Best Frescoes Poems
Hibiscus rays of light herald
sun's stretch from night to twilight
in wakening blooms of ravishing red passion—
Oh! how I despise dawn's
blushing optimism and lust for life
for I am too young to cry but too old not to
featherlight the dandelion puff
as zephyrs blew seeds of our fantasies
free to fly the whims and sighs of our summer days
till breezes laid our pixie-dust down
wishes taking root in fast flourish—
pollen-plush dream-weeds grew in fields of gold
champagne flowed voluptuously through our veins
we laughed and pulsed with ambrosia-arousal
and with every nectarous nip
we lived as though we would celebrate love
f o r e v e r
a handful of heartbeats ago
we crystal-gazed into moon’s silver circle
believing in foretold fortunes of our future
our mythologies shaped in affectionate frescoes
sculpted softly into plum-dyed skies
constellations born from fireworks in our wooing eyes
—until the heart-twisting dawn-to-dark
when a cloud of angels cradled
sun-gilded harps
against their white-rose-hearts
teardrops in ecstasies of grief and joy
strummed celestial strings in virgin blue glissandos
lifting his lustrous soul away from me— lifting him
across the bridge to bliss —somewhere beyond me
and behind snowy veils of virtue
I am anemic
if not nothing now
adulterated
by loss of innocence
dwindling
in a dreamless star-broken state
unoccupied
but for the lurid loss that fills me—
and my black skies storm with shrieking tears!
Two thousand years, a tragedy is past
Yet it's history still leaves us aghast.
On a night, dreadfully dark
A volcano erupted, leaving it's historical mark
Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD
The first recorded in all of history
The entire city of Pompeii
Defiled and buried that fateful day
On written account of a man named Pliny
can we view this volcano's ignominy
A city in which artist and poets did reside
Everything was not lost, the day all died
In centuries after, excavation has commenced
The city of Pompeii, antiquities recovered since
The House of the Tragic Poet, one of many unearthed
I will tell you about, from it's peristyle to hearth
Elaborate mosaic floors, frescoes on the wall
An inscription in Latin, from a dog guarding the hall.
The atrium filled with with Mythic Greek nudes
From the peristyle Achilles to be sacrificed exudes
Art along the east wall are of Achilles and Briseis
and the tragedy of Helen and Paris, all cherished
About the entire house, a living poem depicted
Along with words, owner, an artist addicted.
Two thousand years ago, this home was owned
Loved and nourished by a Popeiian unknown.
The House of the Tragic Poet
If you saw, you would know it.
A. Green
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Morning's first exhale~
a spider spins silk frescoes
between fence posts.
The wind rewrites them slowly~
life's wet ink never drying.
GRAPPLING WITH GRATITUDE
Oh Gratitude,
Gentle as a butterfly.
You alight upon
my emotional reverie
to birth my questioning.
You have risen
as an inward glow
of unexpected proportions,
ready to bleed silently
into my emotional pores.
Oh Gratitude, ,
I sense your presence,
your cautious ambivalence
that yearns to express
some mystical feeling
of unknown origin.
You pull and play
inside my mind like chimes
against an autumn wind.
Oh Gratitude,
Can I truly appreciate
the acrobatic dance
so easily played,
that allows me to indulge
in nature's grand banquet?
And if so, shall I now,
in repetition, repeat phrases
that glorify and recognize
the splendor of existence;
or, do I ignore, the bounty
of a creation little understood?
Oh Gratitude,
Should I dismiss your pretentiousness,
those gaily colored brush strokes
of memory frescoes embedded
on the walls of my mind?
Or will you, gratitude,
be the expressions of thoughts
confined to a limited time;
all held in hostage to a holiday season’s
heightened senses of roasting fowl
curried with fragrant flavors?
Oh Gratitude,
When the holiday day is done
and I am appeased,
will I still commemorate
the theology of my brethren
who suggest I thank my creator
with 100 daily blessings?
CAK 11-13-2013
A setting sun inks purple mountain peaks,
painting frescoes on slopes of sullied snow.
And smearing scarlet in blotches and streaks,
its art surpasses Michelangelo.
Shadows scurry to merge with silhouettes,
as acrobatic bats hunt moths in flight.
And when Night gets as quiet as it gets,
ebony extinguishes Dusk's last light.
Crimson and cerise, color carmine skies,
as Sol's chariot gilds the edge of Night.
And trillions of stars materialize;
twinkling overhead like jewels of light.
And in the heavens hangs a beaming moon,
light pooling around it, like liquid gold.
For glowing as bright as a gold doubloon,
Luna's face is a wonder to behold.
Love and admire someone
Deeply,
Build a castle with him
Brick by brick,
Paint the walls with frescoes,
Draw dreams.
Hold him
When the illness comes,
Cook him chicken broth,
Kiss his sweaty forehead,
Suction his wounds,
Puff his pillows.
Drive him to the hospital,
Listen to the whirs in the room,
Check the lines on the monitors,
Introduce yourself to every nurse
Shift after shift,
Bargain with God.
Sign “Do not resuscitate,”
Watch his chest heave,
Leave the room
When they pull out the tubes,
Come back,
Sense his heart beat
Stop.
Lay your head on his shoulder,
Memorize him,
Lie to the nurse
That you are ready
To say goodbye.
Brush your fingers across his cheek,
Press his bruised lips,
Twist your neck as you
Walk away,
Touch the cold doorjamb,
Write what you feel.
@Tess Harvester 2013
Two renaissance artists . . .
Leonardo Da Vinci created enduring works during his lifetime,
too many to list but perhaps the most well known is the Mona Lisa.
Born April 15, 1452 and died May 2, 1519 at only 67 years old.
Considered the greatest painter of all time. Born out of wedlock.
At 14 he apprenticed with a master and soon was more skillful,
and at the age of 20, he was a master himself.
Michelangelo Buonarroti also created amazing works in his life,
one I love is the Pietra, so lifelike it makes me want to weep.
Born, March 6, 1475 and he died February 18, 1584, an old man.
His skill as a sculptor and painter is famous, and always loved.
The Sistine Chapel, his statues, his frescoes are stunning to view.
At 13, he too apprenticed with a master and soon was skillful,
and went on to be a master artist.
There was a public battle Leonardo vs Michelangelo and their art,
David vs Mona Lisa. There was 2 years of public competition.
A huge man who stands with a grimace vs a sitting woman smiling.
Even before this they were rivals, hated each other, jealous of each.
The loser left crossing the Alps to sulk in France taking his painting,
today she smiles at her fans, like a star to be idolized by the public.
And Michelangelo's works are treasures he left with us forever.
There was such an intense dislike between the two artists always,
but really they were so similar.... perhaps it WAS all jealousy,
because I have read they were both a bit odd.
_______________________________
July 7, 2016
Epic
For the contest, Historical Rivalry, Part 1
Leonardo vs Michelangelo, sponsor, Marugu Mo
Sixth Place
It's a universal soup for two --
The medium for all known life.
A magic, elemental, H2O stew.
In fat storm-puffs of water rife.
Breathing in and over the world:
In a rare, thirsty-desert deluge;
On peaks of snow, wind-whirled;
Beneath the streets it rises, huge.
Where you live, it rains and smells.
That Ozone-fresh feels the best....
Listen to trillions of droplet-knells,
A sizzling, misty downpour fest.
Drooping drips of splats and sound.
The pitter-patter of sidewalk echoes,
Extending from rain-soaked ground.
A poet paints water-of-life frescoes....
August 11, 2016
Paint and Plaster
So what, in essence, is this thing called paint?
A coloured liquid which, applied to plaster,
will fuse and forge a thing securer, faster,
and far more comely than before. How quaint!
Attaching thought to walls is not restraint,
not loss. It dries, and then the thought feels vaster!
And plaster’s porous, not like alabaster,
and so it’s fixed. The link twixt tint and taint!
It’s nice to think that Piccolomini fought
back tears of pride, the frescoes having stirred
sublime emotions: positively purred
to see his forebear honoured in this sort.
Alas, too soon he was, himself, interred.
And thus our high ambitions come to nought.
Every verse shakes with a contradiction
Binding mercy in chains with conviction
Every taste of truth is laced with divisions
Shared in unions ensnaring benedictions
Our time is told through triumph teetering
Upon sands once sanctified with gilt gold
Avenues bathed with balm culled from Gods
Aligning below the heavens to chant floods
Listen to the doubt of desire unlock
Doors resonating footsteps seeking
Corridors where a blessing awaits
Faithfully to pardon mortal dreams
Never ending waking trepidation
Drying eyes in the alleys unseen
Voices without stories reflecting
Shadows sensed staring unheard
Frescoes webbed by emotions washed
Over unrequited communions wished
Before candles lit in crumbling rooms
Illuminating statues weeping silence
Enea, at the Scottish Court
The critics claim that this is far the worst
of all the frescoes. Enea the star? No
inkling here. Can that be James the First?
And that’s the Clyde? It looks more like the Arno.
A spartan Stuart court? Or is it Bourbon?
Less Edinburgh in feel, and more Locarno.
Whoever saw Scots courtiers in turbans?
The ceiling is salubriously embossed,
more like the Vatican of sainted Urban!
Perhaps Enea’s Latin can’t be glossed,
for no-one’s listening, that much is certain.
One wonders what the marble columns cost.
And wrapped in that red robe (looks like a curtain!),
he seems to lack all gusto, all scintilla.
For this he braved the Beauly and the Burton?
There’s nothing interesting in the villa.
Less Donatello, more like Damien Hirst.
It wasn’t worth Charybdis, much less Scylla.
Enea Receives the Laurel Crown
Not only is he with the Emperor:
he’s kneeling to receive the laurel crown.
His deeds will be preserved in tempora,
his poems printed, bound and handed down.
What more can man achieve in life than this?
While many live and love, and toil in vain,
Enea’s standing on the precipice:
rewarded for that fine, well-nurtured brain.
So why am I uneasy? Read the signs.
And eagle savages a hapless duck.
The building seems all wrong. Wrong size, wrong lines.
And what’s it meant to be? Are you not struck
to see the woman on the loggia, being raped?
Pandora’s Box is open. Hope’s escaped.
Form and Matter
It all comes down to this, don’t you agree?
The Court of Charlemagne, the Holy See –
there’s Thought and Thing: idea, reality.
We’re in the presence room, but some are free
to stroll the colonnade at liberty.
Unyielding marble throne, lapped by a sea
of flowing silk: that’s how it has to be.
Enea kneels between eternity
and actuality: the Papacy
against the Empire. Physicality
abuts against the realm of sophistry.
(In the early years of the 16th century,
the artist Pinturicchio was employed by
Cardinal Piccolomini to decorate the
library of Siena Cathedral with fresco
scenes from the life of his ancestor, Enea.)
The Contract
The Cardinal requires Ser Bernardino,
as high contracting party to the tasks,
to paint ten histories in damasceno,
in gold, vermilion: also asks
that other pleasing colours be employed,
the whole to be so handsome, beautiful
and lively, as will fill the present void
with fantasies. He should be dutiful
and diligent, and supervise the work.
Designs will all reveal The Master's hand
(though pupils may fill spaces). He'll not shirk
in imitating latest fashions. And
(this is insisted on) the Master shan't
dodge off to paint some panel here or there,
but shall remain engaged on this. He can't
retouch, restore, revivify, repair
or otherwise (without grave loss of honour)
adapt, adulterate, or amplify
some tuppeny hapenny Umbrian Madonna,
without The Cardinal demanding why.
The frescoes should contain protagonists
appropriate to the life herein depicted,
with landscapes, trees and mountains, mists
and such (for instance, like the storm inflicted
on Enea by the gods at Piombino).
Each pose and gesture, such as may amuse
and fascinate. This done, Ser Bernardino
may add whatever detail he may choose.
The Master binds himself and his garzoni
to purchase olive oil and best verdicchio,
all flour, figs, cheese, fruit, maccaroni,
with vouchers I'll supply. Signed, Pinturicchio.
A “mention” in the Master’s ante-room.
Another February had arrived,
with dirty snow and heavy, slate-grey skies.
(One couldn’t help observing, on the sly,
the Master’s knees were blanket-draped
beneath his desk.) No wigs or gowns on show.
A minor hearing in a puny case.
They call it “inter partes” when both sides
turn up. Some point-at-issue had loomed large,
and we were here to tussle over it.
This room, so Ruskinesque, with frescoes
high on every wall, so hard to heat,
was one great chilly barn. The speaker’s breath
plumed out before him. “And my learned friend … “
Our leader’s voice, so sensible in its drone,
so sweetly reasonable, continued on,
so redolent of wintry afternoons,
like hissing logs a-burning in the grate.
Those practised highs and lows, mellifluous,
his easy-listening tone, so bland, so blithe,
relying on the case of this-or-that,
distinguishing the precedent of such,
“I think it was Lord Blinkwell who opined …”
Two hundred years ago – a little less –
the young Charles Dickens wasted days in here
(the chances are, here in this very room,
observing dreary sleet run down the windows),
mired in this solemn nonsense. Might it be,
he swore an oath – if ever he escaped,
he’d never take life seriously again?
If so, this ponderous symphony in grey,
as glum as Shostokovich etched in stone,
has cranked out clowns. There may be more to come.
I never leave my point blank
Point Blank!
At the point of a saber
Now we are at the point of danger
The point shatters
Friends stab me in the back with daggers and i stagger
Grab her,Nah! but I'll take a stab at it
Aw! I never set hearts on fire or dash hopes at all
I aspire to inspire you
Now desire is a furnace
burning inside a word of encouragement
So i pour on your heart soft pure words
Uplifting impressions that just may last forever
Or at least brighten your outlook on life
And rare is a one who can make your day better
No! I don't consider to compare myself
to the choisest comparisons available
You know Stallions fight for the power
Men are no different
expect their words to be slippery as a serpents
Detect lip service
as they profess their minds to be a place of higher learning
I crash and burn then
I don't attempt to reach the highest level of stupidity
Echos of Justice descend into frescoes of the Liberty bell
Fractured as it is now
Snap^ Ice bergs rise up as you fall off the Ice shelf
Glaciers crack_-tons of ice grind into sluishes of Beautiful Love stories
Harmony sings happiness restored
Thoughts shared in the stillness
We can hear each other
Zero seconds to a Sonic boom!
O days left
It's Autumn and the leaves fall now
Flowers fade and overhead
shooting stars give their last light of Glory
And now new stars are born
to carry on, to die for a wish, to create hope
A voice coil expands
A tiger pounces on a lion
Two young cubs involved in a power struggle
I fall into Indian paintbrushes
I hear the petals crush doubts
No doubt about it
The Conference at Mantua
Ah, what a scene of tranquil learnedness!
The scholars nurse their tomes like babes in arms:
white locks: heads cocked to savor the address
of Pius, in his charming Latin: balm
floats in through high-arched, airy colonnades.
The lake is laced with skittish little skiffs:
those rolling lawns of Mantua could be made
to sport a kick-ass golf course. Oh, those cliffs!
But life just ain't that peachy. Belching blame,
the Cardinals did squat, but bleat and *****.
No representatives invited, came.
And Mantua was a cramped, unhealthy pitch.
Scarampo wasn't much inclined to linger.
With imprecations colouring the air,
he gave the Pope the metaphoric finger,
and rode away, at haste -- to God knows where.
The Lake was nothing but a sluggish stream.
It bred mosquitoes in malevolent clouds.
The croaking frogs made sleep a pious dream.
The locals were more oafish than in Stroud.
Bessarion stayed true, and Torquemada.
A basis, then, for troops to rally on:
but Europe's bookends? "Altar y espada"
is not much use among Italians!
At last, some envoys came -- but far from helping,
they asked for help! From Burgundy came Cleves,
but not disposed for listening, more for yelping
about the local petulance and peeves.
And when they paint the frescoes of your life,
they'll airbrush out the unappealing grunge.
They'll strip away the struggle and the strife.
And you'll bequeathe what's pretty (dung expunged).