Best Artworks Poems
Well over a hundred years ago
The illustrious Vincent Willem Van Gogh
A genius somewhat like Michelangelo
With thousands of artworks in his cluttered studio
From the sublime to the grotesque for show
Might have been better off working as a gigolo
Because he died a pauper on skid row
In those days artists had no impresario
To make sure they lived high in a chateau
Dining on champagne and escargot
So it was quite a different scenario
That brilliant artists lived totally incognito
Often exchanging a painting for a meal on a patio
Or selling their wares door to door on tiptoe
Carrying under their arm their impressive portfolio
So it was for Vincent Willem Van Gogh
Misunderstood and suffering from vertigo
Mentally unstable and drinking heavily in Bordeaux
Depressed, impulsive and insane – a tragic combo
Cut off a piece of his ear, his sanity was touch and go
A troubled soul, life for him was a wild rodeo
Obsessive passion, far from living the status quo
His life and work intertwined shimmying like a yo-yo
Feeling the stranger, he shot himself overcome with sorrow
Post mortem everyone wanted to hear the myth of Van Gogh
With his vivid colors of burgundy, ochre and indigo
In his honor every year the orchestra features the oboe
And while the Italians chant magnifico
Everyone else cheers Bravo! Bravo!
How times have changed for poor Van Gogh
From a mere hundred years ago ~
Read on air by invitation ~ March 21, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: 1st place 2026, 2nd place 2021, 3rd place 2025, 3rd place 2022, 3rd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on August 15, 2021 for YOUR BEST MONORHYME contest sponsored by WILLIAM KEKAULA - RANKED 1ST
Tender as cuddling arms, this godly place
Bright the jasmines that pose in laced dresses
Enchanting my soul with bliss all around;
That paints this unbridled colorfulness.
No panels of steel gates here, or mown grass
That disapprove of a fancy free tread…
Where I graze the meadow, in abandon
Relishing the scent of air overhead.
Oh jasmine sprigs are fondled by the breeze
Where birdsong trills on moonlit summer skies;
That kindles inner holiness in me
As lush artworks enthuse these joy-filled eyes
Even in winter’s hand, buds glint the dew
That’s why I love nature staying aglow,
As any cycle thrills my thankful heart …
To pray for her dear life… to richly flow.
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Posted 6/05/2016
Contest of Rob Carmack, Srewed lX
The drafting on of renaissance curtail
earmarks of goodly fortune, so avail
the breeding of contentment, this rest's hail
imbibes my soul's delivery with assail!
To caulk the artworks beauty, cover stale
in moment's grand assumption, empty, fail!
Consign my emptiness, this cross exhale
this masking of my enmity . . . not jail!
That looking up to fairness, merely wail
it is the struggles loss, I feel as ail,
that competitions toss, no matters nail
it were the season's gloss, not light to scale!
Life worth the moments leaving, not in braille
but focused earthly, counterpart eye's shale.
The washing of my eye, God split the rail,
and sanctify my enemies' worse trail!
THE DEATH PENALTY ~ Voted back in Nebraska. LB268 AGAINST passed last year, was repealed this November 8th, 2016! REWATCH "DEAD MAN WALKING" 1995, Sean Penn, Susan Sarandon! Sister Helen Prejean On forgiveness! "COMMENT: "WHY DO WE KILL PEOPLE, TO TEACH PEOPLE THAT KILLING PEOPLE IS WRONG!"
The kitchen table
was the centerpoint of childhood,
a place of gathering,
an easel for artworks, battleground
for homework and Eden
for the creation of lifeforms
moulded from plasticine.
It was the Formica altar
on which daily meals were celebrated,
a patch of the real, ground zero
for tears and laughter
and a bench for my mother
to cut fabric into shapes
from paper patterns to sew
together into minor miracles.
The kitchen table was an arena
for games where monopoly fortunes
were won and lost on its real estate -
a surface slapped senseless
in games of “snap”, the pride
soaked soil of the Colosseum
where my Dad and I played chess.
It was a resting place for the hands
and elbows of four generations,
a soak for human pain and hurt
and wore without protest
the hot candle wax and cream
from countless birthday cakes.
It listened patiently as lives
unfolded in language.
The kitchen table was a poem
written not in words, but in wear
and tear and in the morse
of scuffs, scratches and stains
inscribed upon its surface.
I do not know its fate.
Sadly, like the pages
of most poetry,
it has been lost to time.
It deserved better.
Early Autumn.
Lazy Sunday morning.
Coffee cooling.
Reading poetry, writing pooretry.
Viewing artworks, editing photographs.
Eggs and crumbcake, long since
consumed.
Forgot by mind, by mouth
though not by belly.
Hawks foreground the
white puffery in the North sky,
circling.
Perhaps challenged by a corvid.
Something black seems to dislike its circling.
It’s presence.
It’s self.
The birch showers in newly not-green and softly serrated
leafery.
Dropping into cappuccino.
Into coffee.
Onto keyboard and camera.
Into hair.
Upon the unused chair.
There, beside us.
A carpet to inspire the sole
of the barefeet we eat in.
We ate in.
The rustle seems to murmur something
about the season.
The ages.
The world.
The hawks cry out.
Continually.
Distant.
They could be anywhere.
They are just there far over there
but
could be anywhere.
To place the call of a hawk is no
small thing.
To resolve them in the bluevast
no easier, true.
The leaves, seem to tire of the sky
and fall,
seemingly mostly,
on her.
She leaves them where they be.
A forest come home to its
Hera.
As Artists Touching an Audience - Thoughts on Creating
Beyond the full experiencing and aims of the creative process in all genres, there are the results, the “made” productions, the works, ready to be sent
out there
from the self
to touch other people in some (any) way of giving,
the created work
presented
to affect the anyone in those moments
of being-in-audience
to an artwork (In the perceiving and receiving of it)
to any degree.
As writers, musicians, actors, artists, we are gifted through
the creative process: through
our Felt involvement
from onset to culmination of the created works
And also when we, too, pause outside artworks,
as with all perceptions,
to examine and receive, to be touched in some way:
sensually, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, creatively…
Nearly always, then, we make a judgement
about whether we Like what we perceive
(in all of life as well) in an artist’s composition —
Here
Is the work we have met with for a time
and let reach us…
No matter how briefly, the created work
has thus gone from being some “thing”
To being an Experience.
This accounts, I think, for why artists of all genres
feel more than an ownership of “products” about the works done.
Like a god-parent might, we
artists invest our whole being into
shaping works
to the full completion of their inspiration.
And, then, (as a person does for a fostered one or offspring)
we have a bond…with a desire to follow the path and reception
of our works In the world beyond us.
Our created works poise apart from us…
very like living things…
Lost works are grieved …Others
Also often pass long periods asleep, away
from any receiving audience, even from us, the creators…
Perhaps going forgotten;
Some envisioned works crafted into reality
may return to a collection of once unfulfilled dreams,
which do startle if they eventually wander
out from dark corners and curled pages.
They may have stayed in sleep…to
serendipitously rise for notice in a rebirth
Like garden perennials signaled to stand
in Spring surprise…in a new season of a gifting presentation.
—————————————————————————
Experimental prose-poetry
also an “Address of Poetry” blog, PoetrySoup
(I give 2nd Apologies to Aristotle for this :-)
(c) sally young eslinger 3/10/22
Thanks be to God
Of all the memorials I've come across
Acknowledging heartbreak and sorrow and loss,
The stolperstein dotting the streets of Berlin
Have reminded me most of what shouldn't have been.
These bricks made of brass are the work of one man*
Who, as part of a project, came up with a plan
To commemorate victims the Nazis had taken
Away from their homes, where their lives were forsaken.
In English, the "stumbling stones," as they're called,
Are carefully crafted and later installed
In front of the buildings where Jews did reside
And were forcibly moved though they pleaded and cried.
Each brick (there are thousands) has name, age and date
Of the person who lived there and suffered the fate
Of a horrible torturous lead-in to death;
Inscribed, too, are camps where they took their last breath.
Memorial sculptures and artworks abound
Wherever a Holocaust victim's been found
But to me, these brass bricks are the most poignant yet
And an image I know I will never forget.
*Guenther Demnig
Not from some pedantic school of art,
Art is something straight from the heart.
Composition, perspective and tonal value,
Brings birth to artworks so very untrue.
An artist is one born with God’s very own blessing,
In creativity and colour he’ll be found always messing.
No nerd from the herd, painting something absurd,
With insanity he’s toiling, someday he’ll be heard.
Realism is something best left to the fools,
Definitely not one of the true artists tools.
After all don’t we have the camera realistic?
The painter’s thoughts much more futuristic.
Creativity no doubt is the oracle of the mind,
Use it more often, you’ll leave the others behind.
Learn to paint from the depths of your soul,
Ensuring you’ve played an artistic role.
Anything less and it’s a pool of cess,
Why not get on the road to success?
-Prince Freakasso
(Painter and Poet)
Weathered tree
Silence speaks;
Vibrant wisdom
~~~~~~~~~
Dark night
Rainy interlude;
Noisy cicadas
~~~~~~~~~
Weird weather
Hot yet cold;
Temperamental
~~~~~~~~~
Marathon man
Old yet supple;
Stoic dimension
~~~~~~~~~
Getaway moment
Poolside meditation;
Peace of mind
~~~~~~~~~
Another tryst
Rainy day moments;
Abrupt satisfaction
~~~~~~~~~
Touch of morning
Sun streams streak;
Darkness stumbles
~~~~~~~~~
Two butterflies
Sunny frolic here;
Balcony flowers
~~~~~~~~~
Fruit shoppe
Choice produce;
Worldly harvest
~~~~~~~~~
Design motifs
Artworks on display;
Old China glimpses
~~~~~~~~~
Haunting echoes
Faded agendas;
Dusty old books
~~~~~~~~~
Haiku breath
One stroke swiftly;
Experience collects
~~~~~~~~~
Moonlight
Serenade;
Sleepy dreams
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
17 December 2015
Singapore
Poetics Poem 5
********(Mimesis)******
Dear Aristotle, where, then,
Do the Arts fit?
You say each of them
Falls to mimesis, but their works, to me,
Erupt into present moments
Wearing immediate faces - not masks -
Speaking their own lyrics
Without consideration of what came
Before or will come afterwards,
Presenting a stage for dialogue...
Opening platforms for exchange.
The artworks begin anew each time
The audience receives impressions
Or as the works are relived repeatedly,
They may bring new strokes, viewed as
Potentially new and not, as you say,
“Imitations of imitations.”
Inspiration feeds the audience
As well as the artists, and all
Of time moves to
Impress upon the exchanges.
(C) sally Young Eslinger 2/22/20
AN ECLECTIC ENIGMA 1
The rhythm of life,spontaneous
and easy,lively & special a touchstone
of the ephemeral.An all embracing delight
imagination made manifest of stray
objects.Inspired informality,of
leisured elegance,a pervading
atmosphere of a coherent whole.
Quiet& simple charm in divine
eloquence,perfection in simple
continuity to bring a shared rapture.
Inspired by Jim Ede’s collection of artworks
Hear me recite this series on youtube under4 pen name ichthyschiro
PEACE ON EARTH
Peter paints the deep blue sky,
as if at the rise of creation.
He brushes the circumference
of a brand new world.
With tears, Max moves his sweeping
brush, as if tidying up the base
of the gifted Statue of Liberty.
Her height rises into the heavens.
Peter gives depth to the earth.
Bodies of water and continents,
brought to life. The bottom third
of the canvas displays the stars
and stripes of the American flag,
carpet-like - the world’s welcome.
Each star, meticulously placed,
sparkling around our beloved planet.
Before the artist signs his masterpiece,
with simply - MAX,
Lady Liberty’s torch glows like the sun,
over New York City. This artist who
saved her from her deteriorating fate,
who painted each fallen fireman -
gifting their families with painted portraits.
Max, born in Germany, raised in China.
Max, a patriot of the United States.
Max, a gentle man, sweet and kind.
He turns around and waves,
he shook my hand. His brushstrokes
inhabit the Statue of Liberty.
He stands ten feet tall,
even with withering bones.
A class act, all displayed in his lovely painting,
Peace On Earth.
9/17/2017
Enter Your Own Competition
Sponsor: Cecilia Hopkins-Drewer
My Competition: Celebration Of Art
Art: Peter Max’s Peace On Earth
Criterion hoping to achieve: Bring to life a painting of an old or new master artist.
Peter Max is an American artist known for using bright colors in his work. Max synthesized the "Summer of Love" into artworks from canvas to mugs, clocks, scarves, clothes, and cruise ships. Reference: Wikipedia
I once met a lovely girl
paint brushes she can twirl
on canvass of every moment
on every hearts basement
for long ago she was a girl
whose hair like an ice cream swirl
and by her talents I do twirl
and enjoy the moments with a whirl
the lovely girl I met before
Is the girl I appreciate even more
I from the very first beginning
Her artworks were already fascinating.
she was a girl I used to think
on he guitar's melody my soul sinks
My windows cant even blink
in her awesome dance i surely shrink
strumming her guitar's chord
rhythm composes life song
soothing melody depicts the word
on weary hearts all shared along.
oh my dear and precious friend
my love for thee will never end
though painful times may make my knees bend
still my love will never end.
my friend, the world is wicked
full of chaos, full of wrath
like other people said
on the every end of aftermath.
engulf God's indescribable love
Enjoy each moment of thine life
blessings sent from above
spent them not on strife.
True artworks live for long, fakes deceive,
Exist not yet live, better believe,
In an age of mod art,
Voyeurs peep, play odd part,
World has gone far since Adam and Eve,
Time moves but stayed at stet
Curious folks kill the cat,
A poet as checks, at stet to leave.
_____________________________________________
Happenings |07.06.2021| Limerick, the first, second, and fifth lines are one foot longer
Poet’s note: There was a ‘comedian’ artwork by Maurizo Cattela that sold for $ 120,000 in 2019 (See my poems in PoemHunter.com, This Weird World’s Weird Ways –I and This Weird World Getting Bizarre – II). It was nothing but a banana duct-taped to a wall. Now, here comes another ‘artistic creativity’ – or something that should be called gas! An artist Salvador Garau sold an invisible sculpture titled Io Sono (I am) for $18000. It was nothing but vacuum in a glass case, which he called ‘an empty space full of energy’. After all, Big bang came from nothing but an infinite potentiality!! Lucky buyers receive certificate of authenticity. He also had earlier sold a piece of invisible art titled, Buddha In Contemplazione, made of ‘spirit and air’ as he explained. You must have also heard of NFTs, non-fungible tokens, as the next big thing. I am waiting for the day I can place some invisible poems and later publish them as well.
AN ECLECTIC ENIGMA 5
Awareness,articulated,emphasises inherent
intimacy,communicated eye to eye.
Everchanging yet underlying the movement
,here and there.Engraved forever,catalogued
in human memory,available on recall.
Translucent interplays of lght,figuration in
transition,precise palpitations of pure delight
sound in the beholders ear.Testaments of
transparent,and the temporal,all too soon
evaporates before the eye.
Inspired by Jim Ede’s collection of artworks
Hear me recite this series on youtube under pen name ichthyschiro