Best Cypresses Poems
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Thoughts of Two Dimensions
Yesterday, I loved your courtyards
bathed in moonlight's shadows and smiles,
smitten by wavering stars,
lanterns of my youth,
that are reflected as coins,
in the quiet waters of your fountains.
Those are my reminiscences
arabesque creatures of an old chest,
sanctified by the lavender,
and left on the bottom of my wardrobe.
Today, I love your crowded streets,
pebbled alleyways that breathe
with aromas of kitchens,
shouts of children quarreling,
and nagging of older women
behind those awnings and windows of life well known.
Tomorrow, I will love your hot paved squares
that open to the harbors and promising high seas
while cypresses will send regards to far away winds,
and seagulls will sing nostalgia cries
of wandering merchants and sailors.
In the absence of complication,
trials and tribulations become distant memories
Above sapphire skies delight sanguine eyes -
inspiring forthcoming musings of the mind
There the tall and proud cypresses
stretches towards a clear blue sky
Where the green diva dances
on the vault of the sky after dark
A beautiful work of art,
mythology and legends
You don't have to climb high mountains
Just remove the veil that hides
the unconditional potential of the mind
Taking residence in yourself,
in the stormy nights of the world
New pages will appear -
where you can be yourself
Are you ready for humility,
silence and the climax
17/11/2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
- Complete The Poem -
- In The Absence Of Complication -
- Sponsored by: Silent One -
2nd place in the contest
Billowing, foamy currents
Lofty, turquoise drifts
Undulate as waves
Rage through the calm of heaven
As the golden stalks
Bend in fields below
Like hungry fire consuming
All life in its path
Seemingly engulfed
The cypresses are the same;
Ensnared in the grip
Of restless fury
By the skyward, emerald flame
Would Vincent approve
Of his brilliant work
Being perceived violently?
I am oft' amazed
How a piece of art
Takes on a life of its own
Interpretation
Lives within the heart
And soul of the beholder
Not merely the eye
Vincent Van Gogh's painting, "Yellow Wheat and Cypresses" was my inspiration.
For submission in Abe Lopez' contest, "Van Gogh's Van Goghs".
effervescent swirling clouds
in turquoise summer skies
float like flocks of fair sheeps
in far away exuberant fields
beneath are cyclopean cypresses
touching celestial bosom
in deep periwinkle and corn flower
whilst wheat fields
are golden fleece
waltzing with the west wind
oh, how can I forget
the paradisiacal poppies
sitting placidly along the wayside
like your eyes glisten
in your pensive mood
unaware of my presence
9 March 2021
Notes:A Wheatfield with Cypresses is any of three similar 1889 oil paintings by Vincent van Gogh, as part of his wheat field series. All were exhibited at the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole mental asylum at Saint-Rémy near Arles, France, where Van Gogh was voluntarily a patient from May 1889 to May 1890. The works were inspired by the view from the window at the asylum towards the Alpilles mountains.(Photo and info credits to Wikipedia)
All Yours (March 22) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place
Crepuscular rays filtered through the trees:
Tall black cypresses around a dark shrine,
Evening grim bells toll as I feel the freeze,
Conscious the tomb covered with rambling vine,
While nocturnal butterflies just decline.
I could not help utter a maze of sighs,
My desolate unborn baby just lies,
Never forgotten, but always evoked
Except the woman who'll never get wise.
Cursed she'll be, an oath I never revoked.
Fiction
I am against abortion. But I am in favour of forgiving.
Citron yellow-
prussian blue
brings day and night
into view.
Two sides of a coin
- a shadowless wheat field
- a brush-stroked sky
Eye-impressions do not lie
WHEATFIELDS with Cypresses /STARRY night- Van Gogh
Sycamores certainly speak French, cypresses - ancient Greek, the Old Testament's olives are bilingual: they speak Hebrew and Aramaic. Birch is a Russian tree though growing in Canada. So small and frail (they wither abroad), already gone into a winter trance, she is silent but she is silent à la russe. That's how silent bears in dens are, that's how drunkards listen to the voice of the devils dissolved in their blood, that's how old believers pray, that's how a poet meditates on his faraway homeland and, finally, that's how silent my girlfriend was, accompanying me to the airport. What are we doing here, you and me, between fall and winter, at the crossroad of four Canadian corners?
a hush of partings
of pursed lips and lonely hearts…
we should go home birch
10.12.2019
December Or January Haibun Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
sloppy fields carpeted
with golden mellowing wheats
a fevered light
with vibrant sun, trapped in pigment
bleeds across the canvas
the wheat, thousands of tiny swords
with each stalk a silent hum
caressed by a gentle breeze
ever try to reach
the impossible blue
some dark green defiant cypresses
overshadowing the surrounds
stretching towards the sky
spinning their secret story
of sublime strength and resilience
providing shade around them
stand as silent vigils
guarding intruders
a serpentine path
winds its way through the fields
leading to some houses
and beyond to a cobalt stream
the dwellings of familiar shape
not grand, not imposing
stand gazing at the sapphire sky
shrouded with some stretches
of cotton clouds
each window, a rectangle of mystery
holds surreal surprises
one can hardly guess
blooming like whispers
with the chimneys` silhouettes
a smudge of charcoal
breathing quiet sighs
into the vast, indifferent air
in the background
hills shaped in quasi-perfect triangles
reflect the azure blue sky
merging with the horizon
with a sense of infinity
it is not just a scenic scene
of undulating wheat fields
and giant cypresses
but a warmth of feeling
a serenity made tangible
a quietude, that speaks
its own language
Vincent with his passionate brush
made the scene bloom
made it blaze
a place for living in peace
a place for inhaling nature`s bliss
a piece of land fallen
from heaven to earth.
Come and lay to see the lanterns on the ships,
And listen the murmuring of the water flow,
When the river moves slowly among reeds,
not far from where green cypresses grow.
One ship is enthralled by the tree’s roots
“Beloved, Do not let the blazing ship sink,
It must reach the ocean where will join
With the stars that in darkness blink.”
I had to help the ship to continue its way
But before I came back to sit at her side,
Another ship was coming down by the river,
Cruising steadily to brave the sea’s tide.
Last Fall, my church's Scouts and I went hiking.
A few miles north of Big Sur’s coast,
There is a forested park much to our liking.
Point Lobos is the nature preserve that I love most.
The beauty there is supernal, beyond description.
We chose our trails with maps and compasses,
And practiced local plant identification.
I pointed out Monterey Pines and Cypresses.
For a time we climbed a steep inclination.
We looked down into a cove, home of sea otters,
From a viewpoint near the old whalers’ station.
We climbed through a cleft worn down by waters.
That Saturday outing wasn’t a total disaster.
The boys passed tasks to advance in ranks.
Life doesn’t get much better for an old Scoutmaster.
Lastly, to the Great Spirit we all gave thanks.
For Goethe Stanzas contest
The cypresses' leaves are vibrant and green, summer refuses
to leave as swallows wait for cold winds to depart;
chilly rain keeps all warblers in their nests hidden from intruders!
Yesterday's sun rays were pleasant to the senses of the dreamy mind
as we sat on the bench and cherished them for long;
evening came and clouds gathered and heard no single crickets' sound.
The melancholy of September has arrived a bit too soon,
Venice's narrow streets are deserted and silent;
rooftops drip as rain falls harder,very somber is the Lagoon!
A couple wearing long, black raincoats crosses the Rialto Bridge,
a yellow umbrella shelters them as their breaths steam;
no tourists frequent Saint Mark's Square under a sky so beige!
Sultry sky of Venice, sunlight will restore life and make you beautiful again...
pigeons will return and gondoliers will sing areas until the coming of dawn!
Going Dutch
When they come for me,
tell them I'm not here.
Say I've moved.
Say, if you like,
that I live at the Tate
(Modern or Britain is immaterial).
When pressed, be vague.
Say you might have overheard me mutter
something about the National.
Scandalize them - say I'm sunbathing nude
with a bunch of Rubenesque belles,
or I'm babysitting for Mary
while she whips off down to the market
to pick up a new blue robe.
Say I've bunked off to Venice
for the carnival with Tiepolo.
Bore them to death with a lecture
on pointillism or chiaroscuro.
But whatever you do,
don't mention sunflowers,
or little yellow chairs
or they'll catch me
skiing down the sides of wavy cypresses,
or whooping it up
with a crowd of golden stars!
Margaret Clerici
with a crowd of golden stars!