Best Collages Poems
Pull out the easel
set the canvas
positioned long and slender clean slate.
Sketch the figures huddled and dark-bound hostage
to charcoal-cooled coals
etching in shadow images;
Faceless entities
slipping in and out the background
earth-toned sojourners accepting, alone, quiet, dying;
Still the images in silence
hard and disfigured
grotesque horrors in place;
Somber soul-drained eyes
skeletal socket holes
buried in the heart and mind;
Let tears fall down their cheeks
in wonder, awe, and
fear of what happens next.
Acrylic primers dilute the wash in the storyline
flaking and cracking
tearing each soul and truth away;
Polyptych blended burnish bleeds
quiet, soft exuding
whimpered cries, asking why;
Chiaroscuro collages of death from life
fading to diluent breaths
the heartbeat of an unholy silence;
Graded gouache monochrome scraper boards
releasing sfumatos of singularities
communal lives sacrificed
Varnish the final rendition
camouflage the realities,
the actuality of what it represents,
Time immemorial in genocidal atrocities
of Native Americans, Cambodians, Hawaiians,
Jews, Rwandans, Bosnia, Darfur,.
When does it stop?
The never-ending list
life is more precious than this
until change comes
Paint the Picture Black and Gray
pray
then act.
He was a writer, a fighter, an old-timer word rhymer
Always thought free verse was asinine
He was the queerest, the dearest, the tear in your beer-est
and he was one Tolkien over the line
He was archaic, prosaic, euphoric, historic
Made pentagrams optically divine
He was the cheekiest, geekiest, and uniquely freakiest
and he was one Tolkien over the line
He loved cigars and Star Wars, guitars, and sitars
Collages made his artistry torch shine
He was the jivest, high-fivest, young poet alive-est
and he was one Tolkien over the line
It's not much reward to those who are bored
but are afraid of not acting benign
Sometimes you gotta get riled, and go a bit wild
and step one Tolkien over the line
November 14, 2014
Down the pine-studded mountain and towards the sea
Me, mounted on a rickety, swaying, desperately-desiring bus,
Floorboard splotched with rusted holes revealing
tires
Below my feet
and salted sea wind soon
Breathing down my neck.
The Luzon day stretched before me, road
Singing in it's curves
drowning out Philippine faces painting
Collages of
colors and years.
Revealing Spanish lighthouses beckoning
Lost souls and
Galleons
Scattering gold onto
ivory shores.
One hour later,
Nerves frayed from endless bumps,
I tumble onto the palm-fringed beach to
Witness
Waves cresting like glittering
Champagne and a
Delicately worn grandmother being
Gingerly dipped into the
Azure Softness like a
Queen Cat in a
Cherub's cradle.
"Her Mind is a Carnival of Picasso Harlequins"
Walking through the poetic frames of featureless ghosts
her fingers play like harps their ectoplasmic cages
strange symbols that clang the frivolity of vacuumed cleaned emptiness
dissolving in the invisible time wasted in the chronicles of their newfound empires
the meaning of their spectral presence swings
like canaries singing home all their honeys sweetly
it’s all bluebirds entertaining the wisdom of lovelorn owls watching on
like they are azure feathered blind mice adorned with halos,
while the carnal vultures smile winging it above them all in prayer circles predatory
“her tongue is an arena of silent conflicts”
her mind is a carnival of Picasso harlequins
balancing the trapeze, the affairs of a wild heart
scorched and stinging with fragments of cubist love collages
arriving like ashes within the flames of her phoenix stages;
some newly burnt Aphrodite.
elements closer to reality than the abstractions of geometry
CandideDiderot. ‘25
"You say you want a revolution" screamed the four,
John, Paul, George and Ringo beat down the door.
Melody and harmony and Brit sex appeal gone anti-war
Nine times round the turn table with Yoko, hardcore.
Fab stereo artists with composite collages for musical scores,
they kicked, whined, smoked and dined in venues top-drawer.
Number 9 was the cut most radical by lore
chaos, poetry, and prose composed with sound effects galore,
a sandwiched montage of "what are you looking for?"
I still wonder the life and the meaning of it
The reason why I belong here...
The struggle, the humiliation
And the pain of smiling when tears are yet to fall.
Walking in the shadows of fear
I still wonder the life
Why little happiness is the sign of tears.
A little achievement is the struggle for pelf
And when I am done
They make me a king for a day
Yet tomorrow comes with a new challenge
And when I ask myself looking at the mirror
It has got nothing to say.
I still wonder the life and the existence of it
When they look at me with arrogance
And expectations pouring with fake complimentses
Greetings with roses turns out to be feces.
Cowering if am left with a penny today
The blood that I shed and the bruises and the scars
They see the same in me
Yet the same damn people put me down.
Running along side of self-discovery
I fear the loss of self-recovery
And when I think I can face the challenge
I look myself at the mirror with some motivation
Still it reflects me back the same collages.
I still wonder the life and the dedication towards it
For I am yet to concieve the love that it gives
And when it gave it paved me a path with hurdles
My long allegiance turned out to be a long malevolence.
Waking up to feel if I am left for today
And the morning moans with yester-days
Drowning endlessly by a single tear.
I worry not to loose my grip
And I looked myself once again at the mirror
It is not me then...
He is the person whose persuasion counts most then
Such a splendor all around me
So much to see and so much to do
For he is with me to clear up to the end
If I make the person in the mirror my friend.
My
musings
move and breathe.
They animate
as words are inspired
from a magical place,
a paint palette full of thoughts.
Possibilities are endless...
I am the mistress of mosaics;
collages of symbols and syllables!
Susan Ashley
July 15, 2017
Never a crescent but opalescent
This globe, suspended and always present
And the Wolf cannot be flesh or bone
In this void in time's dim desert zone
The Wolf drinks water by frozen moonlight
Tween slurps She's panting with all of her might
Behind Her is cool, clear space, not a sound
Only the dream, the moon, the pond, the ground
Before Her, Her own urge to lap abounds
Wet shadow animates Her slurping sounds
As She's prowling, the dreams of human minds
Resume here, and secret voices She finds
While the Wolf lingers in psychic powers
None shall wake, but quake, for several hours
Their minds in this clearing, none can hide
Into this stretch they've strayed, some petrified
Sleeping souls, unseen, drift round Her shadow
Longing to escape to some green meadow
Gathered souls meld with Her strange oasis
Their liquid ripples squirm like their faces
In each warm, active mind synapses spark
Captives perceive images as they arc
Meanwhile, the Wolf; in spirit world She drinks
A united sea; thoughts each dreamer thinks
Her lips draw in the collective spirit
Of their curious nature; they fear it
In Her belly flows their merged collages;
Impressions of their entwined barrages
The Wolf's clear as glass, exposing patterns
In colors blazed like Neptune's, like Saturn's
From Her drinking head down to Her wagging tail
She's made of dreamers captured by sleep's spell
For ages, probably for prolonged ages
They have been waiting for the ecstatic pearl
Collages of pomegranates in bends and edges
Are on the toes to get into the whirl
For ages and ages the two hungry clouds
Have nurtured their myriad colours
Explosion of passion in retiring from the shrouds
Two fantasizes colliding in tremor
For ages and ages the starving crimson words
With the pen and paper set dance-like
Waited in the molecules of curve in the swords
Tonight they are getting into the crushing of psyche
Touches of silk and strokes of electrons
The birds at mad bites into the pineapple
Inbox is flooding with cloud nine neurons
Moments mesmerized in moonlit maple
The horses from Harappa racing fast
The fountain opens its wonderful floodgate
The ship tossing along with the mast
Tumultuous tempest in the Ithaca strait
Go go go Owl plunder your moon
Let the black beauty put on maroon
________________________________________________________
July 31, 2016
Hazy pictures were displayed
Old oaken frames contained them
Hanging slight off kilter right
The walls littered like leaves in autumn lawns
Grandma keeps glimpses of every leaf pile we made
Remember that Day? Indepence Day, we think...
Smiled postures, sincere familial moment
Each recounting the tales we told most well
Classic family fables...annual oral essays
The laughs reached hysterics, when we remembered.....
These pictorial journals stand proud
Historical record of Easter egg-hunt/fist-fights
account of dogs who eat cake...sons first birthday
the dog ate the cake on his FIRST birthday?!!
Picture proved guilt for Bailey, you mutt!!
Chocalate chops-licking as if smiling for the camera
Christmas collages of gift wrapping typhoons
Swirling in heaps covering everything
Your eyes were half shut holding
holding an Alf doll...old school dated stuff
Fashion victim flashbacks...man, you had a perm?!
relishing rubicks cubes , mysterious artifact
I could never have vengeful laughing
without this"Wham" haircut snapshot
Grandma likes the silly one we took
eyes crossed, fish lipped child faces
chubby wind burned cheeks, pushed through snowsuit hoods
Snowman center stage in a motley group pose
bordered either side, white barred polaroid
taped, crudley cropped, in center of this frame
Each still reinactment is a Joyful look beyond
Life had painted beautiful moments,
and we were there to catch it....
The box of sparkly dreams sends out its streams
to each of us in visions of reality
to take the place of our own real dreams,
and to suck out the art and creativity
that we all possess and substitute other's
imaginations, convenient, for free.
We can laugh, we can cry, without bothers.
In time we live by command and decree
and are so docile and compliant that we
listen to commercials that intervene
one on top of another in a chaotic jiffy
of images, collages making serene
the knowledge that this is what life represents
as bombs drop and mothers far, sing laments.
Old magazines, pictures that pose;
Junk cluttering, ready-to-throw;
Stray offerings for scrapbook close;
I'm selecting new collage flow.
Flip each page here, tear picture pacts;
A nice neat stack, stray page with poise;
Beauty that steers, pieces of tact;
Sift pile and slack, find image choice.
With easy pace, seek treasures lost;
Start to address new storyboard;
Assign new space, at zero cost;
Begin to press, cut-and-paste hoard.
Cut, trim and gum, pieces of art;
Ideas run wild in collage grain;
Here and there lump, unusual parts;
Just like a child: magic laid plain!
And pictures grow, images lift;
Collage art sings new melodies;
New chance to glow, warm purpose sifts;
Junk page now spring, clear textures see.
Thus one by one, I shape new stuff;
Discarded print, pictures galore;
Artwork frees fun, prime zest enough;
Colours and tints, avant garde core.
I feel my soul, at ease with this;
Paper cuttings, sharp cutter blade;
Trim to make whole, relax with gist;
Patchwork trimmings, pictures re-made!
This strange crusade to re-use print;
I come to know heals more and more;
Art left unsaid, re-lives new mint;
Collage that shows new life galore!
Art goes to show that discards can
Be of good use if I can see
A brand new flow in whimsy's plan:
Heart sparks a fuse to free beauty.
Leon Enriquez
24 February 2014
Singapore
I paint picture that schemes my changeable collages that clogs my drainage mind and my visions of my exploration thats a standstill it's a working in progress never no movements or exceeding always messy and im always in the middle of it and always accused of it never order organizations left a mess like a changeable collages through a change of messy mess thats in disorder never arranged in order that mg symptoms that side affects me always and sticks with me and glue me to the poster board while my collage activates my mess thats a messy changeable collages.
He ignored the warning signs and moved carefully forward and backward
In the rocking chair of swept memories and went for a wild white knuckle ride
Swayed but not faltering although he swung like a junky on amphetamine pills
Soaked in recollections gathered momentum and made dents in the floor boards
He pictured himself as a young man courting his sweetheart and kissed the bride
Life had dealt him difficult cards but he had upped his game in the view of defeat
Made allowances for bad hands and survived depression divorce and uncertainty
Valued his shortcomings and turned obstacles and flaws into forces of challenge
Photographs trinkets newspaper clippings and baby shoes swished past in a flash
A rollercoaster adventure of vertigo and nausea but also of thrilling escapes
Parachuting down abysses cliff diving and bungee jumps into a red-hot volcano
Confined to a nursing home he refused to accept the dumping ground it seemed
His conscience was clear but that signalled that truths were merely impermanent
And the subconscious tends to rest below an iceberg of prominent falsifications
Like laundering imperfection with fabric softener on kind collages and tapestry
Photo-shopping was before his time but he knew to cut and paste with his mind
Racing thoughts and blustering emotions collected on the windscreen of his soul
First pay packet for an old Enfield motorcycle then traded for an Austin Minor
Redundancy after the miner’s strike and still both his children made it to College
Some say it’s been a junk yard but he fathoms recycling for future generations
26th October 2019
INSTRUMENTAL
Love is music
and instrument,
when we play...
MOON
It's an adventure
suspended in the air
suspense...
TASTE
More tasty than wine,
more than cheese ...
the taste of your kiss...
SENSATION
In lighted bodies,
we burn love ...
We share desires...
PAINTING
The strongest ink ,
It's your carmine ...
When I paint love ...!