Best Davinci Poems
It seems you only appear whilst I am asleep,
teasing rapid eye movement to awake and weep.
You hide, so I wonder how beautiful you must be,
fulfil my desires and give me the chance to see.
I believe you have beauty, eyes have never seen,
which allures me to places I have never been.
Maybe you were sculpted by Michelangelo's hands,
DaVinci drew you a smile only he understands,
Rembrandt's hand trembled at the sight of your grandeur,
maybe you are the one, Raphael's angels adore.
Your image mirrors Cleopatra's unique class,
which fades at daylight, regrets begin to amass.
I do not know your name, Silent remains the tongue,
yet I fondly believe in my heart you belong.
Silent One
23 May 2018
More than five hundred years is quite a while
for the time we have gazed on your enigmatic smile.
A beautiful woman’s portrait painted long ago,
crafted by one of the greatest artists we know.
“La Giaconda” has been an alternate alias.
Your creator has been hailed a creative genius.
In a museum you are now for many to behold
How many stories about you have been told?
For decades, you have been displayed in your location.
A beautiful painting scintillating the imagination.
Countless numbers come to see you in Paris.
DaVinci seems to have captured all your loveliness.
With great detail and colors so bold,
you are prized the world over, and are worth your weight in gold.
Long may you continue to be on display.
You must have been quite a woman in your day!
What unforeseen force determines our course
On journeys throughout our days?
What drives the notions to cross deep oceans
That for some, become early graves?
What causes our dreams that move us it seems
To continually seek higher ground?
To discover new worlds in deep space that swirls
Like windmills ‘round and ‘round?
What made DaVinci a Renaissance Man
And Shakespeare a writer extolled?
How did Einstein think out there on the brink
Relative to light, young or old?
What ran through the veins of Mahatma Gandhi
Or Martin Luther King?
And what magic arose when Beethoven composed
Or Sinatra learned how to sing?
I duly confess, I’ve detoured no less
Than countless times through the years;
But like an arrow flying I keep on trying
To hit bulls eye, nice and clear.
Though Robert Frost I’ll never be
Ansel Adams or Henry Ford;
Still I keep striving like each of them
For something deeper inside to explore.
Picasso painted me ugly.
Two lips slung over a rusted hanger.
One eyebrow burnt for attention's sake.
Let's tell Grandma how much fun we had today.
Picasso is still at work.
Monet swallowed your stupidity.
Five teeth missing and nary a barbed retort to bend.
One un-photographed smile was left behind.
Let's tell Grandpa his prized lilacs are in mourning.
Monet is still at work.
Seurat poked your larynx.
The roses in your hands may be the thorns in your side.
Ivy and Sumac spice the teas I serve the unfortunates.
Let's tell Auntie June her parasol spikes are dull and snapped.
Seurat is still at work.
O'Keefe smears one simply.
Stamens and pistils shoot the misanthropes dead.
A spare will be guarded for the one's I've missed.
Let's tell Uncle Ed the lessons you've learned today.
O'Keefe is still at work.
DaVinci played baccarat with Stalin.
Swelled hands made it difficult to paint distinctly.
Dirty tongues are as useful as frayed dishrags.
Let's tell no one anything.
Let's tell no one nothing.
(naughty, bastard boy -
using double negatives in one sentence).
Pay one tuppence to the tillerman
and remind the collected town criers -
I'm at work.
We're all
at Work.
I paint pictures like Davinci-Close your eyes and see the visual picture
I speak from the soul like 'Pac- can you see my visual scriptures
like Picasso- I paint pictures too
it's life in the words I speak- it's life in my literature
I put detail in my art like Pollock do
and some may read this- and think of it as being taboo
yet through my words you can picture my soul like Gordon Parks
I speak from my pen like Alex Haley speak from the heart
i'm like Vango and Monet- difference is- some will follow the G.E.N.E.R.A.L.'s Sonnet
if you want to find me- then through my words you should start
from my soul- to your heart-through my words- you bind it
from my words-the power- like Maya Angelou's you find it
if I overstand- then maybe you understand- my words have no cost
my words are art-I tell you-I teach you- like i'm Ross
my words are as a mural-Wyland- my soul is the sea
travel with me through word in my soul- you may get lost
yet you visualize-you'll see apart of me
'Pac-Alex Haley-Langston Hughes-Maya Angelou-Shakspeare-is art to me
my words is art-and no!-i'm not budging
like Micheal Angelo's painting "The Last Judgement"
-G.E.N.E.R.A.L.
Mona Lisa has worn that mystical smile on her mug for over 500 years!
Who is this mysterious lady who at us from The Louvre benignly peers?
She had to sit for over four years for the artist to capture that simple pose.
Who she is and what's behind that smile, only Leonardo DaVinci knows!
She ain't the most beautiful woman to come down the pike but what the heck.
Since her genesis in 1503 she wasn't treated all that well during her dicey trek!
She's been mutilated, stolen a time or two and graced Napoleon's sleeping place.
All the while she's borne it with grace with that inane smile upon her face!
Some have said that she's the widowed Duchess of Milan, Isabella of Aragon.
Others have sworn that she's Mona Lisa Gherardini and so it goes on and on!
Signore DaVinci left no specific clues as to the name of this mysterious dame!
Through the centuries men have scratched their skulls trying to seek her name!
Was that frozen smile upon her face to hide teeth that were crooked and stained?
Or was her pose such that her posterior and sacroiliac were slightly strained?
Perhaps her compressed smile implied to Leonardo, "Hurry up and git 'er done!
You're payin' minimum wage and fella, posin' fer posterity ain't all that fun!"
Now hung upon the wall of The Louvre she's worth millions and millions of bucks.
Not bad for an unknown woman from who knows where, but here's the crux:
That beatific smile upon the homely face of Mona Lisa that Leonardo created,
And what she's smiling for will always be debated and pondered unabated!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tied for 3d Place in Carolyn Devonshire's "Unsolved Mysteries" Contest - Jul 2011
Fellow poets, when you write, you put down words, of fact or fiction.
With conscious thought you select letters to make words in diction
Words strung together in rhyme, pearls of wisdom, marking the time
You create the thought, the flow,you're painting pictures as you go.
What would you say if I told you, it's all a lie, Shakespeare never existed
His works arrived by chance, perfectly phrased, not tongue tied, or twisted
Letters assembled themselves into words, then words in perfect succession
Formed themselves into rhyming sentences eloquently said in progression.
DaVinci too didn't exist, he's just a figment of some wild imagination
Mona Lisa was only a chance meeting of paint and canvas in congregation
There was no artist, with stylized strokes of brushes and pens in harmony
Ink and paint just flowing freely, creating their own masterpieces randomly.
You wouldn't believe it if I told you, because you know it's just not true
But when they tell you God doesn't exist, what do you think, or do?
Some say that life evolved by a chance meeting of cells and molecules
Natural selection, started chaotically forming an organic cosmic soup.
Does that make sense when you see the beauty and artistry all around
In the sunsets, oceans, lands and seas, where life teems and abounds
The universe with a complexity of it's own, a cosmic timepiece of majesty
Saying order comes from chaos, is a disgrace to the Artist, a real travesty.
When an artist paints a sunset he is just copying what he sees with his eyes
It's not an original work, but he signs it anyway, maybe he doesn't realize.
The complexity and order in life should tell you we were fashioned by design
Faith in the Designer comes not by chance, but by choice, read the signs.
John Derek Hamilton November 20, 2015
First, I was a horse,
proud, fierce, untamed.
testing the texture of one continent,
competing with the winds and tornadoes
to achieve the ultimate granular vortex,
testing the manhood of the Cheyenne,
twisting the blistering ropes of the Sioux,
defying the white man with bared, scornful teeth
and a rusty, booming cloud of contempt,
rearing up disdainful hoofs at his challenge
of a lumbering smoking iron donkey
trapped on it's molded rails.
Then, I was a plane,
lithe, lightweight, defined.
with a body DaVinci once dreamed of
and a clear canopy
of tense eyes and sweaty, twitching fingers
on the throttle.
Soaring high over another continent,
beaten down by polished black boots.
The elegant, rich roar of Rolls Royce,
The searing steel death of Browning,
clamping together to mete out
justice and liberty,
higher and faster than any swastika propellers.
Then I was a car,
with clean lines and a pure promise,
born of optimism and innovation,
first brought forth under a steel sphere of the world.
My lean, youthful frame and bristling energy
beckoned to the untamed young,
bringing elation and
the whoops of warriors
as they pony up precious pennies
to slip easily into my low slung, leather saddle
and pick their soundtrack
and flick my fresh rubber hooves
across the next horizon.
Their nubile females in splendid mating colors
ponytails wagging their eager assent
in my ever growling breeze
as I assault their narrow strips of tar.
I have thundered through untrod dust.
I have been caught only by men like Remington.
I have sailed above exploding black skies
and landed farm boys safely to their futures.
I have raced through muggy summer nights,
blaring out my rebellion to a rock and roll beat.
I am freedom in flesh and hooves
and wings and guns
and canvas tops and pinstripes.
I am what Art should be:
I am versatile.
I speak in a thousand ways
in a thousand forms.
I please the eye and thrill the soul.
I am ..ME.
For external use only-
enter the dragon and the spore.
The mold.
Allergen and Alopecia.
enter the giant ceramic logger and the ballad of the
blown fuse.
This is the outtage of power
interim
buds begin to flower and birds breed where
apple blossoms shower on
the living pretense of
Astroturf.
Sweating now, the
father of the flame
the serf draws his kerchief from his shirt and
wipes his brow
raises his axe and slaughters the
pregnant sow.
The Universal Man by
Ted Davinci. or was it
Leonardo Kazinsky?
the fool of the tarot is the pharoa
four royal families go into hiding to pull off winning a war versus torture for his birthday
its an under rug swept fool proof process that is hinted at in the zodiac and the bible
the bible is a guide of realising torture victoms and a reminder on how to heal them
it seems the bible stories are reminders of historical events that caaused the end of a war
satan was the pharoas name, jesus was hired to abolish slavery
mary was the nurse
the holy ghost was the black market that proceeded government
the zodiac is a weather channel of catastrophic events that took place while previous generations were alive
their mythological stories point to places on the earth where these tragedies occured, speculated by confused philosophers we call prophets
some hieroglyphs and numerology are similar its a simple language of numbers, crack the code of hieroglyphs into numbers
translate the numbers into meaning
almost everything we read or study and speculate points to how a past battle was won
figuring past lives are a math
the occupation you have now
and how those skills you use everyday would have helped you survive hardships of a previous period
ie toy store candy shop would be alive during saints
ie. casino goldrush or dirty thirties
ie. prison guards trojan war
ie. pornographers cleopatra
ie. teachers jesus
ie. fitness experts philosophical age
etcetera, the skills you use everyday would be useful in a previous time of hardship.
davinci hints at women being named after tornados
and other things women have been named after
the mona lisa may then be cleopatra
Far away, further gone, the farmer thought,
As watercolors brushed his canvas stain,
“My wife and her children, must have forgot
to come home again,” - blurs melting in rain;
-
“Forever finds all, but did he forget,
the wet daVinci now who finger paints?”
I thought, then yelled; “Hey Dad! Let’s go! You’re wet!”;
A son straining through blinds I felt inside,
Would I once be he, or would I just die?
His caves are graves that open, close, then hide,
then back to close as bats chasing a fly;
I thought of him, but thought to forget –
Then someone yelled from some neighbor’s cave,
Some voice I knew, from some buried grave;
“Hey Dad! Let’s go! You’re wet!”
Far away. Further gone. In another’s thoughts.
Holy of holies.....
My quest in my way.....for
The Holy Grail.....
Easter 2004-Easter 2013
With such Passion the quest started......
Unbridled.....yet so well disguised....
2005....the mask started to come off.
And the quest started in earnest....
The next year.....the quest nearly ended....
But inspiration anew for this was reborn.....
The following year....ALL....masks fully removed.
Then 2008....the truce and the main war ended...
Yet the quest continued......
Angelically demonic was the spell of the gods....
Yet even over the servant of THE ONE YAHWEH...
was His Mercy given....
Easter 2013.....sanctuary at last.....
The presence of God risen as a Phoenix from a funeral pyre.
The living dead collapsed...and was reborn...
And the faith that the old knight knew as a boy was reborn a glorious new
Amen
Inspired by holy of holies touched by an angels
And by my own career at the satellite cafe
Which I call
Heresy, the spell if the gods, and the last temptation and passion of jesus Christ superstar of montreal corpus Christi and the davinci code
Having been born in legendary Italy,a country
as old as the stones of the Via Appia,
made me recall the fiery image of Attila...
the barbarian from Hungary,
who dared to defeat the mighty Romans:
by sacking their imperial city with clanking swords!
Attila might have become the new emperor,
if he hadn't abandoned that land he came to conquer,
but golloped away...vanishing into the unknown:
remorseful or giving up on becoming great;
and some agree that he was as untaimed as a lion...
with a chilvalry to melt any woman's heart!
Many great battles were fought on this soil,
fortified by faith,valor and blood:
an Italy immortalized by Vergil,
Dante,Davinci,Michelangelo and Verdi: a legacy continuing today;
and I, as her native son, like to lead the way...
to be among these and not vanish into nothing!
Where I walked as a teen, castles rose towards
crimson skies to capture my fancy and hold me in wonder,
until dusk came with the tinkling bells; and sweet mother
called me...her voice echoing,with affectionate loveliness,
amid the pine trees and a garden of blooming roses;
there, at the gate's entrance, she waited with flowers!
From a tiny spring, flowing from the snow-capped mountains,
I drank the purest water and saved some in my canteen...
while my companions threw rocks at each other and told jokes;
and none of us were older than seventeen!
O golden days,return to vivid memory...
when we are taken by reminiscence to renew vows of loyalty!
By a bright lamp,I'll write these memoirs 'till morning,
and whenever sleep comes...I'm ready to hop in bed,dreaming
to be in Amalfi or Positano along the rugged coast of emerald...
listening to the murmurs of the gleaming sea,so old,
overlooked by the immobile stars and hear a happy mandolin play
a serenade and to be taken into eternity!
I'm finally there, retracing each footstep on a stony path,
running through the streets of my fled youth;
wouldn't I be happy to stay and find a place to rest?
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
abstract art
doctor are you seeing spots
the family story of an artist
the plot thickens
the red spots of one page
subtlety of the blue lines
oh skeleton man
such a cold soul
i'll never know
what the window had to say
the mirror of my soul tells me instead
that i might not recognise myself
but i am priceless
the kitchen witch cursed
in the stains of the mirror
the blue ceas of the red waters
and as we spiral out of the zodiac language unsolvable riddle
what was left on every church window
an art show of throw me a bone
as i run away
throw you off my tail
chase the goose egg
chase the wrong spade
forget my face
its all over
sweet surrender giving in
where ever i go the lemonaid is soo sour
selling myself piece by piece
cashing in
slow rollercoasster
selling myself impolitley
even though you dont like me
paintings for my family
a theme for friends
and among thee works of art i give away
what does the curse of the colors give away
\black paint wasaway
stained hearts and im already insane
seeing spots again
inside this box a game to play
new rules and the angels sway with the cold souls forgotten
never did what you wanted
intertwining foundation
lost among the new paperchase
the story gets deeper
outsider looking in
outsider looking in
the colors mean something
green eyeshadow emergenxcy exit
red rum at the table of perception
when will you get it
throw you a bone so the dogs burry me another way
soo comfortable in this rusty cage
my suicidal headless blunder
teaching you something
victom again
but soapy hands
My mind races, my heart smiles as I think of thee
My soul mate, my one true love, my sweet John Magee
He frustrates me when he knows what I’m going to say before I can get it out
One day he will be wrong, but this I greatly doubt
He knows my thoughts and feelings and what satisfies me
He memorized my past and my present; he’s the narrator of my story
God how this man loves me and I am too in love with thee
My future will be forever bright as long as I have my sweet John Magee
People have asked me when was it that I knew I had fallen in love with him
I think hard and then I smile and this is what I say to them:
On the mountain top overlooking the country bay
Is where we met and where many nights we lay
But it was one night I hold dear to my heart for something wonderful occurred on
this particular day
The wind was warm and the sky was clear; I swear you could see the angels kneel
to pray
We had a picnic in the middle of a rose garden, a true love’s portrait for the eyes to
see
Davinci himself couldn’t have painted a more beautiful picture, God it felt like a dream
He stared into my eyes and I stared back, a kind of lovey dovey corny if you could
agree
But then a miracle happened that very moment if you could believe
As he reached and held my hand, the once clear sky was now covered my stars as
leaves cover a tree
I felt a spark and chills begin to rise over me
It was that very moment that I fell in love with my sweet John Magee