Best Picasso Poems
The searing sun has long been a revolving revelation of angst,
repelling songs of the skies, sung by the strings of the wings.
Pallid, poised only by muscle memory - a compositional backdrop,
past the point of revival, yet something inside me still ticks.
A trembling truth that never drifts,
these broken blues: a silent shadow with loud hues.
The bones of me, tunelessly picked out,
until I'm the aching hollow of unamplified sound.
Where do breathing colors of me sleep,
when deadly nights of the air eclipse upon the web once woven by whispers?
Death just a dropped chin and averted eye,
the slow slump of a sinner's stagnant dirge plays out.
Let those cobalt stones cease writings from vicious veins,
where wilting roses dip their thorns in starry puddles with no name.
Now begging for exsanguination of my pain,
the measure of a man captured, still, in expired offerings of disdain.
Poverty and hunger are bedfellows.~ The Poet~
Alluring, pleading
Yet it will burn,
Pangs of hunger
Immanent yearn.
Desperate child
So forlorn
For the poverty
To which she was born.
Minds meant to be astute,
Mental distortion
So destitute.
The steaming broth
Humbly offered,
No wrath for their plight
No relief in sight
The bounty so meager
The child so eager
The brushstrokes in blue
Setting the scene
A feeling to subdue,
With empathy pains
The artist explains.
She surges forward, hands raised.
Using hues to convey the mood.
Begging for some food.
Depicting the sign of the time.
It’s far from fine.
I have claimed to be apolitical but there are times
when the crop is ready for harvesting, so I put fuel
in the John Deere, ink in my pen and wrote...
He'll get millions of votes for that nicked ear
The vengeful narcissist people should fear
Picasso President
With malicious intent
He should be given the famous Bronx Cheer!
It looks like the graffiti on the wall
Four more years and America will fall
Trump will blow his own horn
Guilty of loving p.o.r.n.
And the rape of all the women he's mauled
There's another Trump, Junior's daughter, Kai
Brought a tear or two to dear grandpa's eye
It was her intention
During the convention
To convince people that he's a good guy
Melania was there but just for show
Since he paid off Stormy... well uh, you know
She has kept her distance
Abhors his existence
She can't be with him since he's had a ho
His Trumpeters may be humbled one day
Those who will vote for him and have their say
Those who are so headstrong
Thinking he's done no wrong
The beast who led America astray
He hasn't made the US great again
He's torn the nation apart... friend from friend
Time will tell the story
But there'll be no glory
Picasso President is no Godsend.
Trump toadies must be in a state of bliss
When his venom spews like a snake, hiss, hiss
They praise the dictator
The alienator
His villainy too baleful to dismiss
I've never liked saying, "I told you so"
But D J Trump is a jerk and a schmo
He's a divisor of men
When he's elected again
His tyranny will reign like a deathblow
I've read a few posts about Trump and yet
Not one comment did I write to upset
Another poet's view
I expect that from you
Without hostility or epithet
"Picasso Blues"
Blue Sky
met
Blue Feather
on a
Blue Day
Collaborating
a slow dance
across the
lost dance floor
crowded
with more
than a thousand
hidden
keys to truth
ignoring
a thousand
poker playing
game changing
whispers blinking
in the dark room
poetically
seduced
immersed in
mirrors
shades of
dark and light
fingers playing
out notes in
quite volume
drowning in
black and white
to loud
slow rolling
Picasso Blues
silence
in a moment
romanced
no noise
and those
wide open
emerald green
hues
reflecting
freediving
fathomless
Periwinkle Blues
(LadyLabyrith/2019)
"Picasso Blue" / Might Mo Rodgers
https://youtu.be/AkPcNCnQU70
"I'm So Lonely" / Mighty Sam McClain
https://youtu.be/zBFjWr_sJh8
"Am I the One" / Beth Hart
https://youtu.be/ziy_WKNnNNk
“[...]the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road
“Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.”
Anais Nin
"Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don't be sorry.”
Jack Kerouac
Author's Notes: ;)
1. https://buddyguy.com/index.cfm
~ Your inspiration, painted my new day ... like Picasso
25.05.2016
- Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
- Copyright © All Rights Reserved
In a riot of colours using brushes with valour,
Many movements he started devoid of pallor.
From a town called Malaga,far off in spain,
Pouring his heart out,unloading his pain.
What a journey he started from conformity parted,
To paint till the last,until he departed.
Many have aspired and wanted to be,
Including your's truly,I say why not me?
From erotic nudism to new found cubism,
His loss to the world left a wide open chasm.
How God made him great,I never could fathom?
But thats the way I guess God wanted to make him.
Although the years rolled and went passing by,
Another painters yet to reach for the sky.
I'm telling the truth and not telling a lie,
I'll love only Pablo until that day when I die.
I know he had friends,some straight and some gay,
But all I want to say today is....Happy Birthday.
PS.It was Pablo Picasso's B'day on 25/10/09 and I dedicate this poem to this
mentor and inspiration of mine.
---Princefreakasso
(Artist and Poet)
If I knew Picasso,
I’d say Pablo come and see.
Bring your canvass here,
And capture this beauty.
I’d ask him as he painted,
The things he’s thinking of.
If painting brought him peace,
As he paints a painted love.
I‘d watch as he stroked,
The canvass from his soul.
It would leave me in awe,
If I knew Picasso.
On Seeing a Painting by Picasso
By Elton Camp
The museum has a portrait by Picasso on display
When I heard that, I knew had to go by that way
I must admit that, a country hick like me
Has few chances a real work of art to see
The first painting I saw caused me to smile
It obviously was the work of a little child
A real talent for painting the child had not
Yet the museum gave it a prominent spot
In time the child might learn to draw
When better examples of art it saw
Now derisive laughter the kid might hear
If it came to visit and was standing near
I had to hope most folks won’t mind
To a little one’s work to try to be kind
An attempt to paint a woman it seemed to be
But it certainly looked very strange to me
One eye was looking over to her right
While the other had a straight sight
The nose was not located in between
In the place of an ear it could be seen
Mouth wasn’t at the center of her chin
Way over toward the side it did begin
The figure’s hair wasn’t up on the top
Way down to the left side it did drop
Her face was littered with weird designs
Composed of many multiple colored lines
I hoped nobody the child would ask
If it was a horrid Halloween mask
Of that painting I had quite enough
I was ready to see the genuine stuff
“Guard, where may the Picasso be found
So I won’t have to hunt for it all around?”
My question seemed the guard to confuse
Or perhaps I should say it came to amuse
His words to me were such a total surprise
“That is it, right there before your eyes.”
The brush too needs a cubist eye,
hands that inscribe
the architecture of
aftergrowth’s return
to collapse and crawl ~
into the crying rivers of chaotic colors
where the canvas reflects
the cruelty of craving
the tortured tremors of thirsting,
for love did not know
how to lull the lament
of childhood wounds she suppressed
in solitary silence,
while the claustrophobic ghosts
in the murky depths of her mind
keep screaming for an eloquent release,
tracing tumultuous teal,
tearing at the greying grief,
confined in corpse cloudscapes ~
like embers of equinox
emanating from the deep dull darkness
of her splitting sight,
a crippled conscience
in need of a cosmic cure,
while the artist perceives not her angst,
but only her magnetic madness,
distilled through sharp,
shapeshifting shades…
She was an enigmatic alteration,
~ picturesque paradox ~
of a melancholic mannequin,
composed in clamorous calmness,
yet no breeze could
read her unwritten truth.
She fears intimacy, imprisoned
in black-and-white blurs,
the imprints of commitment,
for her nails painted in envious acrylic
resemble her jaded heart,
roaring with jealousy,
afraid of being abandoned,
as romance is the demise of tranquility.
No pill, no pigment can purify
the poison that lurks within
her pining veins, paining in vain…
O demented diamonds of drowsy dusk,
must dialects define
what ebbs and flows between the lines,
like phantoms drifting
through cloudless lamplight?
The psychological turbulence
no fingers could frame ~
and no flame could fathom,
as every emotion ~
is a geometric fracture,
painted as the
funeral of a fragranced future...
my mind is an abstract vase,
adorned with
crystal gold lines~
from pixelated pearls
homing
whimsical wishes
and
blue-rose reveries,
a Picasso paradox
painted
with
sculptured serenity...
but as violin warmth
of melancholia
ricochets in
hypnotic cadence
listen to the
lethargic starlight
orchestrate a concerto ~
depicting this tired tongue,
s e a r c h i n g
for a major chord
of magical mellifluence
to summon the
silver
of your
citrine moon...
for when i n k
flows between
sun-blushed seas
in feisty meter
I still trace your
blue-blaze vibrance~
drawing an ardent ambience
of l o v e
before the r a i n...
When love has been forsaken, gone awry
you would be wise and clever not to try
opening your eyes in fear that you may see
Pablo's painted sun as though a volcanic cyclops
Vermillion lava flowing in serpentine rivers of tears
Your own, sure to spill, voice screaming aloud
throat burning with doused impassioned flames
— but no one hears you
In pitch of night, keep your eyes closed tight
or you will be caught up with nerves tightly fraught
in deep throes of fright to witness a Picasso moon
Strewn upon its delph surface lies a lopsided grin
Your eyes will blink out of sync and make you think
you've had too much from the worm's bottle to drink
— but no one sees you
Keep your eyes shut for it will make you ill to see
abstract eyes staring back at you, without inhibitions
Each one created with brash and boldly brushed paint
Hues chosen by the master, not on a starry starry night
No, it is not the human artist of whom I now write,
anyone who has been slapped by the cruel hand of Fate
— but no one cares about you
I lean toward her~
this woman split into colors
a woman rendered in angles,
her face divided as if emotion
had been dissected
and pinned onto the canvas.
Her green fingernails startle me,
soft as bruised mint,
as though she once touched something tender
and the tenderness stained her.
She sits with that stillness
women learn too early~
the stillness of being looked at
instead of being seen.
Inside those mismatched eyes
I sense a private weather,
a quiet storm she never named.
She was a photographer
who could coax truth from shadows,
a surrealist who bent the world
until it revealed its hidden pulse.
Yet, here she is,
held in the gravity of Picasso’s gaze,
her own brilliance dimmed
to the outline of his muse.
And still~
there is something in her posture,
a hint of sorrow and a small, steady refusal.
As if beneath the fractured planes
she is gathering herself back,
piece by luminous piece,
her green nails glowing faintly
like the first signs of a woman
stepping out of someone else’s shadow
and into her own light.
"Her Mind is a Carnival of Picasso Harlequins"
Walking through the poetic frames of featureless ghosts
her fingers play like harps their ectoplasmic cages
strange symbols that clang the frivolity of vacuumed cleaned emptiness
dissolving in the invisible time wasted in the chronicles of their newfound empires
the meaning of their spectral presence swings
like canaries singing home all their honeys sweetly
it’s all bluebirds entertaining the wisdom of lovelorn owls watching on
like they are azure feathered blind mice adorned with halos,
while the carnal vultures smile winging it above them all in prayer circles predatory
“her tongue is an arena of silent conflicts”
her mind is a carnival of Picasso harlequins
balancing the trapeze, the affairs of a wild heart
scorched and stinging with fragments of cubist love collages
arriving like ashes within the flames of her phoenix stages;
some newly burnt Aphrodite.
elements closer to reality than the abstractions of geometry
CandideDiderot. ‘25
A Parabola By Picasso
On piece of paper painted picture of a parabola
And started cutting it off with a small spatula
Put plaster of Paris in protruding plastic syringe
After seeing ugly color I then started to cringe.
All the color on parabola had just been sprayed
Out in bright sun is where finally had been laid
Poor parabola outside until it all did dry
And then it was sold to someone passing by.
Parabola and artist they both did part
Now in galleria is perfect, priceless piece of art
On who for this artful should we place the blame:
Did you know Picasso happened to be his name.
An observer of Picasso paintings was half-lit
And chewed up Picasso picture bit by bit
By creator he voraciously had been beguiled
When it was spit out all of the people smiled.
So even though you may not be the smartest
And on picture of parabola worked the hardest
Ray of hope on it appeared from out of the dark
All the other great artists gave it a glowing remark.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
Pablo’s Plight
Blinding color, third eye closed
Squared off chin and angled nose
Arms in the back, feet from head
An odd sight it must be said
Eyes are pared but rarely paired
Ears an afterthought uncared
Daring use of brush and paint
Never quite described as quaint
One boob here and two boobs there
Disjointed limbs evry’ where
Jumbled mess by child’s hand
Or mastered work, each stroke planned?
It all comes down to point of view
What you see is up to you
8th May, 2017