Best Norman Rockwell Poems
Feeling the youth
And vigor in my heart
In a fog of my conscious mind
Fluffy white clouds and blue sky
Green emerald tall grass
I love and dance around
Reflection on the surface of the mirror
Reveals a different story
Sees what we are
Not what we feel
To regain the youth
Instead, we relinquish our past
I'm that little girl in
Norman Rockwell illustration,
"What you see in the Mirror?"
Wishing for my beautiful youth
The eyes of my loved ones
see a different me
The person they love
with all their heart
With no flaws, but beauty
Reflection In The Mirror
Reveals a different story
3/3/2015
Last night I dreamt you saw me
Really saw me for the first time
Not who you thought I should be
But the real me
I danced in front of you
Not caring what you thought
I embraced who I am instead of what I'm not
Unafraid
Unashamed
I watched you smile
I felt happy for a while
You were not playing grownup games
What I lacked not a source of your shame
I didn't feel like I was to blame
Sometimes I've wished for a different name
I watched as you delighted in me
Oh what a dream
Like the cherry on top of a dollop of cream
My nirvanah
My elusive stream
When I wake I see your face
No joy there not a trace
I'm disappointed too
I'm hiding me and you are still you
So we continue
Like every day
Me not me and you being you
For Judy's Dad Contest
Sorry, it's not a Norman Rockwell type relationship.
Hello Soup friends, do not worry I am not writing about a rocky
marriage but rather about the expectations of a father for his son.
This has long passed but I drew on the memory for this contest.
Scratchy, scratchy, what's that sound,
Atop my home space, high and round?
Could there be one self-served mouse,
Schemed to steal my sweet, dry house?
No, those sounds don't seem that soft,
For some such small rodent, there aloft.
Could be, large birds of prey thus wait,
To bring me sure, their sweet, sad fate.
Or maybe, through some so-bright sky,
Dark clouds have come to weep and cry,
Thus pattered, loud, my walls and roof,
To make this day quite rummage-proof.
Or maybe, perhaps - oh, please let it be -
One bright red squirrel like me, but she?
I'll listen and wait, and quite quietly hide,
As my red squirrel heart beats fast inside.
For all I can see through the door in my keg,
Is paper and a puppy, and a little boy's leg,
But a home is home, and I'll hold mine tight,
Praying for a she-squirrel, wrong ... or write!
Written and submitted on October 18, 2019
For the "Realism Art" Poetry Contest
Eve Roper, Sponsor.
( I chose Norman Rockwell painting/illustration number two. "Write" in the last line is mis-spelled intentionally, as reference to the boy's activities )
I want to live in a Norman Rockwell painting
Where I'm surrounded by the simple times
If you don't know what I mean let me explain it
It consists of front porch swings and Mom's apple pie
Sunday afternoons in Grandma's kitchen
Lazy fishing days down by the lake
Or in a Soda Shop drinking Chocolate Malts with cherries on top
As I while away the day Norman's way
Riding bikes down hills the whole time laughing
Cowboys, Indians, and Pirates all in one day
With sunsets painted red and no strangers met
No secrets kept to wanna give away
Life on parade the American way
Pride in your family and friends
Helping each other no matter race, creed, or color
Starting each meal out with an amen
Picnics at the park, hot dogs and gaming
Potato sack and three-legged racing
Nothing like today's grind taxing both the heart and mind
Which to me desperately needs replacing
With life in a Norman Rockwell painting
I saw a painting as a younger man;
some artwork I enjoyed - this not so much.
Not ready yet for abstract, off I ran
to view portraits, landscapes, still lifes and such.
A decade later, we met up again;
I still was not sure what there was to see.
Less hurried, I felt more receptive then.
"My kid could paint this", scoffed a man near me.
I'm sixty now, and see with dimmer eyes
yet now they catch things I missed in my youth.
I gaze, and let a narrative arise -
it asks me: what is beauty, life, and truth?
Therein consists the artist's foremost task:
to raise the questions we have yet to ask.
// An ekphrasis on the painting "The Connoisseur"
by American painter Norman Rockwell //
Connie was a cheerleader
bright white toothed smile
bouncing boobs
short skirt legs running long
through school boy fantasies
friday nights her stage
crisp November air her makeup
Robert was a loner
a stoner
bad clear down to the core
shriveled up inside
Salvation Army furniture
Batman comics
bologna sandwich supper
Connie was manicured lawns
gardens of flowers
white picket fences and stone pathways
Norman Rockwell dinners
lavender bath soap
silk pajamas
pink bed spread
Robert was a rundown trailer
on a filthy back lot
goddamn you f*****g punk
get the hell out morning breakfast
garage sale coffee table
stacked with beer cans and ash trays
overflowing with death
Connie had a secret
hidden touches
fatherly lust
make up hiding
violent bruises
don't tell your mother
if you want her safe
I can hurt her too
Robert had a secret
18 hour days
two jobs at garages
straight A's
never give up
never give in
blue eyes and crooked smile
whispering to the world to kiss his ass
Connie was the sharp
razor's edge that gleamed
like the holy grail
in her bathroom drawer
Robert was the strong will
the hard desire
the drive to move on
to something more
Connie was a cheerleader
Robert was not a quarterback
but they were each other's
Salvation
it's like a norman rockwell photo
this quaint little town not far away
where white picket fences stand
banners and flags wave in the breeze
every lamppost tells a tale
of their proud, unforgotten heroes
faces and stories reclaimed
on the same streets they once roamed
it's a happy little town
that bleeds in red, white and blue
where patriotism still stands
on the edge of every street
of this proud american town
remembering those who gave their life
so they could proclaim their freedom
The first snow of the winter,
And it's really coming down.
Large geometric flakes,
Drift slowly to the ground.
Painting trees and fences,
In garlands of dazzling white.
Making all it touches,
A beautiful sparkling sight.
A Norman Rockwell post card,
Bringing memories of youth.
Dreams of bygone days of yore,
Nostalgic scenes to soothe.
Rushing out I lift my face,
To catch flakes on my tongue,
And once more I'm ten years old,
Playing, having fun.
Building snowmen, throwing snow,
Sliding down a hill,
I'm cold, I'm wet and I feel great,
Even through the chill.
The first snow of the season.
It's falling faster now,
Making this a fairy land,
A picture post card town.
Painting ~ Freedom From Want ~ painted by Norman Rockwell
A skin and nerve disease unspeakable -
outcast, unclean; they came to be restored.
In all, ten lepers Jesus healed in full
but only one went back to thank the Lord.
November brings a holiday most grand
for it reminds us of God's bounty giv'n.
Serenity of blessings in our land -
with gratitude, we turn our eyes t'wards heav'n.
Ten holidays from work I get each year.
What sets apart Thanksgiving from the rest?
Awakening of gratitude sincere,
and praising God for all that He has blest.
Remembering the wealth of gifts divine,
may I be like the one and not the nine.
written 26 Aug 2020
Black and White Photo
In her forties bandana
his mother looks on
Life's taken a turn,
The war is won.
Dark and beautiful
her son at her side
leans his head to her cheek
Norman Rockwell style.
He grows dutiful, practical,
colors in the lines,
stacks his blocks neatly
and gets gold stars.
Sepia
The jobs come.
The jobs go.
The scotch helps.
His mother is old.
The #two bus comes.
He hasn’t the fare,
He drags three Glad bags
on the sidewalk to nowhere.
All his possessions
in three double ply bags.
The perfect son to perfect bum.
Nobody cares.
Form:
I love the work of Norman Rockwell!
It recalls to mind memories,
When the times were more sublime.
Stories written with paint,
I can understand!
His work will live
Forever.
Thank you,
Norm!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Entry for Nayda Ivette Negron's "Favorite Painter" Contest
The kindly old lamplighter ambled about the village green,
Lighting lamps to add a glow to that Norman Rockwell scene!
Sitting on a bench in the shadows to reminisce for awhile,
He recalled many by-gone scenes that evoked a wistful smile!
At Yuletide, carolers stood 'neath the lamps singing joyful songs,
To herald the birth of The Savior to the happy, strolling throngs.
Huge, feathery snowflakes drifted gently to the earth.
The lamps' mellow glow brightening faces adding to the mirth!
Young lovers stood 'neath secluded lamps in passionate embrace.
Recalling his youthful days, a knowing smile creased his weathered face.
Silver-crowned sweethearts paused 'neath lamps to reminisce.
She'd give him a playful slap should he try to steal a kiss!
Watching kids playing marbles 'neath a lamp was a delight.
How he longed to join them, but they'd think him an awful fright!
Lamp poles were a refuge to which clung the town ne'er-do-well.
On Saturday nights the constable escorted him to his usual cell!
For nigh on fifty years he'd tended the lamps on the village square.
He'd seen just about everything 'neath the lamps' revealing glare.
Now, his soul refreshed with memories, he slowly trudged away,
To return on the 'morrow to dim the lamps at dawn of a new-born day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Norman Rockwell
Rockwellesque
brilliant man with nostalgia values
with dreams viewed of a perfect life
depicting amusing scenes
with sense of humor, shown
with heartwarming bonds
memories fade
canvas art
captures
life
12/2/2015
Poetry Contest: Favorite Painter
Sponsored by: Nayda Ivette Negron
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
www.howmanysyllables.com
Norman Rockwell
Norman Percevel Rockwell was a 20th-century American painter and illustrator. His works enjoy a broad popular appeal in the United States for their reflection of American culture
Born: February 3, 1894, New York City, NY
Died: November 8, 1978, Stockbridge, MA
Children: Thomas Rockwell, Jarvis Waring, Peter Barstow
Organizations founded: Famous Artists School
Notable works: Willie Gillis, Rosie the Riveter, Four Freedoms, The Problem We All Live With
Last night I dreamt you saw me
Really saw me for the first time
Not who you thought I should be
But the real me
I danced in front of you
Not caring what you thought
No adult lessons needing to be taught
I embraced the person I am instead of what one I'm not
Unafraid, unashamed
I watched you smile
I felt my childish happy for a while
You were not there to play grownup games
What I lacked was not a source of your shame
For once I didn't feel like I was to blame
I was proud instead of ashamed of my name
I watched as you delighted in me
Oh what a dream
Like the cherry on top of a dollop of cream
My nirvanah, my elusive stream
Then I woke up to see your face
No joy there not a trace
I was disappointed too
I continued hiding me and you were still you
So instead, we continued like every day
Me not being me and sad hateful old you!
For Becca's Contest.
Sorry, it's not a Norman Rockwell type relationship.
Hello Soup friends, do not worry I am not writing about a rocky
marriage but rather about the expectations of a father for his son.
This has long passed but I drew on this childhood memory for this contest.
Ma decreed they needed some culture to enhance their sedentary existence.
Pa wasn't all that enthusiastic and offered some very stiff resistance!
Especially when Ma steered him to the city modern art museum.
He would just as soon visit the parish graveyard mausoleum!
Pa was reared a country boy and for cultural matters had very little zest,
But on this occasion he pampered Ma - he knew better than to protest!
Pa's appreciation for art was confined to barns with a Mail Pouch Tobacco ad,
Or gazing at a painting in the local saloon of some woman scantily clad!
His ear for music was satisfied by the honky-tonk gal at the local bar.
He was a poetry aficionado, reading Burma Shave rhymes from his car!
Ma once told him to wear a suit and escort her to her literary club,
But he preferred beer and banter with his pals at the local pub!
He could appreciate Saturday Evening Post covers by Norman Rockwell,
And Grandma Moses' nostalgic and simple scenes he recalled so well,
But the ghastly art he viewed in the modern art museum that day,
Seemed to him to have been crafted by chimpanzees from Mandalay!
The visit to the museum left Ma and Pa extremely cross.
Her attempts to refine him, she admitted, were a total loss.
She beseeched, "At least I wish you'd drink your beer from a glass!
I give up! I do declare Pa! You just ain't got no class!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved