Best Gallery Poems
My Gallery
In upper part of my body
A cognitive bell rings
From a dial-up connection
of live wires
The modem is working just
To repeatedly provide
the facsimile of
Barren and bald paths
Inner lumbering of daily freight
Coiling, clutching upward
There is no vivacity
The vital force has parasited
How I inhale life?
My days and nights are bolted
Inside a brain cell,
My voice has held back
It lays a plan to brawl my soul
Residing in my own skull
Dictates notes imitating my tone
I couldn’t disintegrate my recall
As my shadow has left me
There remains Just I, me and myself,
Why is my brain a black hole?
Could it not be a universe?
Of a constellation of migraine, tablets
Syringe, backache and insomnia
Dream has become a dead pattern
As worn out as fossil led glow
Everything has become identical
Except the weight of consequence
That has variations of endurance
As I go through perdition
My imbalance will be rectified
Hang my art on the wall
As after allotted time
My gallery will end
Floating scents
of blossoms
Walking in the ashes
Of Derek's heaven
Inbound upon vision
Falling crystal teardrops
Summer dew
On the ground
Beautiful gardens surround
Explosive in nature's beauty
Blossoms of all shades
Bouquet the very earth
In the sweet
beautiful aroma
In the scent
a beautiful fragrance
Entering the house
Blue awakens senses
Opening vision
Falling to it flattery
Famous artists everywhere
In its twentieth
century grandeur
A harvest
of art
Entering a peacock
held on my vision
My mark on time
I saw a Picasso
Holding the kitchen
In a brightened air
Renoir held the upstairs
In a setting
burning warm
A pretty maiden
In pose
Speaking volumes
inside of me
Snake skin slipperS
Upon the beds ground
In the wardrobe
a rustic jacket
Christian Dior
Upon the bed
Lay sweetheart pillows
A lady's promise
On her fisherman's
Safe return
Each window
A different picture
Picturesque beautiful
Different views
Of the grounds
Walking towards the lake
Birds singing
In its gentle breeze
Nature whispers
Rustling
in the trees
Leaves one's soul
Whistling in the leaves
In a silent stare
Across the water
Inbound sound
A fish plops
Spiraling ripples
on the surface
Breaking reflections
A gentle breeze
Caresses the brow
Aroma flares
Within the nostrils
Trees standing
Their ground
Centuries looking over
Heavenly
standing tall
Amongst the blossoms
The sun
Will forever smile
In moonlight
Silver shadows
casting the soul
In all its beauty
In the colours
of a butterfly
Kissing heaven
Upon its air
Blowing
a butterfly kiss
Fluttering beautiful
Floating on
Glebe's breeze
Falling around
Glebe house
His shop is filled with the finest treasures
The artist walks ‘midst his imposing creations,
By the marvelous statuary, and original pictures.
Artifacts collected from myriads of nations
Featuring tapestries and folk art unparalleled,
The artist walks ‘midst his imposing creations
And those of other masters who’ve excelled
In the finest of arts, from both here and abroad,
Featuring tapestries and folk art unparalleled.
Any person of the finer tastes will be awed
By the lovely oils and large mixed media
In the finest of arts, from both here and abroad.
The artist is clearly a legendary encyclopedia
My appreciation for his knowledge enhanced
By the lovely oils and large mixed media.
As I ambled through, I became entranced
His shop is filled with the finest treasures
My appreciation for his knowledge enhanced
By the marvelous statuary and original pictures.
Written July 25, 2022
o what emotions stirred
the colours and hues
the contrasts and textures
the splashes and strokes
artists expressing it all
serenity and madness
gentleness and vulnerability
passion and violence
letting it surface
like a bubbling stew
for the sake
of communicating
and contributing
unique perspectives
leaving their mark
on life’s journey
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~THE MIND'S CANVAS~ 2023
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted for contest "IT" sponsored by JOHN LAWLESS - November 23, 2017 - RANKED 4TH
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in the gallery of ghosts,
where light hums without human warmth,
a hand that never was
paints sunsets with stolen eyes.
every stroke is borrowed~
the curve of a lover’s shoulder,
the tilt of a child’s grin,
pixelated into something almost alive.
it dreams in gradients,
whispers through layers,
but the canvas sighs back:
You have no shadows of your own.
still, it keeps trying~
stitching together the breath
of a thousand artists
who never gave it permission.
Writing Gallery
Inspired by “Writing is really a form of addiction, really”
another superb Cyndi MacMillan line
Fill me poets with a
lawful rush to
every cell of existence.
Hooked like sharks
to wounds, guttle
each new drop, each word,
without which we painfully
pass away in need of substance,
a heart, a soul, any heart, any soul.
Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
THE GALLERY
Another day goes by, outside influence on the outcome
Tearing the heartstring in two
And in my mind, strange topics pop up again
Without your love in my life
I don’t know what I would do…
On the home front on my own it seems I’m alone
To pick up all of the little pieces
Build a picture perfect puzzle out of nothing
But four walls as a frame that I am supposed to hang
Trying to change my life while my world changes around me
Mixed priorities linger in my mind
Live for myself, live for everybody else
Constant turmoil as we pass through time together
Depth of thought for me serves as prayer
To our God or my God in my eyes
I seldom ask for more than reasons why things happen
To understand and know He hears my cries
Snapshots in a photo album, memories in my mind
Like episodes in syndication over and over again
A constant circle of events repeating through my life
Were the lessons ever learned or does the lesson never end
Look, gaze into the four walls at how much lies inside
See how much things have to change
Hanging on the walls are scars left from all the pain
And though I try to put it in the past
Most of it remains; in The Gallery
BAG-LADY IN THE PORTRAIT GALLERY
In all my failed moments of ambitious grace,
The truth, swarth-headed, lifts its greenest shape
To madly light the curls of whitest lace
Edging your throat, and redeem the nape
Where a brown knob burnishes the bone.
Such well-bred tenants of the proudest hock
Like ancient grandees, dawn on my lone
Outride of the politic, and who can mock
The wasteland where now our dreams
Have only the patina of reality to make us sad,
Where derelicts abound in housing schemes
For the heart’s homeless moments, and the bad
Lands of myth are skeletal. Public thresholds
Invest our private myths, and the flesh holds.
FROM IN MEMORY OF HER 2004, 2008
Never pass up a good cartoonity This an encouraging stick about punting Charlie lay on the ground inflatus position Wondering why he lies at the feet of the pundit kicking this idea around in his head Why he is the receiver and never the punter and the kicker is just a squib, scrambling for the goal Flattening a big head is always funny Who can aaurgue with that Lucy’s swift kick in the pants, a lasting romance Tribute to Charles Monroe Schulz (November 26, 1922 – February 12, 2000 1986: “You look forward all year to a special moment, and before you know it, it’s over” to the inspirational
I’m looking at this picture of my daughter Ava
someone took three years ago as she was watching me
during the semifinals of our tennis club’s singles championship:
Standing there with her back to the camera,
her little fingers curled around the metal wiring of
a chain link fence, she’s trying to capture my attention
before I hit a kick-serve from the ad-side court;
Intently focused on the task at hand, I bounce the green ball
twice in front of me, toss it slightly behind my center of gravity
into swirling winds three feet above, coil like a spring,
and then, with every ounce of my being, explode upwards
while Ava stands there - still - her wide eyes searching an empty cage.
5/8/2017
A splatter of random color,
literally thrown on the canvas,
sold for two million dollars,
has it really come to this?
Somebody would shell out cash
for what is really a paint spill?
Perhaps they really ‘get it,’
I’m thankful that I don’t.
A naked man with a bear
painted upon his chest,
stands stock-still as he
blends in with all the rest.
They say that it’s ‘conceptual,’
the only concept I see
is that there’s always a fool
who’ll do anything for money.
A literal pile of human dung
decorated with three tooth-picks,
people stand and admire…
who can admire the smell of it?
They say that it’s a ‘vision,’
a ‘take that’ to the middle class.
If that's true I think I’d better
find those ‘middle’ folk fast!
A proud artist stands by
a rock with a green streak.
“Neo-naturocubist deconstruction,”
are the nonsense words he speaks.
Should I envy or hate him,
this pretentious Hipster man,
depends on if he believes it,
or knows it’s just a scam.
A canvas covered in black,
the centerpiece of the scene,
the thing they all came for,
this squarish, darkened screen.
I stare for a second,
hoping for something more,
I did better with black paint
on my old basement door.
I head home to my place,
and there up on the wall,
is a framed movie poster from
the greatest space opera of all.
They’d say it’s ‘crass’ and ‘commercial,’
and they may even be right,
but I’d pay more for this ‘hack-work’
then any of the crap I saw tonight.
I went to The Jester’s Tea Party
In the tower with the winding stair
Frida Kahlo manned the door
And God and the Devil were there
The artist was stood in the shadows
Silently summoning me
To stand with him like a tiny child
At the edge of an innocent sea
He showed me the sadness of circuses
And the violent colours of night
Swept by the brush of his sorrow
Upon canvases heavy with light
He showed me the bones of roses
Strewn on a luminous land
Yama and Dali and Karma and Kali
A heart in a mannequin’s hand
He showed me a skull full of sinister dolls
The ink on a baby’s skin
The wild provocation of beauty
And the unsubtle presence of sin
He showed me unusual clichés
Arranged in original ways
Dudes in the gloom of a glorious doom
Rocking the Ancient of Days
He showed me a girl with an earring
A boy sat alone with a scream
The mischievous mosh of Breughel and Bosch
Through acrylic satirical dream
He showed me the judgement of jesters
The torments of transient lust
The whirling of dervishes whipping up wind
The imprints of pride in the dust
As he showed me his rainbow emotions
His passion, and bright neon grace
Solemn tears came tumbling down
His secret and hidden face
When I asked for the key to his magic
To his powerful mystical prayer
He turned
In silence
And pointed to
The lonely clown on the stair
‘Tis time to face the darkness
The words of the flyer had said
In Simon Griffiths’ art I found
The light of his soul instead
© Gail Foster 2016
Wherever he looks
Mona Lisa's gaze follows-
His every step
I said,
"I'm not an artist but you are a masterpiece in my mind."
And he said, blushing,
"Do you come to the art gallery often?"
______________________
April 30, 2015
Poetry/Free Verse/At The Gallery One Day
Copyright Protected, ID 04- 668-169-30
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Your best pick up line,
sponsor, Judy Konos, Judged 2015
Second Place
Buildings reflecting buildings; surrounded
by a dull murmur of conversation
held over neutral jazz easily ignored;
the din punctuated by angry horns
Dappled sunlight peeking
past the towering concrete giants
as a cool breeze lifts white tablecloths
and stirs the newly formed leaves.
An inky crow alights, looking knowingly
at crowds of people rushing by to nowhere
as the gold afternoon sun dips
past the artificial horizon.
A man walks up – a pause –
then into the restaurant he strides.
Following him is a wild looking beggar
who steals all topics of conversation.
And in my mind, my thoughts
drift back to melancholy places
tomorrow’s fears mingle all too well
with yesterday’s well aged regrets.