Best Pointillist Poems
With peace in your heart, embrace the night
Relish diamonds twinkling like pointillist art
Find your special place, stifle not your sigh
Embrace the night with peace in your heart.
Write a poem based on your heavenly vision
You can’t dismiss the experience as ho-hum
Something magical happens among the stars
Based on your heavenly vision, write a poem.
Envision, if you can, the galaxies so far beyond
Our Milky Way, as you allow your eye to scan
The planets residing in their appointed places
The galaxies so far beyond envision, if you can.
Realize how small we are in the cosmic schema
And never forget there are greater than, by far,
We who gaze up into the universe’s wonders
In the cosmic schema, realize how small we are.
Written September 24, 2022
[Swap Quatrain]
I sit and watch.
Changes come so slowly.
So, vigilance is required,
an attentiveness to minutia.
There are layers of wardings
erected between
the watch and I.
Thoughts, which flit and skitter
fight for outward movement.
Flesh that is too weak to hold attention,
leans toward the walls of cracks;
where even the plaster pulls
from its sheaf
and the dirty
double paned glass
waylays the eye.
Enthralled by the changes:
rain to sleet, to snow, to hail, to rain,
the maple buds leaving
their pointillist, rouge-lacquered shells,
dropping like the wings
of an emergent butterfly; I root.
Nights of storm-slapped branches
unfurl orchestrated by wind –
How the maple now dangles leaves like earrings
from the tips of the smallest twigs.
Tomorrow they will open
to palm the morning breeze
and welcome the spears of Lilly of the Valley,
as they emerge overnight beneath the mother tree.
The deer have eaten the tender,
green, tongue-rolled, delights of Hosta and Day Lily,
but they are stalwart plants and will return.
I’ve watched and watched but not seen the deer
though I have seen their bedding spots
among the mulch beneath the maple
in the winter and their hoof
prints in the snow.
Today, I will watch
temperatures are rising
and soon there will be
lilacs.
First Published in Latchkey Tales 2014
Night's grassy fields furrowed beneath starry bait,
calls us to cast ourselves upon the straw,
above the Pointillist's daubs spark a hungry slate
to entice our soul while we chew our chaw.
Where we render ourselves like straw
we skew limbs and mimic far-off Orion,
enflame our heart while we chew on chaw
and drink ourselves numb on Milky Way ions.
Limbs askew we guard like Orion,
count falling stars and bargain our wishes,
drunk on Milky Way ions,
we battle mosquitoes with snaps and swishes.
Counting falling stars that grant our wishes,
we poll the planets and ignore Man's moons,
battle free of mosquito's little bitty swishes,
we hope for snipe, snipe and settle for morning loon.
Planet's poll finished and ignored void of Moon,
let's us cradle beneath stardust flaring Bourealis,
until our hope for snipe is settled by morning loon,
when we rise on frozen limbs heated by sun's kiss.
Heart cradled within stardust-flaring Bourealis,
mind drifting on Pointillist drape of hungry slate,
no longer wobbling on limbs heated by sun's kiss,
we're content night cultivated our star-mad fate.
Sheri Fresonke Harper
for Paula Swanson's Pantoum Contest due 12/10/2010
Written February 22, 2017
Motivation keeps us dream chasing
Those thoughts that you hold dear to your heart
Until the world falls apart from me missing you
These thoughts of you keep me holding onto
This abstract feeling called love
Now paint a pointillist on a rawhide canvas
On a Native American buffalo drum
But I digress to keep the beat going along
Keep it flowing to waterfalls where angels sing
A song to the siren, listen to her lull you to your last breath
So you thought this was an abstraction of love, not death
But you thought wrong 'cause they're one in the same
It's the name of game when the carousel goes round
Watch it go round, round, and round
A radial diametric where the angles bisect
To prototypes and concepts
From the concave to convex
Do you do it for the money and sex
Or for the only dreamers that we've got left
Yeah you know you've gotta give to receive
This abstract feeling called love
Sunday
fun day
elders
brothers
from church
they search
warm place
wide space
for folks
need jokes
chill out
burnt-out
tired knees
'neath trees
19 April 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
2nd place
Notes: A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte (French: Un dimanche après-midi à l'Île de la Grande Jatte) was painted from 1884 to 1886 and is Georges Seurat's most famous work. A leading example of pointillist technique, executed on a large canvas, it is a founding work of the neo-impressionist movement. Seurat's composition includes a number of Parisians at a park on the banks of the River Seine. It is in the collection of the Art Institute of Chicago.(Credits: Wikimedia and Wikipedia).
NATURE STUDY (Etheree)
things
stipple
are diffused
pointillist view
the makings of things
reds yellows greens and browns
in patch-dots of bright color
summer ends and autumn begins
a time which is both joyful and sad
death but deep down god’s promise of rebirth
Art Is Everywhere
Countless dots of living color
Begin to show
As plants break thru the soil
Blending together
To form a radiant landscape carpet
In a pointillist form
Trees and flowers appearing
As mere impressions
In a thick morning mist
When the mist begins to clear
Their realism appears
While looking out a window
A child sees the wind is
Spinning a wheel
On his overturned bike
He laughs and yells
Dada
Discarded soup cans
Lightly covered by falling leaves
Their labels still showing
What a Pop Art scene
Arborist, lost, plastic watch
Half melted by last summer’s sun
Hanging from a branch
While other bare tree branches
Soar horizontally and vertically
Carving out multiple spaces
Against the sky
Completing a surreal landscape
APRIL (Haiku)
Seurat has painted
tree branches with pointillist
stroke delicate (or delicious) green
*Image of Education by UY.
A Cog in The Machine
Life advances their kind of entrusting stays,
origin of roots possessing foundation,
flung to care sprouts variable promises,
~~executes each seed.
The great void advents the id of emptiness;
launched needs, yet farfetched and demanding the task,
contending the fathom fact of dimensions,
~~inception account.
Countless bearings operate the mechanism,
instants cognitive effortless life makers,
quintessential beats absence into the void,
~~marked units of time.
Simplistic explanative of a machine,
the inner workings of every component,
jointly toiling as a singularity,
~~a fitting duty.
A pristine canvas lengthens on a tripod,
while a sable paintbrush jabs an empty point,
visionist Seurat and Signac rethink art,
~~Pointillist purview.
A concert hall seasons an orchestra pit,
woodwinds, brass, percussion, strings, keyboards, chorale,
symphonic blends as a meek piccolo peal,
~~a highest-pitched tune.
The world is our stage where we fulfill our roles,
all taking part in a scene that is rehearsed,
a constant performance since opening night,
~~functioning beings.
Inconsequential entity's conjuring
queries who's who, what's what drives absoluteness,
amassed strays, exacts focus o'er all, for I ...
~~... am the unique one.
2022 May 17
*1st Place*
Pick-A-Title, Vol 30
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2022 May 29
*Title #3
HMS; 11,11,11,5 syllables x 32 lines = 8 sapphic stanzas
LUMINOSITY LIVES
Colours in contrast one next
to another,patiently painted
dab by dab.Cyan, magenta
yellow and key illume the
picture we see. Planes into
particles,pigments of paint
in patches react,divisionist,
pointillist juxtapose,into our
eye distinct colour flows.
Meticulous,mechanical,eye
into mind,defined,the illusion
into shape.In palettes of
permanance,the fleeting
flies,sans such subtraction
luminosity lives and Seurat,
and Signac’s legacy survives.
Listen to me read this ekphrasis on youtube under name ichthyschiro
MY BACKYARD IN SPRING
My backyard in spring
How the ground cover gradually fills in
How the pointillist buds some popping slowly line
bare branches
Just this simple awakening suddenly freshens my entire frame
The white-painted houses now color highlighted thrust a stark
memory of emptiness quickly deleted though by a song
then flap of friendly wings
And the sky in early spring – how so much more bright and blue
Oh I need to walk out on this
This dewy wonderfulness
Need to plant bare feet
Feel the thankful soil between my toes
Need to lift my chin on high
Eager to be blinded by a liberated sun
while dreaming one afternoon about perfection
what else
the notion erupted that wakefulness is not
it's that simple
but what complicates matters
is the mania to compensate
for the perceived unperceived or vice versa
during which time the totality
is left abandoned on the linoleum floor
of a tedious Interstate toilet
screaming and wiggling for its muse
while strangers coo and burble
inflating what had been deflated
to a necessarily insufficient degree
their flaming giraffe necks a ladder to heaven
for the pontiff's fire walkers
out for a spin on inflated tires
a rare treat where the uppity
meet the radio's white noise
call letters written in blood
registered at the Magistry
say this not that
or else bloatings and floatings
down the Nervo under a pointillist sky
with contrasting edgings and hedgings
into shapes that were things unspoken
only on yesterday's back pages
when logic was weak and visions many
and realized along dogmatic lines
by mulish agencies of caustic influence
leaving a sea of burns in its wake
organs of action flaccid
as stipulated in all the training manuals
all is vehicle as long as time ticks
all is medium as long as home sicks
and the hearth is lost in fog
Of Dampness & Breath
Alone with his idiosyncrasies
shuffling along
the pointillist perfection
of tedious shore,
an old man
luminous by moonlight’s
slight lemon glow
swirls in the magic
of dampness & breath;
their convergence emerged a silver-toned fog
at the mouth of a
planked wooden pier;
aware underfoot
the diminishing whole
being breached and exposed for its
soft, supple core
as structureless saltwater
lulls
and and
lulls lulls
and and
lulls
IOMINDIA
Neither above
or below this world
She swirls in the microscopic-pointillist
Dream of all Saints
all demons
since the fig leaf
in contemplation
the eyes go static
spirit wends along some light-tunnel
a golden door at its end
“Knock and ye shall enter”
Knock!
The winsome birches sway, their chalk white, black-stitched
trunks frolick in the Fall gale,punctuating the hillsides greenery
with lingering leaves lemon yellow.
The pointillist tapestry of pale ash,
purpled sycamore and tangerine maples, posed.
The Nor’easter’s downpour licks the rock face.
Granite cliffs glistened in the noon sun.
Waterfalls tumbled pell-mell over once dry precipices,
in gushing tinseled torrents of delight, as gullies
over-flowed into the route of ages.
Contest:Autumn Splendor
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Date: 1/10/2009