Best Oeuvre Poems
The light breaks free from winter’s bone
to cast its warmth; to life atone,
to warm the dark; to thaw the chill,
to synthesize through chlorophyll,
a dormant seed to resurrect,
and coax a soul from introspect.
Awake! And breathe the wafting spice
of lilac buds and wild rice,
the lavender; the orange puccoon,
the sweet of honeysuckle bloom.
An overture, the sparrows sing,
to celebrate the oeuvre of spring;
while wind and weeping willow dance
to promises of new romance.
Come alive! Draw in your breath,
let winter die a noble death.
The seeds of yesterday are strewn;
it does not do to weep and croon.
If you seek, so shall you find,
as true for darkness as divine.
That pensive look on her sweet face
Just like a child of mine.
Her eyes seem to follow you with
Dominion that's divine.
Northwest light on soft blush hued cheeks
Her grey-green eyes lay bare
Perhaps a secret rendezvous
In enigmatic stare.
Wet lips stained as if with cherries
Delft blue scarf hides her hair...
In penchant blossom of her youth
Portrait of beauty rare.
From her left ear hangs gracefully
One solitary pearl.
Melancholy hints, she may be
A woman, yet a girl.
May 3, 2017
Note:
Johannes Vermeer's 'Girl with a pearl earring'
c.1665 Mauritius Museum, The Hague.
The Dutch artist was born in Delft in 1632-1675.
One of the key paintings in Vermeer's oeuvre,
this portrait resists all attempts at the precise
identification of the sitter. It's charm, perhaps,
lies in the fact that it is an evocative expression
of timeless female beauty. I viewed this masterpiece
in 2009. She has the entire wall to herself.
I could stay for hours under the sun
to contemplate bouquets of primroses,
to listen to the buzzing of insects,
To contemplate their petals, the shape of hearts,
I could stay for hours if no one comes,
to absorb the happiness of such delicate flowers,
Ah, wasting your time is always winning it,
Wasting your time, it’s an art, it’s a work,
It takes the help of God and wild nature,
To understand the soul of things, symbols,
I could stay for hours in the sun.
Contemplating primrose bouquets.
Je pourrais rester des heures sous le soleil
à contempler des bouquets de primevères,
à écouter le bourdonnement des insectes,
à contempler leurs pétales en forme de cœur,
Je pourrais rester des heures si nul ne vient,
à absorber le bonheur des fleurs si délicates,
Ah, perdre son temps, c’est toujours le gagner,
Perdre son temps , c’est un art, c’est une œuvre,
Il faut l’aide de Dieu et de la nature sauvage,
Pour comprendre l’âme des choses, des symboles,
Je pourrais rester des heures sous le soleil.
À contempler des bouquets de primevères.
quick figurative brush stroke drawn out character sketch
(serendipitous verisimilitude)
i stand in awe
(with mouth agape) at elegiac, fantastic,
and graphic idyllic Kinkade magic
leaving breathlessness from craw
at such artistic talent oozing
spellbindingly, whatever
aforementioned noteworthy craftsman
doth paint or draw,
and chanced to comment
about sad affairs leaving flaw
in regard to questionable business ethics -
where press hee haw
contradicting, maligning, undermining, and jaw
boning sans said late talented mortal
engaging in sketchy traits of south paw
city when contrasted with a dog given gift -
ooh...such rah...rah...rah
when he first appeared on the scene,
where most viewers saw
utmost dynamic, fantastic, and harmonic convergence
displaying such prosaic, rhapsodic,
titanic art show events
hum...and perhaps not surprising
his illicit in dull gents presents stark contrast,
staring hypnotized as imagination invents
experiencing peaceful, restful
and tumblerful joie de vivre espying
honorable mentioned nonpareil oeuvre
that placidly rents
craving to disappear into bucolic landscape whence,
splashed upon canvass,
attempting to bat
presumed "FAKE" rumors aside as nonsense - fat
chance prevailed constituting:
deceitful, immoral, unfaithful sly kat
nocturnal antics, despite scathing attacks
(cut him down to size), niggardly praises spat
out for me, I maintain cult of personality (his)
setting Mac Book Pro wallpaper
with exemplary landscape, either authentic or copy cat.
Nomenclature
Nomenclature robed in wealth of words
The hot sauce that makes the tongue hurry
I am the live in the lively garment of merry
Like a hare I burrow to the worlds.
Esther had a dream last night
She said I am called Victory
Like in the Mordecai's story
To darkness a spill of light.
I am what I am called
Spiced and baked in Grace
I am a perfect breathing oeuvre
In clean clay, mixed and kilned.
I have written my name in gold
Bright effect, large format and space
Stellar polished over and over…
I am dark shine and bold.
I am the Goodness kidnapped by blessing
The laughter on the lips of sadness
The contagious smile pocketed in the hollow of frown
I am the throne of the King mercy.
I am the tiny thing in the Bosom of The I AM
The decorated ass of gladness
The new noise in town
Like the celebration of the new yam...
I am the greatly true and real
My name is not in the book of abstractions
My fate is not the man of superstitions
I am the planted dead grown cereal…
I am the branch in the Vine
Sprouting abroad…across nations
Godly-spread intending intentions
I am the wonder and my root is Divine.
18TH APRIL, 2015
Little by little by little by far,
high above I followed a bright
shining star,
something special in the air
no doubt a galactic affair,
symbols, trumpets,
resounding on Earth
a special occasion, a birth.
Oh to be in the heavens,
at this time of the year,
as a space shuttle is
used to man-oeuvre us
among superstars,
having visited Mars,
we are on our way
to the Milky Way
so iconic, so fascinating.
Trillions of stars,
a spectacular sight,
in the quiet of night,
creating a magical tale,
which will never fail,
to delight
and excite.
The Milky Way,
adorns and em-blazes
Our heavenly sky's,
perfect Christmas decorations.
For on the eve of Our
Babes first night on earth,
We will hear carols sung
by celestial beings,
and we heave
a contended sigh,
shed heartfelt tears,
for at midnight,
we shout Happy Christmas
to one and all,
Christ Is born, Christs birth
was God’s call.
Shopping day today and my supplies are low.
I plan on inviting everyone to a cook out
so I better make a list of what I will need.
I will need tolerance – sure I have some, but
there will be many showing up and I doubt
they will bring their own – for my crowd
will be many and varied.
Humor, humor, humor. I had better stock
up on that. If these people don’t
just get over themselves
and learn to take a joke, then I’m afraid
they are in for lots of very preventable aggravation.
Common sense. Now, I know it’s not
the most sought out hors d oeuvre , but
it is the most important. If more people would
help themselves to generous helpings of
common sense,
I do believe things would be much easier.
Some charm, civility, manners – good God, yes –
intelligence wouldn’t hurt, and we could
have us a real good time.
Unfortunately,
most people like to pig out on the
jealousy, envy, pride, prejudice on the
other tables. Scoop me some helpings of
rudeness, guile, back stabbing and pity while
you’re at it.
But, not at my cook out.
You only get served tolerance, humor, common sense,
charm, civility, manners, intelligence …
Come join me, but be prepared to join in.
Ascending unto the fourth pinnacles auspicious plyth ~
To quantumly observe these plateaus regions of oeuvre
Molten monograms of monarchies scripted immure; immolating
These gravitating exhibits of perceptions inter alia
Past particles of meticulously latticed perplexities....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
....Quid pro quo?!
Note: Smile ~ "Its 'A Beautiful Day' &, 'Love,' Always," John!:) ~
Form:
ART, MY PLATFORM
I art, therefore, I am
Let your life be your Art
Something you paint with your heart
Taking care to make every part, a symphony of colors
The way your feet lovingly graze the earth
Like paint stroking on the canvas
Sketching the soil, each step with prudence
You were born with this Craft, this inner beauty
You don’t need to collect praise
For that Art fills up from inside
Let your life be your Art
Moving and being moved
The totality of mindful moments
Continue to paint your actions unexposed
For it to be, a masterpiece to share and behold.
Can I believe that these feelings can turn into a beautiful thing?
That after the storm, I can see the rainbow glowing again?
Just melt into grace
Cry, scream and laugh
This is where you begin, again
You’re strong enough to let love in, so don’t let it go
Running gently, Screams of laughter
Dancing stars, my golden heart
My sands of time will bring about inspiration
Using all that God has gifted me with
To recreate the promised
I hope my life is never desolate
That it lacks art
That would be the only poverty
I would find intolerable
La vie est une oeuvre d’Art
Un reflet de toi, et un voyage que tu dois suivre
Brighter than the most powerful star
At this time of the clone of the day --
The night in which children want to play
On streets where nothing would ever mar
The excitement in patintero*.
Your borrowed light keeps them stop and go.
Your being's mystified all the world
Since humans began to ask questions.
They each had contrasting conclusions
About what you are made of and hold:
For a blurry eye, you were a star;
Curiosity sees plainly the far.
'Til some laws speak of you and the tide,
The amount of bleeding of a wound,
The Earth's sun-centered merry-go-round,
An all the principles you abide.
Silent are they in the woman's womb
And about how the hill's spring could climb.
Dexterity let the rockets fly
And told them to land on your surface,
Leaving footprints nothing can erase
But the wind of doubt and rain of lie.
They should have carried a long, long strand
And left the one end where I stand.
Your shape is malleable to sunlight
And the place in the path that you take --
New, quarters, full for calendar's sake.
Your absence is a meaningless night
For an artist wanting your crescent
In his oeuvre with a black content.
At times you affront the Sun you owe
The magnificence you have at night;
At solar eclipse you seem to fight
Or, like a large serpent, to swallow
The burning and benevolent Sun.
A pagan would loudly beat his drum.**
I am afraid that you will be lost.
Our children will never play at night.
Some small islands will be out of sight.
The unborn will choose to be a ghost.
The Earth of life will miss its best friend,
Walking the path with chaotic trend.
* Patintero is a local team game in the Philippines.
** According to some folks, the Sun is being swallowed by a large serpent during the solar eclipse.
gratifying grand PooBah gnashing happily. How envious
eye feel. This generic guy hallucinates (walled within his
lovely bones) incredulously, jealously, knowing lackluster
marriage never ordained plentifully, quintessentially, royally,
satisfying throbbing testosterone undulating vibrantly within
xman yawping zen. Ah know this phallus fantasy tubby
merely a whet pipe dream, yet no logic can extirpate
frenziedly gyrations glum husband images. Just kindling
lasciviousness massages nude oeuvre provoking quaking,
rip-snorting tooling uniting Venus, with xing yummy zone,
absolute beauties, bunnies cozying dear Emir, fathering
Hugh's illustrious joys, keeping libido murmuring, nesting
on papa's queued rocket ship, thrusting uber vintage weasel,
*** y zapping adroitly buoyant consecrated dick, Ernst
found Grafenberg hallelujah, injunction jerking like mad
naturally oiled pussy, quivering red redoubt stimulated
the unavoidable Vagina, whereat xyz attainment brought
******** delight eventually fomenting gusto, heavenly
induced juiced Kung Lee masterfully negotiating ******,
penultimate quest regarding sexual torquing, ululating
vocalization wailing women XCI yogi Zorro
absent, bye Casanova, deemed expert ******** great Hefner,
honorable Hugh invictus, joyousness kept legacy maintained,
now...only phantom quietly rubs shoulders, thighs, ubiquity
vibrant viz World Wide Web.
i took her riding
this time my venue, not hers
she loves horses, i am no equestrian
i am beyond saddle sore now
trail rides where every bird is identified
a short illumination of the species
mine are in this little park
where we would steal away
paddle boats thru the geese and ducks
she would always pack up bread
i always gave her enough notice
so she could buy the better bread
the day-old the bakery dumps cheap
it is healthier she will tell you
i always considered myself educated
until i found her lips
Robison Crusoe washed ashore
an island of magical moments
an oeuvre in my captivated heart
my magic is in the carousel
horses that go round and round
back in line to do it again
holding onto the bar i lean in
to steal a kiss, keep her in laughter
as the music and horses dance in a wonderland
the Wurlitzer organ fills the air with a bewitchment
we join parents and children in the magic
later we retire upon a bench
from her bag appears our humble offerings
every morsel approved by the minister of health
every grain is explained by lips i so adore
the ducks and geese beg at our feet
she delights in each morsel she throws
the happiness she wears on her face
i see Mother Goose in the crowd approving
drakes and hens galore with ducklings
the beauty of joy fills her eyes
to love her is to share her
caged birds are a sad lot
such a small price to pay
ride the carousel hand in hand
the alchemy in whirling horses and music
from an age long gone now
my treasure, a moment all to myself with her
to dwell in the magic of sharing loaves
those adoring eyes watching her
are a chorus i share
the bird of paradise has no price
master of her every dream
that is the labor of love
surrounding those dreams
with the magic life holds
3/2/19 Lufkin
Hackneyed breath of words and the clichés hit the wall,
A stream of summoned nonsense bounces off of me like superstition,
Benevolent limits of indulgence, on the other hand, - oh, well!
The oeuvre of life, I live, leans towards the attraction,
Sprinkled over with the droplets of avant-garde, and hedonism.
But the intentions engender balance between born, and unborn,
Between an eternal shadow of uncertainty, and a seeker
Who is standing at the poetic juncture of scherzos and nocturnes,
Unguided, eternally lost, in the timeless world of imagination,
In the wonderful world of desires, dreams, and the best version of self.
My prevalent muse resides in the realm of sins,
Full of ardour, with a good measure of boundless torment,
Experienced throughout the past and the present,
In the midst of unrequited adolescence of love facing uncertainty
As laurel leaves would face each other in a wreath
For the glory, victory and power.
But it’s not these that are sought after. It is love, she seeks,
Until last dying breath.
So, where does a painter start with painting?
Perhaps in the realm where allusions are divided into sequences,
Where olive branches evoke the logic, and reality is burned at the stake,
Where melisma echoes throughout the Vox, as nothing more than a pastiche.
Or who knows? I don’t. She doesn’t. We? Well, that’s another tale to be told.
Were it not a thing impermissible,
I'd take handfuls of all these silly bits of
Simulacra, and detritus, dross and debris:
The minutiae and impedimenta that are all these
Constricting, confining rules and bylaws, codes and regulations:
And toss them aerially, and burn them with flaming arrows.
For mine is an unfortunately anarchic style of poetry,
And undisciplined, wayward and incorrigible;
Yet free and full of the most veritable sort of life.
It moves here, it reposes and takes its leisurely ease there.
'Tis like unto the wind: variable and unknowable:
Incapable of the charting of windy cartography,
Unable to be predicted or supposed.
Unknown and unknowable, that is what my ilk of poetic oeuvre is like,
It is a free soul, yet ancient, imbued with the great power of the immortals of
Most current and archaic poetry....suffused with the life eternal surfeit in the
Breath and breadth of the words of the poets of the times past.
It locomotes and translocates to that where it will,
And I have no hold over the little anarchist, yet lovable.
Such is my poetry, and it and I will not brook the slightest imposition of the
Lightest controlling word or binding law on us.
We do as we wish, as we must.
I do not call all people to a freeness far too free, but only do I cry out
For the manumission of their works: Of their poetry.
My poems are often without the burthen of the rhymed,
Which I, except in sparing amounts, abhor.
All rhyme schemes are a thing detestable to me,
As to all truly apt and adept poets.
There is no profit in the silliness of utterly contemptible rhyme.
Rhyme is the province and realm, the bailiwick of children, of
The simple-minded.
It is for writers simple of mind, and readers idiotic and apish.
Powerful poems do not encumber themselves with the dread onus of rhyme.
Neither do solemn, serious poems.
For a poem to be real, it must, to indulge momentarily in the hated thing,
Think and feel.
Only those poems that are free and free of rhyme are worthwhile.
All else be a tale told by idiots, full of resonance and furiousness, and in signification, naught.
Form:
of mice an men aye n'er doth quit
dialing countless times google
fascinating to this human caboodle ling kit upon porcelain goddess,
most brilliant ideas congeal in me mind, and thou' loo pee did lit
this sole seasoned bugs bunny car tune character son of kit
soon after traipses superhighway road viz imagination
fired with fleeting thoughts that hit
sweet soft spot futilely attempt to net ideas in me mind flit
i yam a poet favoring words that rhyme a bit!
iambic pentameter strands crochet themselves magically con verse
interleaving like boughs of - arbor shielding this solitary soul
wherein shafts of sunlight dapple cerebral canopy
affecting dark shadows at the edge of night to disperse
from outer limits of the twilight zone
ebbing and flowing in tandem & nsync
with circadian metronome this trolling
troubadour lost in space transformed
into edenic serenade from Mother Nature
while unseen terrestrial oeuvre
reassures don’t fear the reaper’s scythe silent curse.
Form: