Best Gogh Poems
from beyond his
vibrant palette
that bore all his
lifelong scars
is what I see
beneath his sky
and myriad
of stars
a scene of shades
and silhouettes
formed by the
yellow light
that hints at
The Last Supper
at that café
in the night?
I have the rhythm of a winding road
how do I consign myself to being confined...
rows of poplar pillars prop
rendezvous canopies beneath we meet
—I self-cajole on ooh-la-la afternoon
yellow eyes; daffodils watching
lean into gossip groups nodding
a prodding breeze instigating deep-freeze—
I am a sweet weed in this place of sway and betray
with a stranger I stroll my arranged betrothed
height of his black top hat challenges trees
much like Corinthian columns
guards of an aisle I must walk —dear God! must walk
trepidation trips down my bridal spinal column
tiger eyes; lilies watching wish they were me
dare they dream they could uproot their roots like me
wish they could wedding waltz like I must —like I must
but their envy-leaves remain embrace-less
—I secretly envy lilies’ arms empty of yet unmet love
daffodils; empty-headed —laugh
they try to read my mind to fill their own
what do I care of their curdled thoughts lemon tart
and orange lilies’ with their brocade brimstone
what do I fear of fire-breathers burn of words
undergrowth feels the square heels of my lace-up boots
post impression grows more expressive than first—
beware French tongues of sundew and burdock burr
marriage-carriage rolls in ruts to Versailles
where my coerced corset of hooks and ties lie
rhythm of a winding road dies in minuet strangle-hold
Vincent van Gogh**
Sliced his left ear off
Only one painting did Van Gogh sell -
maybe he didn’t hear the doorbell!
The only painting Van Gogh sold during his lifetime was Red Vineyard at Arles
**Based on the European pronunciation of the name which is Van Goff!
05~30~15
Entered into Premiere contest #11 sponsored by Skat A
an asylum's garden~irises full of life without tragedy
the sky resonates
with what’s written in the silk of stars,
in pulse-burned pensiveness,
penned in poignancy,
personifying pain
with yellow-gold dust,
where lament liquefies and softens
into an ethereal lake,
chronicling it with surging blue sparks ~
an evening elixir, enveloped
in confetti cravings…
this l o v e knows not
the ingredients of
ephemeral effervescence,
as the thriving tip of twilight
manifests the magic of want,
whilst I tremble,
engrossed in the thought
of moon-flame touch,
brimming,
brewing,
breathing
across cups of catharsis,
concocted with caffeinated calmness ~
aligning the inner innocence
still longing in loneliness,
amidst seated strangers
lost in their own appetizing lyrics,
clothed in cold cobalt colors,
unaware of the emptiness
they feed their mindless muse
from superficial spoons
filled with smoke and silence ~
like scattered illusions,
illustrated with surreal ink…
what if I hold onto forever fallacies
hiding within?
would I be promised
a peaceful plate of patience
beneath ineffable iridescence ~
for I’ve feverishly struggled
to rephrase the verdicts behind
faces phasing in the haze of life,
sipping sorrow
as if it were mocha ~
balmy, bittersweet,
burning in sync with my
Swarovski crescent crooning
lullabies to diamonds dancing
in infinite nebulae,
carrying secrets the table holds,
served in sincere oblivion…
and I am still learning and healing
the soul’s breaking lines,
to leave lovelorn reveries
without losing the light of lucidity,
letting go of their narrow narrative
of me and my ache ~
of us and our heat,
as even the routined routes
could not erase what’s
handwritten in a heart made heavy…
so wait not for the
rise of supernova sanguinity ~
I am not the warmth of woven woes.
I am a charismatic chameleon,
~ c o m p l e x ~ cautious ~
catching comet-notes,
camouflaged in melancholic versions
of humankind,
hiding vulnerability
within firm flares of vivid vibrations…
O beloved night,
on this terrace, I devour, not alone,
but evermore lonely,
i m m e r s e d
in the forlorn frequency
of stellar fire…
"One can speak poetry just by arranging colours well,
just as one can say comforting things in music"
~ Vincent Van Gogh
You sing of beauty as you paint
in colors bold, with scant restraint -
poetic truths that harmonize
with tales of hope in the reprise.
A human symphony in oils,
of workers weary in their toils -
depicted honest, good, and true,
and your most loyal subject: you.
Compose a masterpiece to cast
poetic fragrances that last
one generation to the next
that parlay comfort to the vexed.
Though you were versed in tragedy,
you showed us, Vincent, what could be;
in vivid, dancing hues. Your goal:
portraying beauty of the soul.
Written 29 Jan 2022
brushed by the blushing Fontainebleau,
blooming with rainless foliage,
like a poem kissed by the green…
I sigh as thoughts wander
in saffron silence,
in the echoing warmth
of your breathing silhouette...
we are beyond wraiths of wildflowers,
waltzing through the wilderness,
sipping honeyed drops of sunlight,
whilst specks of citrine
soar above olives~
merging in mystical mists of magnetic gold,
oblivious to the spectral leaves
thriving within inner forests,
veiling the vindictive vines
painted with ice-corpse colors of life.
O time, cloaked in cryptic clouds~
in a world that cares not for the forgotten,
let the fields of fervent petals
dress the untouched trees
with butterfly-blue blurs,
as peace is more than a mere noun,
nestled between framed figs…
and to heal is to heed the harmonized~
hymns mirroring soft springs of Eden,
where l o v e is an aesthetic array
ribboned with amorous emeralds~
scattered across meadows
lost in redolent reveries.
I speak to the breeze,
cradling the balmy boulevard
in hushed tones~
to unfreeze the wintry thistles,
to untangle complex chords of woes
piercing the pained canvas
aching within my mind..
for in the layered heart
of external pleasures,
there I’ve found the palette~
that homes not regrets and troubles
but elevates the m a g i c
of sketched solace…
the verdant of swirling hope
fine-tuned strokes of sage~
sun-soaked distraction,
a memory of soulmates
tied
to the timeless roots
infused with trust ...
Long ago at twilight we pledged our sweet
love amid trees stretching stark and bare
Yet at our rendezvous the very next night
I was alone in my despair
Now in the sunset of my days, again
In the pastoral Eden I stand with you
In a bliss beyond love, our souls
coalesce as we begin our lives anew
Well over a hundred years ago
The illustrious Vincent Willem Van Gogh
A genius somewhat like Michelangelo
With thousands of artworks in his cluttered studio
From the sublime to the grotesque for show
Might have been better off working as a gigolo
Because he died a pauper on skid row
In those days artists had no impresario
To make sure they lived high in a chateau
Dining on champagne and escargot
So it was quite a different scenario
That brilliant artists lived totally incognito
Often exchanging a painting for a meal on a patio
Or selling their wares door to door on tiptoe
Carrying under their arm their impressive portfolio
So it was for Vincent Willem Van Gogh
Misunderstood and suffering from vertigo
Mentally unstable and drinking heavily in Bordeaux
Depressed, impulsive and insane – a tragic combo
Cut off a piece of his ear, his sanity was touch and go
A troubled soul, life for him was a wild rodeo
Obsessive passion, far from living the status quo
His life and work intertwined shimmying like a yo-yo
Feeling the stranger, he shot himself overcome with sorrow
Post mortem everyone wanted to hear the myth of Van Gogh
With his vivid colors of burgundy, ochre and indigo
In his honor every year the orchestra features the oboe
And while the Italians chant magnifico
Everyone else cheers Bravo! Bravo!
How times have changed for poor Van Gogh
From a mere hundred years ago ~
Read on air by invitation ~ March 21, 2020 'LATE NIGHT POETS'
AP: 1st place 2026, 2nd place 2021, 3rd place 2025, 3rd place 2022, 3rd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on August 15, 2021 for YOUR BEST MONORHYME contest sponsored by WILLIAM KEKAULA - RANKED 1ST
heart ~ a wild collage
of gold-smeared skies
pressed within
oil-washed layers
of breathing
melancholy
as leaves curled in
cashmere greens
trace
condensed contours
between
the restless air
stroking
the pine needles
soaked in the
dewy-dreamed breeze
of piercing persimmon
where time takes
a trembling leap
sailing into
vermilion arms
of the
colorful oblivion...
and herbs of hope
f
a
l
l
like iron nails of silence
as the sun seizes
saffron sighs of love
caged amidst
the tangerine tips
of tomorrow,
peeking from the
edge
of
f l e e
t i
n g
summer,
as amber embers
s w i r l and s w a y
above roots of resilience
rushing with
grains of patience
while you
question the
velvety filter
of fatigued fog
as if every
burden I’ve worn~
almost bent
and broken,
is a fabricated lie
sketched not
with tears...
O lovelorn twigs
forlorn ferns
this I frame
in
windswept woes ~
an aesthetic archive
in the museum
of
r u s
t l i
n g
murmurs…
Decades of a formula that only he knew about it and drew,
Cascades of his artwork came to a head in his last years,
Glissades of a swan in a lake that only a handful had seen,
Tirades made its mark on him, distant from fellow peers.
~~[Van Gogh]~~
Impressed of his art garnered some interest in his style,
Oppressed, a constant companion only he can befriend,
Obsessed by what he drew insanely violent he withdrew,
Distressed he found salvation in asylums to not descend.
~~[Wheatfield With Crows]~~
Crows, black gawking, feed in a meadow ache for harvest,
Know that art needs to be made, scheme food for thought,
Those sinister birds, a murder of crows festering the grain,
Throes a fit mocking 'em, flys, pained him more than aught.
~~[Starry Night]~~
Bleak sky of blues, stars gave rise to a miracle been made,
Streak of a sprawl unfurls his heavens tethered madness,
Speak not lest he loses his concentration, maintains focus,
Meek town his groundwork, lofty jewel amidst the sadness.
~~[Bedroom At Arles]~~
Red, that laid on a bed, table, chairs, paintings on the wall,
Said was where he severed his ear, water bowl mirror hung,
Head bandaged where he bled, he does a self-portrait of it,
Deadman walking, Gauguin part ways, no song to be sung.
~~[Self-Portrait Bandage Ear And Pipe]~~
Drew closer, when they were both young, be such friends,
Few friends Van Gogh had, Gauguin was at that moment,
Grew apart after Vince shaving Paul, Vince wanted to hurt,
Knew time together was getting just a bit grave and potent.
~~[House At Auvers]~~
Return to Arles made Van Gogh happy for good times there,
Upturn spirits was a rarity, too few and far in the middle,
Discern with him was questionable because he's unstable,
Concern for his good, art kept him busy, else is second fiddle.
~~[Doctor Gachet]~~
Fields back of the house, a pistol, he plans to shoot himself,
Wields his pistol, shoots, nobody hears, years gun lays hidden,
Yields his brother Theo to his side as doctor aides him little,
Shields truth futile, his art was world-renown, dies bedridden.
Art is so precious
after its creator dies,
like renowned Van Gogh paintings.
They cost millions now,
but he just sold one or two
during his entire lifetime.
He just kept painting,
creating masterpieces
knowing no one wanted one,
till he decided
to let the art speak for him,
and committed suicide.
August 24, 2017
Meeting Van Gogh…sonnet
the wheat-field, blond as a Volga German milk maid, heat
intense and in the shade of a demanding olive tree I saw
grumpy Van Gogh, glaring at me intruding on his painting.
“Sorry for the scooter it is electric blue and doesn’t fit in,
pretend it is a donkey free of its leather harness.”
The vines, deep green leaves and fertile soil, soon there
would be grapes, mostly dark cerulean, an army of wine
to come tempting souls into surrender… liquid pleasures;
and the narrow road snakes amongst fields like a black
mamba hunting grey rabbits in the meadow.
I have the afternoon sun in my eyes, a cooling breeze
on my back; and then I drive off the road fall amongst
thistle and thorns and the spell is broken, look around
but only Van Gogh witnessed my disgrace.
An unpopulated place where
poplars grow
Unseen canopies expose
tree trunks in a row
Wildflowers swoon over
undergrowth below
As back to front figures
watch the panoramic show
Lush vegetation evokes a
spellbinding hue
With violet bark
to engrain their view
Don’t flee this forest
reality will go askew
Stay forever
they may just pull through
Lost in the emerald
is a world of their own
Do they seek solace
have seeds been sown?
In this vibrant thicket
where trees have grown
Have they just come together?
or come back to atone
Perfect is a dream
without fear or dread
One that only ends,
when we go to bed?
The artist knew well,
his final words bled
“Sadness will last forever”
>yet brilliance he spread<
Chases me down a paint-stained alley.
My feet are swollen—maybe someday they’ll rot
Exhausted from the brush stroke agony
I seize when the light forces itself upon me
When will I decide to turn myself into dust
Deranged is what I seem to be
They locked me in a rage-filled scene
Hearing petrified, hate-charged screams.
Peering through the curtains as I wake from restless sleep
Staring at a starry night
It sings me a melodic, stunning melody
Maybe the air that flows through my lungs
Perhaps the heart that pumps my blood
Is not what I truly need
Maybe a pistol will give me ultimate peace
Perhaps a bullet will allow me to foresee
As I lay near my brother
I don't sob, I don't plead
The life I lived wasn't for me
“The sadness will last forever”
It won't be cured by remedies
So I must cut short my legacy
The rope that strangled me with miseries
My death is not a tragedy