Best Modelling Poems
DREAMS OF YESTERDAY AND TODAY
Leaves falling during autumns years
they bless my ribbon memories of how it was
childhood shadows brown like withered grass
for now am old and soon shall breathe my last..
I sit quiet to travel on bygone days,
on the streets before, I have ropes to play
blend of dolls and bubbles also made me gay
but the child in me still yearns to pass these ways.
From curves of mountains to nations across the sea,
to journey more, I ask God to direct where I'll be...
I passed a plant its leaves swaying with the breeze,
years fold, the same plant is now a fruit-bearing tree.
I view the puffy-feathered skies and its blue,
I smile each breaking dawn for it's silvery new.
I tackle each task fast and through but before I knew,
hours gone and done, I finished some-- I missed a few.
When evenings globes of wordless speech shine
allowing me to run, run into garden of dreams,
of childhood once supreme but they shoot away
in flutter flash on life's fluctuating stream.
I hugged my knees to stop my tears a while
remembering decades when my body is still a child.
I keep the tears to my chest as I go by,
if only, good times replay... I want them again.
Each bulging grin that rise unto east horizon,
Each satellite, modelling slow on her turning points
in stellar of green, and her clouds of powder white,
I quench my thirst drinking the beaming tides.
Down earth, I linger to verdure adorned of rosy blush
even from the arch where the gentle winds is seen
to dwarf liquid curls that roll near the shore,
I dreamt yesterday and still am dreaming today...
Twenty years ago, blooms and fruits hang on vines
so fragrant, so fragrant were those days of mine
Now no more; their traces I could not find;
Today, I need to make more golden memories
etched to time as later, I'll be leaving them behind
And if someday, one wanders in my lifes forest
despite blowing winds and thunderstorms,
like the tiny plant, may I be that fruit-bearing tree.
___________________________________________________________
Open Poetry Contest - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Charlotte Puddifoot
~~~3rd place~~~
OLIVE ELOISA GUILLERMO
9:15 pm, July 11, 2015
Victoria's Secret hottie
Was modelling something naughty
With it all on view
What else could I do
But make a run for the potty?
Went for a job interview
And was grounded by many stupid questions, not just few.
They started with, Describe yourself in three words.
Just read the documents and find the answer yourself.
Where do you see yourself in five years?
I am a computer engineer, not an astrologer.
What are your salary expectations?
I applied after reading the salary you advertised, if want to give more
I have no regrets.
Are you married,divorced,separated or single?
I am here for a job, not for any modelling contest
so I need to be single.
What do your co-workers say about you?
They say I am the best, believe me or not its true.
Why are you leaving your current job?
I just love giving the job interviews and that's all.
In the last days of ignorance, those Hands that will shape and nurture the impending uncertain future meet. They discuss what powerful, influential Mouths have said. Hands preparing for the future Mouths have granted them.
plans based on science
speculative modelling
statistical views
society’s best wishes
these last days of ignorance
Our beloved father, a friend and excellent companion,
A mentor of excellence simply modelling a good life,
A teacher and Dr. guiding us with his great philosophy,
Athletic and a great fan of nature and the beautiful environment,
An excellent swimmer who guided his children to be good swimmers,
Father loved the cottage, every summer we would go there,
Our beautiful Mother would be there with him and us,
They were very happily married and reached their golden anniversary,
Congratulations parents on all those years of complexity and happiness,
A real friend and good listener to us all,
Someone who created miracles and mentored leadership and education,
Our father had a great love of God and Jesus and the bible,
A friend to us on our vacation to our favorite Limetree Beach paradise,
Housing us during a difficult divorce and comforting us and allowing us to be friends,
Years of happiness and dinning together and enjoying another's company,
Growing up with classical music, the ballet and the opera,
Mentoring music which began by singing around the house,
The beautiful wedding of our handsome son Kirk and his lovely wife Jenn,
Where he lovingly placed the honourable scarf,
We praise our exceptional and very handome father, grandfather and
great-grandfather Dr. Wolf,
St. George's Lutheran Church, where all the friendships began,
Mentoring religion and teaching, thank you to our beloved father,
He was very much liked by his friends and good neighbours,
You have joined our mother in heaven, we all love you and mother very much,
We will remember you forever with reverence,God bless you both and thank you.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz
Here I am
Stranded between this and your goodbye.
You,
Whose thatch is a-glow with fires of Beauty
That burns my heart,
unkempt and wild,
Sits atop a countenance borne of a thousand fantasies
Of angels and fairies and their adorable air,
That underneath the obvious purity
Lies some hidden childish naughtiness there.
And though there have been wonder
Like those seven shades that wipes the sky of its tears,
Or the earth blushing by the sun's appearance
At dusk or dawn, as a lady does when meeting her lover,
Or the sight of evening stars on a cloudless sky
Like jewels sparkling spread on velvet,
None has stalled a heart
As your entrance to a scene;
As if pulchritude was conjured from adjectives
To a breathing thing
To which nothing has been of equal since.
Yet here I am
Stranded between this and your goodbye.
Perhaps it has gone unnoticed
At every opportune time,
Irises have prayed to be blessed
To be reciprocated.
And Heavens be thanked! Heavens be thanked
When favor is given, that completes a day.
What more if engaged in a conversation
Nay, more, fortunate enough to be bestowed
With a couple of words
Such as a greeting, or a calling by name;
Then I would be lost as a child would be in a jungle.
Unnerved, devoid of the facility of expression,
Frozen as would be a dead tree in winter.
Yet here I am
Stranded between this and your goodbye.
For every moment that we stood before each other
Face to face, there dawns a discernment
By this day and age
A dozen or so faces have come and gone;
Faces that have caused the heart to prance wildly
To a rhythm unintentionally syncopated.
Faces that have shaped the perspective
Of the panorama of future days.
Faces that if they were modelling clay
And by some miracle were shaped to a single mold
The outcome stood before me, face to face;
Something I have never thought
Even in the wildest imagination possible.
Wild-eyed with wonder, a child witnessing the delicate
Subtlety of a magician's handicraft.
I only wish I could have told you of these.
(continued)
There was a diva from Vancouver
Her car was a Octane blue Lancer
Modelling was her passion
Day came, to show fashion
She lay in bed due to a hangover!
She's "cute as a button" is a well known expression
Could even make modelling a successful profession
She'd sure have my vote
She chokes up my throat
Wearing a bikini, might cause a transgression
The Almighty Creator has me in His wondrous plan
even before the foundation of the world
one among His blessed masterpieces
to bear His divine craftsmanship.
The Perfect Painter presents me to surpass human nature’s premier coup
in His mind’s canvas, quickened for worship with body, soul, and spirit
since I have tripartite being according to His image and likeness
reflecting the LORD as Trinity: Father, Son, Holy Ghost.
The Supreme Designer keeps on fashioning me in love’s workmanship*
by His kindness-modelling---concrete, showing no abstraction
as pattern of good works along stewardship’s color wheel
midst Christ’s grace-palette and strength-easel.
The Beauty-Master enhances my glow through pleasant reality-blendings
midst gesturalism and silhouette engagements of reaching-out collage
around my life-building pursuits of mixed media granulations
producing tenebrism that exalts the Saviour.
The Sovereign Artist transforms me to become a precious portrait-legacy
for worthy exhibit of faith champions in various servanthood genre
along polishing, brushing, etching, pressing, scraping encounters
showcasing the magnificence of God’s mercy and miracles.
*Ephesians 2:10 For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them.
(Art Words are from A-Z Glossary of Painting Terms)
November 17, 2021
1st place, "A STRAND (1049)" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 1/11/2022
She was a bright star from the start
brave and proud
had courage and grace
fierce
focused
very stubborn but never lost sight
she knew what
whom she wanted to be.
Made cautious choices in her life
no unnecessary play with the opposite side
gossip
jealous and games she let them sly
she keep her mind right
she knew what
whom she wanted to be.
Burn midnight oil with her studies
graduated first in her class
got a good job was okey for a start
a good man fine one for life
after years of ups and down
the puzzle finally had fit like
she knew what
whom she wanted to be.
An year down the line
she now questions and cry
it is fine but this is not quite like
she knew
whom she wanted to be.
She was almost the face of commercials
now her modelling is hanged dry.
the job pays the bill but she forgot that wasn't her career.
The book,always halfway,she is yet to deliver
Volunteer and charities work no long much in her mind
love life check but even has been with so much trials
Everything in her life is beneath what
she knew
whom she wanted to be.
She had glamour and style
fans who each day plied what is it or who she had worn.
Would research far and wide
always informed on what new winds blew
she used to dance and whirl
long journeys,adventures under the sun would fill her with bliss.
Now she stroll around in flats and faded jeans
from home to work work to home is the routine
Her scent and image okey.
Okey used to be mediocre and not what
she knew
whom she wanted to be.
she feels trapped she say
all her mission and visions are slowly on a vanish line
she withers each day more
suffocating in this box that's now her life
a plight not close to what
she knew
whom she wanted to be.
She wanted to soar higher than the skies
explore beyond borders and sanity
be more than most could ever be.
She was the girl with million worth of dreams
sadly she can no longer list the much
she knew
whom she wanted to be.
Form:
This is a poem about writing a poem
Pick a subject in your mind at that very time
Then look for words that rhyme in sound and in manner of time
String them together arranged in certain specific places
To capture your situation, feeling, vision or sensation
Use verses to take a short break before you start to recreate
Following the same pattern as the rings of planet Saturn
Try to explain whats on your mind deep in your brain
Make your neurons inside fire in coincidence
Portary your message like you are modelling clay
Show some emotion in a slick smooth motion
And describe what moves you deep inside
Think of it as a photograph with your own autograph
Your message will be read and if good it will spread
Like a weed using the wind to disperse its seed
Into another head it will spread like butter does on bread
What was said, will be fed then shred until it is finally dead
VIRTUAL RARITIES
techniques
transformed
to
explore
the potentials &
possibilities
of
modelling
the
initiative&
generatively
appropriated &
reimagined
renditions
surrounded
by
iterative complexity
extracted
&
merged
with the
visual
expressing
a mood
static
tangible
& prominent
inn
alternatives
stylised imagery
symbolised
by
the
serene
introspective
distilled
with
uncertainty
marginalised
in
precedents by
conceptual
stereotypes
expressed
in token
proponents
so finely
tuned
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
EVERY TUNIC’S TUCKED
squeamish that every tunic’s tucked
on one side, lopsided, uncouth
on the page, in the book - why is
every model told to tuck her hand
inside her pocket, jam her socket
into her pants, plunge me into distress.
If they want us to buy online, can’t
we size it up ourselves. I laugh
like crazy…going crazy…the lazy
love to push buttons and tuck.
well i’m out of luck, looking through
glaring pages, glossing over, needled.
insensitive to my plight? perhaps
you have your own quirk. don’t
laugh behind my back…hit me
on the chin. just don’t tuck your tunic
with your hand in one pocket. i panic
at the unprofessional modelling. i turn
away, i scorn, i feel sick. the lazy
like to set up every one the same.
their camera should be ashamed…
how lame. let me speak…let me shout.
i was kidding about the chin -
keep it to yourself…
When my lady speaks
People start to dance
Her voice is like a sweet
Melody that breathes
upon
A bank of violets
She walks as if she is
modelling
Her smile
Glitters like a lonely star
Oh my babie looks
Mighty fine.
Up the dark and barricaded staircase
With a monitor well focused between their legs
They came to digest an Ego
Caress ten long fingers aflame at the tips
Imbibe bright juice
Heal a chequered heart
Mount the focussed quartz
Don the weathered leather
Flip geopathic stress
As African heroes from the past
Stare through windows draped in white satin
They smooth peppercorn hair
In ecstacies of bliss as delicate oil
Flare their nostrils, ignite their liver
While township youth play dice upstairs
Modelling their future on one man alone
As ten jazz tunes are whistled from corners
The piano remains covered in velvet
With a white knight trying some stunts
And a wizard talks tales of Mecca
Fathering some orphans watching TV
Then prays on centre stage......
They twist locks and slit bars/
Violet suns streams in
All is touched with gold as he glances
At their toes, skirmishes their
Breasts in figures of 8
On a path to the Beyond
White witches in the Wind
( View Recital of poem by Poet on YouTube @ghairodanielspresence )