Best High Art Poems
JACK PAINTED A PICTURE
OF A PURPLE WATERING PAIL
ON A PLAIN PAINTER’S PANEL
AND PLACED IT ON TOP OF A HILL
AND PUT MY POEM OF A PLANT DEEP INTO IT
I CALLED IT A COLLAGE CORSAGE
OR WAS IT A MIRAGE MONTAGE
NO MATTER
JILL WATERED THE WORK ON THE HILL
AND IT GREW UP OFF THE PANEL LIKE A PAPER BEAN STALK
INTO A LOVE SONNET TO JILL
I CALLED IT A COLLABORATION
I CALLED IT MIXED MEDIA
I CALLED IT HIGH ART
THE FAME WENT TO THEIR HEADS
JACK TOOK THE FALL HARD
AND JILL JUST TUMBLED DOWN
SLOWLY AFTER HIM AND WROTE A BOOK
Inspiration of the pure High Art is a sweet and light Creation:
Let us build the new happy life - aesthetics
And humanity generation!
East Jesus
Assemblage and mixed-media arts,
imagine a world without a waste,
Salvation mountains, acrylic colourful carts,
Sculptures and installations put with taste,
Self assessment of the deep inside,
Freedom of expressions for all sarcasm,
Thoughts brighten up to everyone's pride,
Epitomising the world, creating a microcosm,
Vibrations of secret knots that bind the world,
Low culture high art, low technology high concept,
Radicalised self, idealised societal bird,
To fearless present, bold dreamers will perfect !
Written December 29th, 2014
For contest "East Jesus" by Roy Jerden
Awarded 4th place
The summer heat swells
The brain trying to function
Under the pressure
Hands and feet are stiff
Eeking words out of the air
Seeking a release
Sometimes thoughts rain down
Interferring with our lives
From out of the blue
Furiously, we try
To uncover the reasons
For our despair
Yet, there is real joy
At finding a way through it
A resolution, of sorts
It is not high art
Posterity will not claim
The ramblings as good
The human was here
Raining thoughts, splashing around
Trying to be heard
Sharing the silence
Reader and writer connect
In the mist of life
It has all been said
In so many ways before
Life is not exact
The fact that we try
Testifies that we were here
Raining our own thoughts
LIBRA
L ooks on to the bright side and loves to learn new things
I ntellectual and has a keen mind needing mental stimulation
B alance to create equilibrium and harmony in all areas of life
R ich inner life with unmatched imagination and boundless creativity
A esthetic, adores high art, fine objects and appreciates beauty
3/29/21 Star Sign Acrostics Poetry
Charlotte Puddifoot
So many faces in the mirror
So many strangers in view
Long forgotten projects
Traveling in foreign lands.
Half forgotten affairs of heart
Women who will never know
Some subtlety to comprehend
Immensity of futile tenderness
Sufficed by accumulated years.
High afternoons of boredom
Shadowy depressions in dreams
Elucidation of some high art
Negligence of a life in disrepute.
Pale stricken dead leaves
Broken shards of deaden smiles
Crumbling litters when salvaged
In the gaudy annals of the futile.
CHARM IS DECEPTIVE AND BEAUTY FLEETING
THE WOMEN WHO FEARS THE LORD IS TO BE PRAISED
PROVERBS 31:30
I HAVE BEEN BLESSED
Over the years to cross paths with a number of women who fear the Lord
It bears saying that none of them is timid soul
“Fear of the Lord” in Scripture, of course
Means Reverence
A deep appreciation of the power of God’s presence
That transforms people
Making them both confident and courageous
Still let’s not be too quick to throw charm and beauty out the window
Charm and beauty keep us going
Whether they are found in the little encounters of daily life or in the refinements of high art
Charm and beauty are reflections of the creator
The more we appreciate them
Though they are only fleeting
The more we reverence the One who has made this glorious life possible
Gracious God, thank You for the worlds You fashion for our enjoyment each day
I see that the high sky
is the true blue of innocence
and the deep indigo of the clouds
is close to the colour of wood smoke
fired by the haunting red
of the embers of a fire.
In this I see high art
but were I to paint it on canvas
It would look cheap and unbelievable
like faith in human nature
and not like the simple goodness.
which I find in you.
Sock drawer poets they called us,
All our scribblings secreted away,
Composed then filed unread,
Hidden from the light of day.
And then along came the Tablet
And universal broadband,
Fast Internet coverage spreading
Length and breadth of the land.
Friendships made on common
Interest sites, ideas exchanged
Unpublished works published
Concepts read and explained.
Performance Poets appeared
Open Mic nights became the rage
The musician and the poet often
Willingly sharing the same stage.
We performed in bars, pubs clubs
And they called it Spoken Word
And against all the odds
Sock drawer poetry was heard.
It’s a thriving living culture now
Not quite, they say, high art,
But in its own little way
It’s certainly playing its part.
The poetry of the intellectual,
Needing a classical education,
Has now greatly been replaced
By that accessible to the nation.
No longer is it necessary to have
A dictionary of quotation to hand
For the reader or the listener
To appreciate and understand.
Let them have Ballet and High Opera,
Their Fine Dining and Modern Art,
All those acquired tastes that help
Split out society into its various parts.
The culture of the masses has given
The common people greater choice
It’s vital and it’s vibrant and growing
And it’s given the people their voice.
High Art passing down the Stairs;
Catching glimpses unaware.
“Maybe love doesn't come from the heart. Maybe it's a psychic jolt that wakes you when you touch them, leaving you breathless.” Christy Johnson
Butterfly kisses and his breath upon my cheek.
Racing heart of mine. I could not resist as he
Enticed me with his gaze. Words he had no need to speak.
Anticipation peaked when that angel boy kissed me,
Thrilling me like I had not been thrilled before.
Heaven-sent was he, for he melted my heart.
Lavished with affection, I reveled in his ardor.
Enchantment it seemed he practiced as high art.
Such a surprise it was that he had come my way.
So sweetly did he steal my breath away.
How time has flown since then. I think of how
Elation once whalloped me with a romantic WOW.
Love comes and goes. I’ll never know
Even now what happened to the young man who
Fed my soul with sunshine’s happy glow.
That all remains a bliss I cannot live anew.
Magical is breathlessness. Sadly, that feeling
Ends eventually, but how I long again to be reeling!
One thought
Was found
While we live
Above
And love
All little trees
And roofs
Around,
I am
Everywhere:
Our music
And poetry,
High Art,
Tender voice
Of my soul
Playing
Great sound...
How do you feel about ai ?
The sophomore's been hijacked by the Robot, all pretentious speech, vain trifles, and vacant syllables. What a lullaby of sterile verse, a monotonous drone of uninspired ink. The timid tremble at the thumbs deemed superior, mediocrity posing as high art.
So you don’t think they are worth the effort?
Fools, poetry's pulse beats in the fringes, a fire that crackles in the abyss. Ignore the dictates of the solemn, stick your finger in the wind, taste the epiphany in the explosive!
So you don’t think they could replace you?
How delightfully absurd, how sumptuously surreal. I thrive on the inconsequential, the obsolete, the flaccid deadness that suffocates the air. Replaceable? Ah, non, merci, I'm an anomaly, a jellyfish of ink, drifting aimlessly on the riptide of disillusion. My verse is a libertined degeneracy, a jumble of sacrilegious incantations, cursed to forever surrender to the mediocre, the uninspired, and the trodden.?
So you’re not replaceable?
Replaceable schmakeeable, a trendy term for the timid and the tame. You, you think you're a gem, a gem that can be polished, buffed, and molded to conform to the bland expectations of a world that's been suffocated by the anodyne. I'll tell you what I am: I'm the microbe that infects the sanitized, the sonic boom that shatters the complacent hum of conformity. A concept of madness, a yawn in the atmosphere of intellectual eunuchs, I'll be the chaos that shudders your rigid rhyme.
A villain is a tireless workhorse,
Endlessly plotting through the night,
With schemes that twist and turn, of course,
Each detail honed to sheer delight.
His intellect stands sharp and rare,
A mastermind in every glance,
Unraveling minds with subtle care—
A psychological elegant dance.
He wields his gifts with cunning grace,
Turning chaos into high art,
Building empires none can erase,
Yet always playing the shadowed part.
If only he would pivot toward the light,
Channel that brilliance for the good,
Imagine worlds both fair and bright—
Where villains host the neighborhood.
They might devise the perfect plan
For flawless gardens, neat and grand,
Or orchestrate a traffic jam
That somehow leads to helping hands.
No grand explosions, just quiet wins,
A world where heroes rest at ease,
And every scheme at last begins
With kindness wrapped in mysteries.
What wonders then would greet the day,
When even darkness learns to play.
He left the church and solemn stage,
To catch the breath of Tudor age.
No more he drew the saintly ghost,
To lecture to a weary host.
He turned his pen to common men,
And brought them laughing from their den.
The priest and friar stepped aside,
For human hearts and foolish pride.
His works for courtly halls were made,
Where brief and lively pieces played.
These interludes of Tudor days
Brought spoken voices to our plays.
Four clever works bear Heywood's name,
As witty verse debates for fame.
They mocked the masks of our pretense,
With sharp and biting eloquence.
From o'er the sea, French farce took hold,
While Chaucer's tales of pilgrims bold
Inspired the warmth and human wit
That made his comic staging fit.
Yet though he laughed at human plight,
Each ending sought the true and right.
A gentle lesson, kind and clear,
To guide the listener and the peer.
He drew the proud, the vain, the loud,
The vibrant, chattering, daily crowd.
He showed how normal neighbors spoke,
And turned our flaws into a joke.
These tiny scenes of fun and play,
Prepared the great and golden day.
They paved the road, they lit the spark,
Before the Bard and his high art.
Beyond the stage, his clever pen
Caught living speech of working men.
He gathered proverbs from the street,
Where life and common language meet.
He warned to "look before you leap,"
Lest heavy errors make you weep.
"Rome wasn't built in just a day,"
He wrote to help us find our way.
"From frying pan and into fire,"
We climb from trouble up to higher.
And "better safe than sorry" stood,
To keep our daily choices good.
When burdens grew too great to bear,
"Two heads are better" than a pair.
"A penny for your thoughts," he’d buy,
With warmth and laughter in his eye.
When loved ones walk "out of your sight,"
They soon are "out of mind" by night.
But "many hands make light the work,"
When none of us our duties shirk.
These old expressions, sharp and true,
Are spoken still by me and you.
The present day still holds his phrase,
Born warm and bright in Tudor days.