Best Artful Poems
Minichu On Inspiration
I center on beauty
the arts and aesthetic pleasure inspire me
destiny
stunning landscapes
sunset scenes, the Joshua tree!
moonscapes
thank Sen
wabi-sabi
Zen
I center on beauty
sunset scenes, the Joshua tree!
Zen
Rondelet: Don't blame India, the land of the 64 artful Kama-Sutra positions
for the Punjabi Lady in an all-night jogging bus
Don't blame India
For a thousand three hundred years
Don't blame India
Bored by repetitive Kama
And pedologic incest - tears
In iron-hosing buses - cheers!
Don't blame India
(c) T. Wignesan, Paris, 2013
Hitherto, haphazard colors knew no bounds
-across the stark black and white pages,
they painted with cheerful abandon;
intense furrowed brows, hard at work
-masterpieces bound for the refrigerator door
or Dad’s office desk, free will
proudly personified, before “inside the lines”
was more readily celebrated along with
faces colored in pinks and browns
not blue and green – Grover and Kermit exempted.
Praise dried up for sloppy work
as quickly as an uncovered marker,
until we learned to be more careful with both.
Yet it was still impossible to return them to the box
the same way they came out!
So, all the dried up victims left in a box
to go back where they came from
-Haphazard Heaven I presume.
Looking outside I feel very serene inside;
the brown-breasted drake has returned
to his nest not too happy to have found
the snow-clad bushes that stood astride
a river that was the gold-seekers' pride!
The wind-whipped lake below is subdued;
last spring a brood of six closely followed
the mother duck until they swam alongside.
They disappeared from her sight to learn skills.
Her attentive glance was constantly set on them...
being afraid they would be attacked by ravens
which watched them not flipping their wings
to outwit them with their artful stratagem,
and suddenly snatch them with their claws!
Copyright ( c ) 2018 by Andrew Crisci
I have my platinum muse
It is a flighty, windy memory
Of a memorable, miserable encounter
With someone that reminded me...
I have not even fooled myself
Into believing something so weak
As the crippled, dying cupid
That is love at first sight.
The woman I am marrying,
Wasn't loved at first glance
She was a shallow puddle of mud
At my eyes first introduction.
Though, as I splashed in the mud
I was swept off my feet
Back into the primal wilderness
Of a child at play.
Caila makes me truly happy
Like a young boy
Tenderizing his stomping ground
After a heavy spring rain.
When the mud dried
I knew it was the remains
Of a memory when I was a child
Of being happier than ever.
What rose from those sterile ashes
Was a woman, a beautiful woman
She has flecks of gold in her veins
Eyes that emeralds envy
She didn't come and go,
Like the coy but beautiful Emma
Emma is only comparable
To a whiff of a nostalgic scent
Caila is my golden totem
Every moment we spend
Is frozen in time
Comatose, in its prime
Caila is my one true love
When that is no longer a fact
I will have forgotten about Emma
Completely, but sweetly.
I scaled the heights
and crossed the genre over
Rock and Pointillism
Springstein and Seurat
on dotted i some critic cries
aloud echo canyoned schism
to each his own
we together bemoan
separation of our malaise
individuality's good
'long as it's understood
we're all different in artful ways
the beholder can only seize
on concepts predisposed to sight
the I's of art that you appease
each concept I hold despite
my own presupposed expertise
that much art leans toward contrite
or worse, tries not to displease
some need to be artfully polite
art is what you say it is
who am i to tell you
that your idea, your creation
is not worthy of the tag of "art"
so shake my sensibilities
shock my gentilities
move the foundation of my soul
make a hole, drop it in, make it whole
© Goode Guy 2011-08-23
I'm beholdin' to you...
A terror of alikeness looms
like stricken birds, incenerated in split seconds.
You smell the burning flesh in an air blitz.
Nearing endgame a conceptual hate
is jettisioned in sky. You start collecting
the fragments of life.
Words start jumping. You refuse to accept
more than the want. And yet a finite
listening was absent. And the secret kennel
in the dead child fails to sprout. The toys
and dreams lie unattended on birthday
of the nation. A monogamous judge ascends
to heaven.
Any durable peace on the way ? Unruffled
you are still in freezing water. The boat
is half-submerged and tears are burning
the deck. No wrinkles. The fish nod
their fins for the final plunge.
SATISH VERMA
A terror of alikeness looms
like stricken birds, incenerated in split seconds.
You smell the burning flesh in an air blitz.
Nearing endgame a conceptual hate
is jettisioned in sky. You start collecting
the fragments of life.
Words start jumping. You refuse to accept
more than the want. And yet a finite
listening was absent. And the secret kennel
in the dead child fails to sprout. The toys
and dreams lie unattended on birthday
of the nation. A monogamous judge ascends
to heaven.
Any durable peace on the way ? Unruffled
you are still in freezing water. The boat
is half-submerged and tears are burning
the deck. No wrinkles. The fish nod
their fins for the final plunge.
SATISH VERMA
My love has the eyes of Rembrandt or Delacroix
He sees me in the passion of his secret inner light
He paints with strokes of extraordinary fervor
The fire of ecstasy and devotion of the joy in us
I mirror his vision with glowing admiration
I blush elated by his interpretation to conceive
For what truly I am not from the outside in his vision
Is what I am on the inside showing through
This portrait warms my heart and my spirit
From its reflection that carries his fondness to share
All the precious moments we've gathered together
Portrayed in the picture he paints divinely clear
August 12, 2019
Armageddon
These here sacred walls are graffiti on the mind,
Designed to make us blind.
A lie artfully etched on both sides of a crooked sky.
Shame, and guilt, that is how a religion is built.
And with fear, that is the trinity we have long held so dear.
Fists of tyrannical steel, couched in a velvet glove,
Then they have the audacity to call it love.
Forward to today, and it is said, all truth is a crime,
In the elongated hands of unexamined time.
Now here is the long sought challenge.
Hold sin’s trumpet to your mind’s eye, and blow it bold.
For therein is the key, to the salvation of your eternal soul.
Dare to walk away from the benumbed fold,
Then, watch the mighty wall crack, tremble, tumble, and fall.
The Armageddon of your cherished beliefs is near,
And, the ashes of what you hold dear will be gone,
Will be burned away that day, I fear.
The sacred strumpet, the holy harlot, a new paradigm she is ready to receive.
There are no more false gods, that us, intend to deceive!
As future’s fool, we rush in, devoid of sin,
And for relief, step off the precipice of our long held belief.
Like the zero in a divine equation, we become the hero,
As we resonates brilliantly into infinity, to create a new reality.
.
an art az
analogous
animals
i'm behind you
so i can see you
'cuz mine
all uv it
love you
or
need you
manifest everyday
art holds sway
revealing personal taste
a continuing way of life
grace..as light in space
M-aster's
A-rtful
R-hyme
L-iterally
Y-ields
N-ice
Q-uote
U-sing
I-mpressionism
A-s
M-agnificent
B-eautiful
A-ppearance
O-perates
Topic: Birthday of Marlyn T. Quiambao (February 16)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
When I travelled to London Town
I never expected this to go down
Artful Dodger came out of the dark
Smiled at me, as if I was a lark
He was rumpled and crumpled, this tallish boy
I did not know what to say, so I said “ahoy”.
He put one finger in front of his mouth and faded away.
I was glad I had come to London Town on this day.
M-y
A-nnual
R-emembrance
I-n
A-rtful
E-ssence
S-hows
P-oetic
E-xpression's
R-egards
A-pplying
N-atal
Z-est
A-s
B-eautiful
A-crostic
L-ets
L-ines
A-dvance
R-emark's
B-rilliant
A-nd
R-emarkable
E-ffect
Topic: Birthday of Maria Esperanza V. Ballarbare (January 07)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic