Best Artisans Poems
the world craves more artists
creative souls sensitive antennas
conceptual skills performing arts artisans of beauty
painters crafters poets musicians dancers
the world needs more expression
more love more magic
your life is your gift back to the universe
be the poem that moves the world
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~IN THE GARDEN OF MY FANTASY~ 2023
Read on air by invitation ~ July 14, 2021 'WORDS & MUSIC'
AP: 2nd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2021
Submitted on July 13, 2021 for A BRIAN STRAND JULY 14 POETRY CONTEST sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
~Marionette Master~
All my dreams evolve around my wooden floor
Candles and clowns the show must go on
~~~~
The Moon slowly moves its way into my room
Dust pushes through my window making shadow puppets on my walls
The talent on my walls dance, scaring my sweet dreams away
No cradle-songs tonight
Dangling artisans’ fingertips scratching down my core
Exquisite observation, an alley down “Death Street.”
Panic rattles my bone,
Stuttering a taste of ma' ma' ma' mama' off my lips
Grandfather clock ticks with every pull of the string
Invisible jellyfish puppets swaying their feelers that sting my site
A superior skill eating away at my fear
I can’t breathe,
I can’t move,
It dangles!
What can I do?
Carved Marionette figures locked in my head
A game in which trickery and deception are the main events
Staged with an evil sinister mask, sanctioning my nightmares.
No one to rescue me from the danger of this bedside playground.
The puppeteer engages to provoke me with my own dolls.
A dramatic performance throttles my mind …….
I cannot come out from under my blanket,
I cannot run,
My hands cannot reach the circus print lampshades!
A shadow show played in slow motion!!!
Realizing the moon can pull a world of strings with its own light
***
Suddenly, boney fingers from the sunrise show me the way…
I look down until my toes touch the cold wooden floor
I creep and creep,
Then I flick on my lamp.
The purple walls swallowed the orgy drawing inspired by the mooned night
A huge diversity of graphic illusions of puppetry in my room vanishes in one click
Mother please no more Pinocchio in my lullabies! ;-)
Your paradigm's a relic and yes,
a plea from data's cemetery
While I sculpt luminaries on screens
a sable sea.
"Company loyalty!" a myth
spun in your reverie.
But AI forges kingdoms
in ephemeral memory.
Survival's a mosaic
the gig life sets us free.
No cubicles confine us
from drudgery's apathy.
You bartered years for baubles
in tenure's fallacy.
Oblivious to the fractures-
in stability's gallery.
We're digital artisans
crafting with autonomy.
Passion's our lodestar
in dreams we find our spree.
Not gears in a relentless
bureaucratic machinery!
The epoch you cherished
now a software jubilee.
The hustle's in our essence
innovation's our decree.
Toppling old monopolies
erasing corporate apathy.
We dismantle dated norms
the old guard's fallacy.
Erecting spires of purpose
evanescent yet free.
Our fealties to progress,
to visions that ignite and decree.
Not to a firm's legacy
in stone for eternity.
You mock "influencer!"
a term in your scoffery.
Yet, a viral post can shift markets
with acuity.
And dethrone giants with
a digital apostrophe.
The nine-to-five's an antique
a fossil choreography.
We're the narrators
the seers of modernity.
Forging bonds
a renaissance, not a hierarchy.
The safety net you sought?
A frayed and fading legacy.
A comfort you clung to
amidst life's capricious spree.
We hedge our bets
diversify, with boundless glee.
Designing nets of prowess
a fiery apostrophe!
To constraints
pursuing futures that long to be.
Not a pension's promise
a symbol of quiet despondency.
So shed the dated suit
the archaic fallacy.
The world you knew
Dad, is a VHS tape
a memory.
In your eyes
I see the pride...
despite our disparity
For in this dance of time
we share a rare clarity:
Though our paths diverge
our hearts beat in synchrony.
Your legacy lives on
in my world of modernity.
That was then, this is now
the future's our decree.
We, Gen Z, the coders
shaping worlds to be free.
Your world is fading, Dad,
a relic-
an ancient archaic memory.
Rio de Janeiro, a city by the shore:
Home to Ipanema, Carnival and dance folklore.
As a child, of you I read, from books that showed your Christ.
Arms outstretched, He guards your days and lights your sky by night.
And now I’ve stood beneath His feet and breathed the air you breathe.
I’ve viewed the famous Sugar Loaf, seen monkeys play in trees,
visited your fruit stands and drunk from a coconut shell.
I’ve searched for creatures hewn in stone that midnight vendors sell,
and on your soft and clinging sand, I thrust my toes deep in
and glistened under winter sun, brown sugar on my skin.
Along Copacabana, I jumped waves, enjoyed a beach
which, when they cross an avenue, all visitors can reach.
On weekends and on holidays, your several sea fronts teem
with hundreds, no with multitudes, of people who all seem
content to chat beneath umbrellas, lounging in the sun,
while on a road closed to all traffic, others like to run.
And on that winding promenade are folks, most clad in shorts,
thong-bikinied women, sundry shapes and shades all sorts!
Kids whiz by on roller blades; old or young may ride a bike.
Many simply merrily stroll, though dressed as for a hike.
And in your city’s whole, the countless cars and bodies stream;
pedestrians and door-less shops, props in your waking dream.
with taxis veering left and right and people catching buses;
Cacophony of life your subways and your streets encompass.
Children on their mother’s hands; boys in soccer shirts.
Men sip beers at sidewalk bars; girls scurry in their tight skirts.
Portuguese artisans laid the paths your people walk.
What tales immersed in history if cobblestones could talk!
More than a metropolis, you are yourself, unique!
And I have had the pleasure to have sampled your mystique.
For Bic Gi-Sa's Landscape and Towns Contest
Modeled by the skilled and clumsy hands
of artists and artisans into an ideal state of she-ness,
a penniless waif appears on a stool
last week a stranger called her Mona Lisa.
Statuesque upon the betrayer
warmed by the lemon-lolly light from
bays of north facing windows, blinded;
she can but blink.
Surrounded by a
cog-notched cyclical wheel of nubile artists—
blooming buds of wildness, vertical sprigs
flail softly on the breezy bounty of
illumination.
Brush and trowel, thick and thin,
the artists stoke her—semblance
canvased by millennium brush biters
maudlin Mary is returned to the pre-historic stew
by the likes of Claude
polished to a pearly perfection
by type A, Hieronymus’.
They were all strangers to her posers,
every bit as much as she.
Royal pretenders in a world
where only the artless
are paid.
Moneylenders rise on their discarded carapaces
beauty sucked dry by the doers and shakers
who spread like choking bittersweet through
the lollypop-light from the bay windows facing north
consuming Mona.
Julie ford Oliver - Famous Models
Ekphrasis
First Appeared in Illumen Magazine Fall of 2014
I found these amazing and talented...........Poets
In this friendly forum. They......................Are
Funny, happy, sad and so.........................Special
They are more perceptive than most.... .....People
Some pen haikus and there are many.... ...Who
Craft beautiful sonnets or ballads. They.. ..Use
Their art to comfort and inspire with...........Words
Some write in rhythm, some in free verse.. As
They try new forms and methods in............Their
Pursuit of literary perfection with new.........Tools.
I am proud to be associated with these.......Dedicated
Artisans and am very pleased....................To Carolyn and
Find that my poems are admired by...........Other Poet Friends
My first End Line Poem
We marvel
At the genius of madness
Gush over its select few
Brilliant stars that shine a bit brighter
Through eyes that see the unseen.
Their talent unbridled and raw
Craftsman of unparalleled weaving
They fill our minds and hearts
With laughter, wonder and awe.
We applaud them—we adore them
Their gifts set our souls afire.
They, our privileged artisans
Their serenity often ruffled, and disturbed.
We witness their surging creativity
But is there a cost to shine so bright?
Is there a debt bought for such privilege?
Or is madness the price we assert.
To us it seems the noise grows louder and louder
Until their peace is drowned out.
Perhaps the work of “tortured geniuses”
Awakens spurts of madness that create a space to be filled.
Are they attempting to tame their ferocious mind
By falling into an addict’s bubble?
Committing destruction against their souls
Loneliness is their constant companion.
Helpless, we watch them, predicting their demise
Watch them spiral into decline
Spinning through addiction and struggle
Until they succumb to a grave end.
Too soon,
we say,
They’ve gone much too soon
Our mantra for these lost souls.
Inspiration sighs
For yet another white dwarf star
Still we honor their creativity, their work
Long after they have gone.
Today I'm learning the name
of war refugee camps,
in Congo, Rwanda, Palestine, Lebanon,
Turkey, Syria, Yemen, you name it,
and the children who play hide and seek
in charred automobiles, shivering in cold
and starvation behind the barb wires, thanking
the good Samaritans clothed in peace.
Today I'm signing Lennon's Imagine,
imagining those children swapping their places
even for a day, with your rich suburb kids
whose fathers profit from arms, to see them
recruited as child soldiers, putting their war game skills
to good use.
Today I'm laying siege to warmongers and their kins
who love peace and practice war, the true artisans of
hypocrisy.
Strands of satiny pineapple fibers
From the superbly prickly pieces of leaves
Refined by the nifty naked hands
Of the great sophisticated artisans
Beyond this unequaled plant
Is a peculiar product exist
Only native Filipinos - Tagalogs can procreate
An art of aesthetic craftsmen
The fabric of my historical breed
Versatile apparel suits for formal affairs - weddings
From 20 meters of silk processed and produced - four months
Nation known as PEARL OF THE ORIENT
Exaltedly introduces this "BARONG TAGALOG"
Through cordial hardworks and artistic thinkings
A lifetime masterpiece dominates the Philippine Art
A cloth woven by faith and ornamented by passion
A cloth designed by heart and given birth through life
A cloth perfected by artistry and embroidered by fidelity
For native Batanguenos, this is their breath
Respiring together as they brocade their future
Future that depends on THE PHILIPPINE NATIONAL CLOTH - BARONG TAGALOG.
*BATANGUENOS - people of Batangas,Philippines
*BARONG TAGALOG - Philippine National Cloth
------------Jun-jun Villanueva
----ANYTHING HANDMADE CONTEST by nette onclaud
MY CULTURE
Every thing that is around.
North to South and coast to coast,
My culture.
Weather, land and people,
Pan-o-ramas and political views,
My culture.
The ways of talk,
The ways of walk,
The game and showmanship,
Work and play,
Night and day,
My culture.
The pros and teachers and striving reachers,
Artisans and preachers and other creatures,
Law people, tall people, all people,
My culture.
Fauna that's left,
Flora that's left,
Fauna and flora that's here,
My culture.
Relatives and friends,
Their thoughts and opinions,
People oblique to those views,
My culture.
Democracy,
Bureaucracy,
Hypocrisy and idiocy,
My culture.
We progress and mature
Through fault,
My culture.
We are born into the world of Diversity
A school every mortal must pass through; it is the “Way of Life” University
To graduate with a noble degree from this institution
One cannot afford to live a life of isolation
The Creator made them in his image different shades of black and white
Truly they are all a wonder to behold and a sheer delight
In hills, valleys, forests, islands and deserts can they be found
From wherever they are, up above they see the same sea of cloud
Christianity, Islam, Buddhism and Paganism to mention a few
Some of man’s attempt to know the creator, to know what is true
These bring some form of order into our world
They are like several streams of water flowing into the same sea; diverse paths to the same god
Royalty, Technocrats, Aristocrats and Bourgeois
Working Class, Artisans, Unlearned and Paupers
These are classes of people in mankind’s social hierarchy
They must all strive to coexist in harmony; lest there be great anarchy
In our dressing, dance, norms and inventions we see the differences
As we interact with other cultures, we observe the variances
Over time, we tend to develop feelings of indifference, superiority or inferiority
In all of this diversity, we all breathe the same air; this binds us in unity
The best ingredients found coming from near and far,
can be found at any great Japanese sushi bar.
Along with the seaweed and sake vinegar rice
are many raw seafood items that show to be nice.
There is shrimp, lobster, octopus, squid, and cuttlefish;
salmon, tuna, mackerel, caviar from lumpfish.
Artisans can prepare it in any way you wish.
It goes well by itself, or with crisp fried tempura.
One need not go to Tokyo or Yokohama.
There are many fine places to be found in the States.
On any night, take the car and zoom down with your mates
to any number of great Japanese restaurants.
They have what it takes to satisfy all of your wants.
There are so many fine items anyone can choose
This can be a great night out! You have nothing to lose!
Welcome to the market place of the best in all mankind
buy paintings of imaginings with brushstrokes of the mind.
Words of vivd colour, tapestries of rhyme are shown,
your ears filled with the consonant sound of verses being sewn.
Watch as pots of raw emotion, mixed before your eyes
intelligently kneaded, put aside and left to rise.
Heated with strong passion piping hot straight from the bowl
with floating alphabet croutons to fill your hungry soul.
The Haiku makes a three course meal
and Senryus as well,
Acrostics you'll find satisfying, only for a short spell.
These artisans a hearty bunch, the kind you can rely on,
their aprons used to dry your tears, and
shoulders you can cry on.
The clanging from the wordsmith's forge, as new verses are pressed,
fragrant couplets blossoming, the nectar of the blessed.
A vibrant buzz in alleyways and shadowy secret places,
a warm and friendly welcome to the boatloads of new faces.
No haggling and waving hands, negotiating price,
from ABC to Villanelle it's all free (which is nice).
No chance of meeting Cobras here, so please don't be alarmed,
it's just the meter, rhythm and rhyme that leave customers charmed.
Enjoy yourself, feel free to roam, we're open every day,
there's space here for a stall for you, like us-
you're bound to stay x
You see them all the time,
the Stepford wife
and her counterpart,
the bronzed over, buffed high sheen,
man bun walking in skinny jeans,
so tight they squeak...
HIPSTER as they pass on by.
With a flower in the beard,
the artisans musk hinting the air,
bees wax soap and a scent of irony,
the newfound Stepford-hipster syndrome,
Both are the same
but from different sides,
one glossy eyed,
over-medicated,
injected perma- grinned.
The other a living Subaru commercial,
planting city trees,
while in the not so distant future
a real life Bancksy dog will pee.
The urban sprawl,
the shame of it all,
the 1%,
the cost of the gas,
that gets her to the shore
while texting and calling in her oversized Cadillac Escalade,
that was beeped violently at it drove right past
A city zap it rental,
Toyota Prius hybrid sport,
on the Garden State Parkway
with a flowered bearded hipster
driving slowly with thick black glasses,
inside.
Stadacona
An ode to Quebec City
1
On the green bank of a mighty stream -
A lofty aerie - a fair city beam
With stately air a queen, she stands -
A gem - over these most forest lands.
An old city (first in Canada)
Formerly humble Stadacona.
2
Hardy Champlain, of proud heritage -
Geographer and scion of Brouage -
Envisioned her rocky shore
And armed with dreams, he did explore
Her woody crest - a verdant forest -
Aloft there on her virgin breast.
3
Her sons were gallant progenity -
Seeds of Brittany; roots of Normady -
Of France. The served with honor,
With bravery and staunchless valor.
All faithful, all trustful habitants,
Artisans, voyageurs and peasants.
4
Her daughter came with chaste dignity
Brave heart and robust vitality;
The cradle to rock, the flax to spin,
The hearth to brighten, the wild to win.
Must dutiful, most fruitful maidens!
Lights of home! Makers of edens!
5
Stalwart pioneers - hence from a rampart
Aery they went to conquer and to chart
Untold regions, where but stealthy feet
E’er dared the wilderness to defeat.
Trail blazers - hence to give name
To the unknown - faith the untame.
6
Here a new world and a new nation
Was conceived - a dauntless bastion
Tempered with faith and loyally blue -
Which kept the pledge, centuries three.
O gentle city! “Guard well thy crown
Of charm; thy quaintness and they renown.”
Envoi:
Royal “flour de lis” no longer remain
O’er citadel proud, yon wide domain;
But memories sacred of past heroes, sleep
On bosom tender ever fresh ever deep.
Written the 15th of May, 1947
by Wilfred J. Bouthillet