Best Fine Art Poems
Champagne and wine
Elixirs of the elite's delight
beverages of the upper classes
as they rendezvous and converse
amid soirées decked in elegance
mingling among their
latest art acquisitions
envied, even by the Louvre
The wonderful taste of caviar
In opulent ballrooms, near and far
where aristocrats and fashion find their air
ah yet sometimes I ponder
how the toiling working class
gets through monotonous days
I imagine them after their grind
at the Cox N Bull Tavern
drinking and lapping cheap O'keefe beer
chugging down their boredom
in idle gossip
planning petty crimes
Ever gone to throw an axe?
You’ll love it if you try.
Grip the handle and relax,
Standing firm into your tracks,
Release and let it fly.
Over end, the axe will spin,
And through the air will whisk.
To the target, caged within,
Close to center, you will win,
Like darts with more the risk.
In the target, there are rings,
That circle round the eye.
Each a different point it brings,
When towards the board the axe it zings,
And wedges in the ply.
In the corner, there’s a spot,
Which comes with much acclaim.
Blue, the color of the dot.
If you have a killer shot,
Can help you clinch the game.
When you come, make sure to pack,
No shoes your feet expose.
If the board, it gives a smack,
And the axe comes bouncing back,
Will help to save your toes.
Grab a beer, this social game,
Is just as good as any.
It may even help your aim,
But too much is sure to maim,
So please don’t have too many.
The heart is fine art.
A complex body part.
One that beats along roads with a spear part.
Through this body part all things are felt.
This is the vital organ to the body of the world.
From it, sweet notes unfurl.
Curled into the sweaty palms of a lover.
A new beating hope under a dust cover.
Hoping not to rediscover past pain.
The loving heart trying to keep our brain sain.
Fighting every strain.
A universal heart dashing through the rain with a sprain.
Determined with out a Cain.
Spread all through the world turkey,england, Spain.
A loving heart broken and fixed, again and again.
Leaving behind stains irritable to the brain.
Still hope runs thorough the worlds vains.
As this heart to the worldly body is slain.
A steady heart beat is regained.
Fueling the world to sustain balance.
Sustain the remains,but still it slips on blood stains.
Washed away soon by golden rain.
Oh what a strain for a heart that never shown disdain.
Yet from its beating notes one has never heard complain.
Beating down road of love dodging acid rain.
Finding shelter and spreading loving heart beats in every domain.
A heart we fail to entertain but still love again and again.
How can we explain our disdain.
That seems to soar the earth on a fast lane.
Treating the heart of our bodily world so inhumane,
negligence and pain is the stifling gas main to the hearts bane.
What folly and madness conquers the lands of earth,
dying unrecognized,
the art of a hearts worth.
In the corner there...
Under the defused lights,
With spectral highlight’s here,
There, they float near and afar.
An apple sits in its technicolor glory,
It's not fully red or crimson or scarlet
Greens of sage and emerald
Dances in its hues,
Corruption is setting in as time passes
under these searing spots
as rot comes like a little death
spreading to the rest,
The rust of fruits oranges,
nectarines, bundles are of berries,
sliced in aromatic spice,
bloody droplets of cherry’s puddle,
next to a crystal chalice
of fine facets and filigrees
cut to trap light, to express
spectrums of color glitter and refract,
Standing starkly next
to the draped sacred rosary
and the sweet-fruited flesh.
Dust comes to rest
A raven of stately lorn,
blue on to black night into
nocturnal feathers bore
eyes deep as ink wells so black, onyx
dipping into hues blue in the reflect.
A haunting vestige that knows breath, nevermore!
Amidst the abstract, crowded
silent room linger
Still, stranger odd ornate objects gather...
from oblivion's shores.
A compass of intricate design,
sextons of aged patina brass,
Crack mirrors and mercury glass.
Mechanisms fine-tuned for sailors
to chart uncharted seas where “there be dragons”.
Deep, driven is the shaft of daggers hilted blade
Casts its long crucifixes shadow
Here on books of quaint and forgot lore
Tomes of cryptic grimoires,
archaic mysteries, ill-begotten biographies,
Black Bibles of some unknown deity...
Or leather-bound abominations
found in the depths of god-forsaken tombs.
Stacked like sand blown Persian Ziggurats.
To were a white horror stares
bleached bone and hollowed sockets glare
it grins sinisterly but it's harmless if you dare
But why would you care
Around this still life of oddities
Things found a life lived out fast
Hallmarks of someone long
forgotten history left in this corner
under these lights for someone
to render in all details
of its fading glories
Life is still at last.
Not as yet mastered
Something to aspire to
That crafty art of listening
When it comes to me
He hasn't perceived
The art of nodding and smiling
Tattoos, the rage, are not a fine art,
Not meant to hang on a gallery wall,
Black and white traditional, to sharp tribal plans,
Not huge, just simple and small,
You see, in galleries of oils and acrylic artists,
Paints are intricate, and tell a whole tale,
And these painted pieces are often worth heaps,
Often they’re there for a sale,
But tattoos have a meaning that belongs to that person,
Something no one else knows,
And often the person won’t share this perception,
Hiding it under their clothes,
Because tattoos are for personal announcements,
A permanent parade of their soul,
Not for sale to the public, like a fine art collection,
Tattoos help the person feel whole.
On the subject of bathing
There are two schools of thought:
In a shower or tub,
Which you do,
Which you ought?
Of course, some people say
Either way is okay,
While others are a tad more particular.
They'd rather scrub in a tub
And recline on their spine
Than to sluice standing up,
Perpendicular.
Into the deep- green hearted forest
far removed from man's raucous tangle
the many tacky hues of self-centeredness.
There's only herbivores and carnivores
doing their thing in primal time harmony.
Nesters weave the incoherence together
Miraculously everything is spaced out evenly
I'm given a wide berth and tolerated to a degree.
Even the gray silence keeps its distance from me.
*Image of A Japanese Comb Set by Pixabay.
*When left at one's front door symbolizes 'parting' or 'goodbye'
fine art 1 - hiku
art writes to you
art is a written form~~
read between the lines
fine art 2 - hiku
art speaks to you
art is a spoken form~~
lost in translation
2022 February 12
*1st Place*
A Strand (1072)
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2022 February 13
Wonder takes flight
As beauty speaks,
Fine art moves sight
In fragrant peaks.
Art form now grow
A strange delight,
A touch frames flow
Of deep insight.
Art has a way
To channel feel,
A glimpse can sway
A touch that heals.
Grace in pure strokes
Of genius wit;
Surge of feel yokes
Such vivid fit.
In a quick flash
Fine art evokes,
Mood swing to dash
Where soul feels stroke.
Here in this space
Timeless feel sums,
A glimpse of grace
Flames pulse that jumps.
Leon Enriquez
14 September 2017
Singapore
Stonemason's talent
his gnarled hands carve fine art
fluid beauty from granite
Flowers, fern and foliage
Exquisite presentation
Not for mortal eye.
The crypt slumbers on
Divine carved angel awaits
With patience sublime.
A holy quiet
Permeates this sacred place
Time has no meaning.
STONES
Poetry Contest
Sponsored
by
Anthony Biaanco
Translation is a fine art
wreaks havoc with volition
Errors of commission
divulging those of omission
~ Entry in 'Bite Size 94' contest ~
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Date: November 30, 2024