Best Referencing Poems
Monet's Impression, Sunrise
First impressions leave memories
that can linger for a very long time
and give a sense of peace and understanding
that rewards the solitude of the mind
with satisfaction in contemplative reflection.
This may be deceiving and can mislead one to believe
that which is right may, in fact, be wrong.
Graciously accept the artist’s shared perception
that there is no ambiguity, only a warning
of the impending storm threatening prevalent reasoning.
The ascending sun, with its reflection on the water,
highlights a sense of direction as the rowers row
across the harbour at the break of morn.
Past cranes and derricks and ships at anchor
beneath a smoke-blurred fiery sky, accented
by pastel shades of blue to create the sombre mood
that expresses Monet’s "Impression, Sunrise" painting
and shares with the onlookers his representation
of nature from an Impressionist’s point of view
in the Industrial Age, heralding in the revolution.
That begs the question, “Where are they going,
and why blood orange?” (Oh, but I’ve seen that colour before.)
Day-to-day inquiries are asked of one another and strangers.
Monet incorporates an art form using oils on canvas,
forcing the audience to observe with curiosity,
thus presenting a sliver of time of life’s tranquillity at sea.
This provocation of thought chinks the consciousness
of seasoned connoisseurs who see change as frightening
and challenges their manipulation of artistic output
(to act like mechanical agents thwarting creativity).
“Will they reach their destination? Will it be as they hoped for?”
Hurry! Though calm, the waters will soon froth in labour.
***
Note:
“Monet’s Impression, Sunrise” is an ekphrastic poem referencing the painting “Impression, Sunrise” (1872) by Claude Monet (1840–1926).
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get OJT?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all the mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been more than enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
I will not be your puppet in a minstrel show
Because I guarantee no Mammy, Jezebel, or Sambo lives here
You may try to control my thoughts and dreams
But I will not be your Venus Hottentot
As you stare in awe of my beauty through a glass cage
I will not be your freak show
or your gateway to a cultural experience
So please find your own
I will not be your token prize that you flaunt for credibility
Referencing my existence ever-so-often to quench your thirsty guilt
I will not allow you to parade my black skin as a badge of honor
I will not let you touch my kinky locs
I will not let you use my tears to wash away your sins
I will not ‘dance monkey dance’
I will not sing or perform for you
My body is not a vessel for your insecurities
Do not twist and turn my limbs into a web of amusement
I will not plaster a smile on my face while you poke and prod my soul
Because I do not belong to you
I know of a poet here on the Soup
He is a sham; he has everyone duped
Most poems that he posts are not his own
But quotes from others, rearranged, and donned
So it appears he has written them, though he has not;
He just uses their words, without a referencing thought
Each time I see one, I wonder, what thrill can there be,
In hoodwinking others, in copying?
What sense of accomplishment can he possibly feel,
What pride? What joy? With words that he steals?
You tell me, is he a genius or a conman, but before you do,
Know with his plagiarized work, he’s placing higher than you
9/14/11
Received 5th place in "Genius or Criminal?" contest
*Please note I am using ‘he’ but it doesn’t mean this person is male, nor does by saying this does it imply the person is female. Also, I will not tell you who it is, even if you guess the name of the real person.
~
While strolling by the lavender
her smile kept its place,
as lovely as a butterfly
afloat upon her face
She skipped as to a melody
that played about her mind,
in harmony with springtime days
she always seemed to find
With hair a flow of summer breeze,
spun gold and woven vine,
like Chardonnay from Maconnais,
a tasteful choice in wine
Beyond the field, neath skies of blue,
a' glisten in the sun,
a dainty pond, its cattail fern,
her tiny feet did run
She gazed upon the surface smooth,
reflecting clouds above
and tossed a stone, a splash was heard,
then ripples, she did love
For long ago a poet passed
and with his feathered pen,
had written her a verse of love,
then placed it in her hand
She read it with her eyes so wide,
his joy, she could not miss
Then laid her hand upon his cheek
and on his lips, a kiss
The poem he had written spoke
of ripples and a shore
and if the circles he could be,
he'd kiss her there once more
She turned to leave, her heart now full
of dreams he left behind,
with poetry and memories,
like ripples on her mind
~
This poem was inspired by me, not at the start but, it ended up referencing a poem that I wrote about 10 years ago titled: "And you were that shore" that I posted here on Soup for a contest and actually won.
This is that poem
And you were that shore
~
You were skipping stones
and as I watched
a slowly arching ripple
gently kissing the shore
I found myself wishing
I was that ripple
and you were that shore
~
Recycled Wisdom Lost
by Odin Roark
How common to recycle today
bottle,
cardboard,
can,
or bubble wrap.
How rare the regard for pleas from
mind,
heart,
memory,
wishing also to amend anew.
How satisfying,
To arouse the sleeping heart,
thrusting its comfort-beat
upon new rhythms made aware,
ensuing musical notes of clarity
not yet upon the staff of boundaries,
affording dissonance where only
harmony's familiarity once reigned.
To revisit memory
offering bygone experience,
wiser tools of perception,
scrambling dog-eared indexes
cross-referencing fact and fabrication,
allowing waste to fall free,
encouraging truth to persevere.
To sort through mind's many strategies,
discounting some,
discarding others,
dismantling exhausted cogs that
advance little the unknown begging at the door.
Such is…
To complete one's desire to remain conscious,
allowing distinction for that worth rebirthing
from chaff heretofore but a friction urging resolve.
How obvious to some:
the take-to-the-curb days of consciousness.
How misunderstood by others:
the smothering effect of effort
to treat excess destined as garbage.
How aware
those who
like the winged flights on high
weave today's nest
from yesterday's exhausted remnants,
knowing well the destiny of permanence
is but to replant where burnt forests once thrived.
And yet…
We often think recycling is confined to aluminum,
plastics, glass and other fabrications of man’s intellect,
but what of...
Teddy Roosevelt once said -
"speak softly
and carry a big stick”
Donald
in referencing this statement
might respond-
I may not speak softly-
or do anything softly
but I am loved by all
and carry a big stick
a very big hard stick
with very big balls
in my very big head
and all my very
very good friends
all of them
Hispanic, black , white and Islamic
men, women and others
love me
and them
Husha husha we all fall down
Gonna take you back a few years
Everything was exciting and new
Memories we all hold so dear
First time riding a two wheel bike
Mom thought we'd break a leg
Climbing aboard some floating ice
Painting some Easter eggs
Our first encounter with puppy love
That pretty young thing next door
Sudden she's not just one of the guys
Feelings never felt before
An interview for our very first job
Nervous with hair all slicked down
Catching two people in the stock room
Passionately messing around
These things we all remember
With fondness and tears in our eyes
So sad we have to leave them behind
These feelings you just can't buy
Husha husha we all fall down
These memories are so bittersweet
They help us through the tough times
Making our lives complete!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Ring-a ring-a rosies
A pocket full of posies
Husha Husha
We all fall down.
The rhyme originated from the plague in London in 1665. The red rings on the skin were the first sign of the plague. The posies were the herbs and spices carried by people because they thought the disease was carried in the smell. The last part was when the person died. The rhyme continued to be used referencing small pox outbreaks, long after the Great Fire of London in 1666 burnt out the spread of plague.
Some of my poems are written in reference to a Bible scripture. This one was originally written in 2012 and now, (9) years later, I found the Bible scripture this poem is referencing: Proverbs 27:17 / Iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens the wits of another.
This is dedicated to all of my wonderful reflections in life. Thanks for always catching me and lifting me up!!
REFLECTION
It is most important
To see your reflection
The image we reflect
As an individual person
Sometimes we overlook
Seeing what we may reflect
Then other people in the world
Can see the reflection neglect
We should always check out
What reflections we portray
The reflections given out
Will come back your way
Reflecting goodness to others
Attracts goodness back to you
As when bad reflections given
Can invite bad reflections too
Inner vision is connected
With the soul deep within
As we look out reflecting
Images our minds imagine
There are the times on occasion
When we may reflect negatively
That’s when we don’t even realize
We’re not seeing ourselves clearly
Some reflections in others
That you may tend to find
With some similar situations
Will sometimes ease your mind
To see reflections of yourself in life
Looking at other people is the way
A true friend will catch you though
When you are having a bad day
Those friends will reflect to you
What you are unable to see
Giving only positive thoughts
And lifting you up spiritually
Be a good reflection to yourself
And to others who need it too
Do not reflect as someone else
Let the real you shine through
Florence McMillian (Flo)
The-lit-wick-burnt-quick
I am the dipped stick
People are always referencing to
For two reasons:
One, is that I held on too long
Two, is because all but two fingers are gone
Lets look on the bright side, shall we...
I was a beautiful explosion!
A vibrant bouquet
Of summer flowers in bloom
Emanating from my hand
In offering to the night sky
There was an orange so serene
It could make the setting sun cry
At least I lost my pinky finger
And not my right eye
The potassium and iron oxide
That filled the firecracker's column
Made brilliant scores of violet and red
As visions of pyrotechnical plum ferries danced in my head
There was also a yellow that looked as if it escaped from dreams
Like a day lily in the morning that just busted its seams
This can be attributed to the explosive levels, of sodium
Which may of in turn resulted, with the loss of my thumb
Iron was unmistakably there creating a pure gold
The color of the ring a lost extremity used to hold
Copper sulfate was present creating the truest of blue
Five digits once stood where now there is two
Titanium, aluminum, or magnesium powders
Gave the finish a hurtful bright white
I may be giving a peace sign
But everything is not alright
6/9/16 - real late at night
'Twas like imagery or perhaps deja'vu
air quotations or a hallucination,
naught tangible to the naked eye
but an echoing of whirlwinds,
mere beginning of an expansion
tucked aside noncommittal whispers
reverberating discorporate shadows
on dividers of processing graphics,
rough drafts' emphatic intimation
of intrusively summoned reckonings
referencing old featured impressions,
mid-escape concentrated faculties'
unfocused low-density frequencies,
betwixt susceptibility’s magnifiers
orbiting bout night-crawlers' psyche,
whilst darkly territorial distractions
evolve beyond unforeseen influences,
farthermost assertion's revisionary
assemblages divulging conceals,
structured within framework
unrelentingly penetrative,
drawn-out, long agone
an unreceptive peccadillo
Want Black Magic?
Who knew I could do hoodoo?
I been doing voodoo since I was a kid in my room, dude,
Club Metz played with dolls, bruh,
Excentrix loves this nostalgia,
CrashTheGame may have caused these problems,
I don't know who's to blame for the assault, ma!
I don't got to prove objectivity to you fart wads,
This project specifically maintains that you fart off,
Carted off, from the garden where dreams grow,
Monsanto got you to forgo your role
They got a piece of your soul,
Needs to be released, let go,
Before we can make peace on earth, ya know,
These seeds they sew,
Spread dirty pervy control,
Life in blight with no parole.
So amazed by the barrage from these lost kids,
Constantly flossin' their appalling catalogs of,
Garbly garbage of cultural nonsense,
Referencing mesmeric defilers of logic,
The internet is a representation of God, son,
Diverse direct democracy mixed with contagion,
Amazing Cajun flavor, enjoy the sensation,
Of desires manifesting without any patience
He dresses as the fool
But does he fool you?
In clothes of rent
Torn twisted and bent
He drinks to excess
His voice is loud
He spouts obscenities
But he runs like the wind
Catch, me if you can, he shouts
The maze of traffic makes his jams
He speaks in riddles
Like old men, from ancient lands
He collects bottles and begs for lamb
He mumbles, I am homeless, kiss me hand
He is crazy for this is sure
He lives in alleys like a whore
Jets above fly overhead
Their orders received from a street called Hamra
As their armies invade, so bold
The homeless man, their leader
The man from Hamra
Notes: Hamra Street is a somewhat famous street in West Beirut. It was one of Beirut’s trendy areas before the civil war, and was frequented by poets, writers, and intellectuals.
During the civil war, and before the Israeli invasion of 82, there was a bum who lived on Hamra Street who was really a spy for the IDF of Israel. No one paid him any attention, being a street beggar, at the time when there were many. Not only was he collecting intelligence, he was the running a network of spies at the time.
From a Lebanese restaurant/coffee shop I frequent, I am told many fascinating stories from all over the world. What a lovely feeling to sit among people of all religions, nationalities and opinions, and share life’s experiences.
Thank you Diwan
Anyone who happens to have any first hand experiences referencing this poem, I would love to hear from them.
Ah Such A Great Night...
To Fish In The Cyber Sea
Always does this generic guy abhor
inflicting pain and suffering,
hence I haint n'er fished before,
and even metaphorically
referencing piscine creatures
(strictly as prosaic analogy),
aye reel lee deplore
causing deliberate suffering vehemently
contradicts my credo,
dogma, ethos, et cetera
within and/or without, the
webbed, wide world
this *****sapien doth explore
and as an aspiring scrivener
(fraught with floor rid sweaty palms
even in the dead of winter
offer poems galore
already written alluding to the
unpleasant physiological hoar
rubble sensation of dripping
(nee sopping) wet hands,
a curse that follows me indoor
or out, thus no surprise,
an aversion to mingle,
no matter socialization even jure
re: duty with defendant
whereat, me complicit sharing
Matthew Scott Harris namesake
accused of outrageously unreasonable
po' wet tick rhyming scheme
(but nonguilty exemption status
decreed since accused ache'n to yours truly
receives social security disability)
would be a more welcome palliative
versus less wick
Kurd substitute then Cap' kanger
rue, and ameliorate self imposed
sole lit aery isolation and
on the flip (Wilson) side keeping
streets safe, cuz temptation
dust newt not lure
me into a life of crime) more
or less chuckling,
that profuse perspiration,
would be mon nor
matt heave, while
accomplices fall down
laughing in tears,
and thence the poor
seer suckers nabbed
(cautionary fruitless
canter berry tale), and
(whew) not sullying
only whetting my
steely slippery rapport.
Chaos
A forbidding word rises to our surface
life as turbulent shatters the calm
and the calm may now in back glance
appear as imprisoning..
Surprise and reversals traverse the land
and resistance finds futility..
Seemingly our choices are already made..
We are called to ride the storm
to shape as each might..in each unique way
each momentary outline of
our own creation..underway...
~CC
"In many ways the last election represents this adolescent breaking through of hidden unspoken forces through a locked and repressive exterior form. The gridlock was not just in Congress, but in the whole bankrupt almost oligarchical political process that had served its time, and the way all of us have been sustaining the lock though our self-referencing communities of mutual agreement. The representative who has ridden the wave of those forces to the presidency may exhibit many of the characteristics of an adolescent himself, but the forces and necessary conversations his emergence represents are no less real and are something any mature mind should consider. His emergence points toward a chaotic turbulence followed by a new order, an order we need to be extremely vigilant in helping to shape no matter whether we have called our selves liberal or conservative or something in between. One thing is certain, those who elected him will be just as disappointed and sometimes horrified as those who now oppose him, while those who voted against him will be surprised and sometimes a little disorientated by the dismantling of previous imprisoning norms they are glad to see gone."
~~David Whyte