyond reality)
and once again
a thousand explosions
(as our orgasms are multiple and explosive)
22~12~2014
With Love
Maurice Yvonne