Best Claude Poems
As ivory awakened the moon,...
exquisite music lulled me to sleep
..................................................
Contest: Crystalline
Sponsor: Rick Parise
(My mother's favorite classical piece)
Categories:
claude, music,
Form:
Crystalline
Claude Monet
all those lilies that got in his way
traversing those pads
it's now understood was just one of his fads.
Categories:
claude, beauty,
Form:
Clerihew
There once was a lion tamer named Claude
For twenty years the cheering hordes he'd awed
He had been bitten and mauled
But the mad crowds he enthralled
Alas, Claude met his doom when he was clawed!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
claude, funny,
Form:
Limerick
Mr. Juncker's Continental System
Cohorts of Luxembourg, arise!
Keep the Russians from the Rhiine.
Hosts of Luxembourg, en garde,
Confine the British to the brine.
"We'll do without America,"
says Merkel with aplomb.
Warily one has to ask,
"Whose finger's on the Bomb?"
Français ou Allemand?
Que parlons-nous, messieurs?
Until this issue's settled
It's Anglais, faut de mieux.
A toast, my brave companions,
on the path we march along.
Not bourbon and not whiskey
but cognac Napoleon!
Categories:
claude, humor, patriotic, political,
Form:
Burlesque
'Tis said that William Claude Dukenfield was fond of his rum.
A healthy nip morning, noon and night was his rule of thumb!
He was better known as W. C. Fields who was always on the skids,
And despised nearly everything and everyone including innocent kids!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
claude, funny,
Form:
Clerihew
I am devastated, dumbfounded, dismayed,
These people are so stupid, or crazy,
They threw some hot soup
On a painting by Claude Monet,
These people are ridiculous, wicked,
Who will listen to them? Not me,
How can you believe what they say?
They destroy immortal works,
These people are so stupid, or crazy,
No one will defend their cause,
They’re like child killers
Who come to talk to us about God.
Je suis catastrophé, médusé, atterré,
Ces gens sont si idiots, ou fous,
Ils ont jeté de la soupe chaude
Sur une toile de Claude Monet,
Ces gens sont ridicules, méchants,
Qui voudra les écouter ? Pas moi,
Comment croire ce qu’ils disent ?
Ils saccagent des œuvres immortelles,
Ces gens sont si idiots, ou fous,
Personne ne défendra leur cause,
Ils sont comme des tueurs d’enfant
Qui viennent nous parler de Dieu.
Categories:
claude, appreciation, culture, rude,
Form:
Free verse
He was born November 4th
in Paris France
and had an artistic eye the moment he was born
his fascination
with light upon the waters
reflected itself
in the painting of the Red Boats which is
priceless today
He was a dreamer and
an impressionist schemer
studying composition upon the lap of the masters
he would wile away the time
mixing tints and hues
and worked in yellows
crimsons and
various shades of blues
for me i liked the irises
as they graced the canvas with luminosity
and I found the sunflowers wonderful
as they stretched forth with light that seemed free
his passion is an inspiration
for all the various artists to be
a compelling path to follow
undoubtedly.
Categories:
claude, artlight, light,
Form:
There was an old cowboy named Claude LaFeet,
the scourge of the western plain.
A Frenchman by birth and a man of some girth,
he limped and carried a cane.
He had been to the 'Pen,' had put in his time,
was now ready to settle the score.
To hunt down a Man, a coward named Stan,
this time it would be war.
But Claude was flat broke, he needed a stake
and was in a great deal of pain.
He had sold his boots and needed more loot,
he'd have to rob a train.
He went to a bar where the liquor flowed cheap,
'Fellas, I'm in a bind.'
Claude was hoping for more but he got only four,
they were the worst men he could find.
They set their trap for the 'Tombstone Special.'
he was told it carried a vault.
They began the attack by blocking the track,
the train came to a screeching halt.
They found the safe and blew open the door,
and there in the morning light.
He had been told... there might be gold,
it looks like they were right.
They divided their booty, he thanked them all,
they asked what were his plans?
'To scour the plains hopefully not in vain
for a coward by the name of Stan.'
One slowly piped up,' I know that man,
he lives in a nearby town.
He's dating a girl by the name of Pearl
with hair colored chestnut brown.'
Claude hopped on his horse and found the place
but remembered years ago.
When in a street one night they intended to fight
but Stan had failed to show.
Tired of waiting, Claude returned to the bar
and was walking through the door.
He heard a loud crack, he had been shot in the back,
he lay bleeding on the floor.
Years had passed with the bullet still there,
he was thinking Stan might flee.
When on the walk he heard Stan talk,
'I hear you're looking for me.'
They went for their guns in a blinding flash,
it had all come down to this.
But Claude was beguiled when he saw Stan smile,
the coward hadn't missed.
An old cowboy dies remembered by none,
a man extremely flawed.
But it was his gain now no longer in pain,
he would answer to his God.
Legends die and stories are told
of men who can't be beat.
How that hero Stan... shot his Man
...the coward Claude Lafeet.
Categories:
claude, adventure, , western,
Form:
Rhyme
I could've gone to Holland. I could've gone to Spain.
I could've gone to Denmark. I could've gone insane,
But instead I came here, where the river mirrors life
In a fractured, dream-like way on this brilliant summer day
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
A couple in a rowboat, a woman and a man,
In silent conversation discussing future plans,
But they’re frozen in time. No one’s getting anywhere.
And I feel the same dismay, as though rooted in the clay
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
It isn’t for the distance. The water's not that wide.
The house in which I lived is standing on the other side.
I just can't get across. There's a darkness shrouds my soul,
Wounds me more than words can say, lost in shades of charcoal gray
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
With hands in empty pockets, holding on to all that’s mine.
My best possessions taken, the rest just left behind.
And the cold, dancing light that’s reflected on the Seine
Mocks the feelings I betray, with its shimmering ballet
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
It strides across the river on pilings made of stone.
Without the means to burn it, I loiter here alone
At this shrine to the past and to all I gave away,
But I didn’t come to pray. I’m a pilgrim gone astray
By the Bridge at Argenteuil.
Categories:
claude, art, break up, loneliness,
Form:
Lyric
Letter me with lines that I may distil
The sovereign sweetness of your flaming will
Teach me to sing of dusty flowers pure
And maiden's savaged innocence no more
To scorn, for you in all emotions soar
Though self-exiled from our tropical shore
Great poet, who brought Apollo's lyre here
O could you walk again your Harlem now
And find a lullaby for our dispear
And steal of words to edifice our vow
For we tingle with the doom we must hate
And all around us broken, tired of late
They sing self songs, until spring flies to ice
While in your rapture vice too would suffice.
[Claude Mckay was a Jamaican poet, pioneer of the Harlem Rennaissnce, who died in penury in Chicago, after turning from Communism and its lucre to the Catholic faith. His poem "if we must die"was used by Churchill to motivate the allies into war]
Categories:
claude, dedication, on writing and
Form:
Sonnet
I’ve never been to Sicily, and yet
it’s always felt a part of me. Who knows?
Another life, another alphabet?
Alongside Archimedes, jotting prose
in Agrigentum I, with each vignette,
imbibing wine, as bitter as regret,
harangued the hellene farmers, stoning crows.
That Greek me – did I tend (as now) to get
frustrated when my verse was ‘on the nose’,
all too transparently in Homer’s debt?
But Italy’s a credible coquette,
more winning in her ways than we suppose.
Like Rhapsody in Blue’s smooth clarinet,
she captures us. We victims, in love’s throes,
admire her steely claws, as black as jet.
Written October 11, 2022
Categories:
claude, poetry,
Form:
Quintain (Sicilian)
I enjoyed Claude Kirchner's Super Circus TV Show as a child,
but the end of his show was something that I would always dread.
He always ended every show with the following vocal style,
"It's now time for all good boys and girls to go to bed,"
and that's all my parents needed to hear him say.
They'd march me off to bed right away.
Categories:
claude, childhood,
Form:
Rhyme
French artist Claude Monet
painted scenes from life occurring day to day.
Peace he found from his large garden pond
where paintings of 250 water lilies he spawned.
Categories:
claude, art,
Form:
Clerihew
Drac, Wolf, Frank, and Claude
Bela to Lon, doubtless psychosis,
Karloff insert he needs hypnosis,
those three murmured on,
awe night till scared dawn,
Rain unseen flights for diagnosis.
2020 October 09
Categories:
claude, allegory, character, halloween,
Form:
Limerick
I would have liked to be in the head of Claude Debussy,
write the “afternoon prelude of a faunal”,
Or "the toy box", or "Bergamasque suite", "La mer",
be a musician, a seer, and invent new music,
I would have liked to know all the images of the gardens,
I would have liked to write for clarinet, triangle
Or the piano in its case,
I would have liked to be in the head of Claude Debussy,
write a “Scottish walk”, a “moonlight”,
Playing the piano, in a garden filled with purple lilacs,
No doubt that leaving a footprint is giving
the best in the world
I would have left for my daughter a «tribute to Haydn»
And the «children’s corner», something to dream about at night,
I would have liked to be in the head of Claude Debussy.
(Two ducks on the sea, bring me back to reality,
They don’t need me, or Claude Debussy.
I would never be in the head of genius. )
J’aurais aimé être dans la tête de Claude Debussy,
écrire le « prélude à l’après midi d’un faune »,
Ou « la boite à joujoux », ou « suite bergamasque », « La mer »,
être musicien, voyant, et inventer une musique nouvelle,
J’aurais aimé connaître toutes les images des jardins,
J’aurais aimé écrire pour la clarinette, le triangle
Ou le piano dans son écrin,
J’aurais aimé être dans la tête de Claude Debussy,
écrire une « marche écossaise », un « clair de lune »,
Jouer du piano, dans un jardin rempli de lilas mauves,
Sans doute que laisser une empreinte, c’est donner
le meilleur au monde,
J’aurais laissé pour ma fille un « hommage à Haydn »
Et le « children’s corner », de quoi rêver la nuit,
J’aurais aimé être dans la tête de Claude Debussy
(Deux canards sur la mer, me ramènent à la réalité,
Ils n’ont pas besoin de moi, ni de Claude Debussy.
Jamais je ne serais dans la tête du génie.)
Categories:
claude, art, inspirational, music,
Form:
Free verse