Best Statuary Poems
Winter whitewashes Autumn's decay,
and yet, you know that Spring will soon show.
But, as snowflakes bury Fall's array,
depression deepens with each fresh snow.
Snow-laden trees, like sculptures of clay;
stand exposed, chiseled by a sharp breeze.
And stenciled in statuary grey;
like outstretched fingers, bare branches freeze.
A brisk breeze wrestles your breath away,
in the grip of an unyielding cold.
And muting the sound of children's play;
melancholy thoughts start to take hold.
A stormy day causes nerves to fray,
for doldrums brood within shadows cast.
And folks speculate on Spring's delay,
damping hopes that this weather won't last.
Purple and scarlet ink the sun's rays,
and yet, sunset chills you to the bone.
For as twilight dims on dreary days,
you feel depressed, shut in, and alone.
Categories:
statuary, depression, february, how i
Form:
Quatrain
His shop is filled with the finest treasures
The artist walks ‘midst his imposing creations,
By the marvelous statuary, and original pictures.
Artifacts collected from myriads of nations
Featuring tapestries and folk art unparalleled,
The artist walks ‘midst his imposing creations
And those of other masters who’ve excelled
In the finest of arts, from both here and abroad,
Featuring tapestries and folk art unparalleled.
Any person of the finer tastes will be awed
By the lovely oils and large mixed media
In the finest of arts, from both here and abroad.
The artist is clearly a legendary encyclopedia
My appreciation for his knowledge enhanced
By the lovely oils and large mixed media.
As I ambled through, I became entranced
His shop is filled with the finest treasures
My appreciation for his knowledge enhanced
By the marvelous statuary and original pictures.
Written July 25, 2022
Categories:
statuary, appreciation, art, culture,
Form:
Terzanelle
It only takes a few years gone
for everyone to forget that song;
though often later generations
will not keep their venerations
of cherished family now long past,
faint memories die off real fast!
Faces lost, even distant laugh,
if not captured in photograph;
portraits peel and fade away
unless in museum they do stay,
and even when on wall they bask,
most future viewers often ask
“Who is that person? Who were they?
Were they important in their day?”
Statuary might be concrete,
memoirs can be indiscreet,
tombstones often wear away,
nothing on Earth can long stay;
we return to dust, one in the same
while only few win lasting fame.
Categories:
statuary, death, memory,
Form:
Rhyme
The Totem ©
The totem speaks of the tribe’s history, lore,
deeds of courage
Animals, fish and gods
carved in reverence,
from a fallen tree hundreds of years old,
living wood, with a face, a fish,
a bear, a bird marching down it’s trunk,
a seemingly random sprinkle of
obelisks in a circle,
tells of incredible faith true enough
to move tons of stone
Totems today, statuary in the front garden,
wooden rooster atop the mail box,
the weather vane dressed in
golden green patina.
Carvings of flowers,
frolicking baby squirrels and
rabbits on a sign at the front door,
A mural brushed upon a barn wall,
the flag of a beloved country,
the lone star of a beloved state,
the wind chimes of dolphins, stars, frogs, and spoons
capturing the breeze,
singing a song of welcome
Tribes today paint their vehicles in much the same way
that the People painted their sturdy, brave little horses
before a battle
Circles of paint about the eyes for truer vision,
hand prints on shoulder and flank to ward off the spear,
ornaments braided into mane and tail
to celebrate victory
Bumper stickers, magnetic ribbons,
all totems to tell members
of other tribes what is believed in,
what the tribe stands for;
support this, hate that,
down with this, up with that
proud to be a redneck,
a woman,
a boater,
a parent,
a fisherman,
a politician,
a farmer,
a dancer,
a soldier,
an Aggie,
a sailor,
an Irishman,
a lover of guns.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
Categories:
statuary, devotion, faith, inspiration, spiritual,
Form:
Free verse
The late may sunlight is bathing a monument of Nature
so colossal in sculpted vertical structure
that it may very well be the palace complex of forgotten supermen,
stories from my childhood pastor of biblical Petra
discovered by Crusaders, or the Temple of Ramesses in Egypt
emerge in my mind as we course through this valley of watered chisled fascades,
sandstone worked by the trickles of centuries
has created craftsmanship of rusticly romanesque grandeur,
pillars, cornices, porticos, grotesque statuary
invites the imagination into the architecture of antiquity
and the legacy that looms in the landscape of divine forces,
these are the White Cliffs of America
born from the bone of Divinity
and worked by the water of will,
Coming out of the Atlantis precinct as Clark calls it
a fork in the river confronts us like a new religion
a pathway heretofore unknown to our shadowed souls,
the Hidatsas mentioned nothing of this avenue,
I am angered hot by this suprise of doom
if we choose the wrong river we find only dreadful failure,
both waterways are mighty , broad, and of a similar depth,
one goes northwest the other southwest,
I swear my brain is gonna burst,
Clark is bracing himself against a tree as if he is waiting for a heart attack,
nobody knows blue from black at this juncture
and the guys are gettin hyper as horses amid thunder,
after discussing the odds he and I return to camp
as professional officers, no doubts, only orders,
two small detachments , one led by me, the other by Ordway
will traverse on foot one river each
up to forty miles examining clues like owls on a mouse's trail,
each party is on extra alert for bear and Indians,
grizzlies have become a common monster lately
sometimes requiring 12 shots to subdue,
they are infamous for their zombie qualities
having freakish endurance and bloodlust while being injured,
as for the natives, one only knows after eyes are shown,
J.A.B.
Categories:
statuary, adventure, endurance,
Form:
Epic
It was the first trip to Europe for Miss Hews
who was terribly shocked by statuary views.
She thought it a sin
to show so much skin.
Some of which apparently struck her as news.
Categories:
statuary, innocence,
Form:
Limerick
Amid the flowers ever blooming, ever fragrant,
Amid the stone pathways edged with brick,
Amid the gravel I peacefully walk over,
Hearing the slight crunch beneath my feet,
Here lies color upon color of hanging baskets and garden trims.
Here lie bushes of color to draw me in.
Cooler air and peaceful, beauty surrounds me like a cocoon.
And amid this a fountain of gentle beauty I do not wish to leave soon.
A fountain that totally greets my senses.
The running of water, the bubbling and tumbling over stone.
I feel the peaceful sounds deep and close inside.
A bench begs me- “Stop. Rest your weary soul. Feel the peaceful sound.”
Here the songs of birds do greet me as they eat from feeders above and
Drink from the fountains below.
Their colored plumage and delicate flight adding to the beauty bestowed.
Other fountains with gurgling water entice me from place to place.
What beautiful shapes and designs do I anticipate to be next?
Beside what peaceful flow of water will I next seek my rest?
I linger and forget my travails as I mentally rest.
In this shadowed and cool garden I linger to hear sounds and see sights
Never to forget.
As I continue the journey an occasional bench begs my senses- to stop again.
Feel the peace. See what is here.
Some fountains have hidden treasures to espy.
Statuary nymphs and frogs peak quietly from gentle foliage nearby.
I beg to know what animals traverse here in peace within this world.
My mind begs me to write words to describe such delights.
I am enveloped in a feast before, behind, and surrounding my senses.
A trellis begs my attention in lush smells sent to my nose.
A trellis of color and unusual design to add to my prose.
A water sprite beckons my indulgence to notice her again.
Finally the tumbling of water sends me forward to a new treat,
Begging of my senses the new treasures for to eat.
Each a joy to behold. Each adding to my wish to never leave.
Eventually the world will again bend me to my knees.
But a moment I have gained of beauty to behold.
A memory to take in my sojourn, as my life unfolds.
Memories that can bring me back to this peaceful place in my mind.
Though only a moment, I have gained something precious to behold.
I now carry within a pocket of my mind- a memory to bring me back to
The Fountain Garden.
CSEastman
Categories:
statuary, beauty, garden, happiness, inspirational,
Form:
Free verse
I came to see you at the remodeled hospital
there were bright tiles, statuary Marys, and assorted saints
"full code" was on the door.
We talked about your eventual escape and some summer plans
Now ,I am informed by curt text that there is a DNR with "comfort care,"
and no further attempts at treatment.
Too much oxygen for home or nursing home, a quick move to hospice across the road.
I kind of knew when the nurse's eyes slid over you and
the live plant I brought in the optimism of the early part of the week
was jammed in a light-less corner- I set it back on your tray.
You showed me that the nurses no longer came running when you took off your mask- the machine readout was dimmed and the alarms no longer blared.
You want to be sure that I plant hazelnuts,
and build a bomb or storm shelter, you know someone with a backhoe...
"Jesus lives on the 4th plane, you know", you tossed out to engage me
"...but there are other planes..." a gasp and the mask back on.
Your sister quickly interjects that I need to find "someone" to talk to you about this, someone who is interested.
I will talk to you about Jesus, and argue for his placement in the 6th plane
to see those blue eyes twinkle over the mask.
I will plant hazelnuts, I affirm, and look into the backhoe.
I see you, and I will see you around, my friend.
For Mike M.
Categories:
statuary, friend, friendship, sorrow,
Form:
Elegy
I heard an angel speak last night and he said “write”
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Of the silent mist that’s gathered ‘round
the timeless graves that bear no sound
Of lives no longer taking breath
retiring to earth upon their death
Granite sentries tend where departed lay to rest
enduring monuments to souls that were blessed
Whom families entrust their loved ones with peace
noble guardians whose protection shall never cease
Exuding serenity without touch or word
their devotion through our hearts only are heard
These marble replicas of their spiritual existence
share with the living their eternal luminescence
Written by: Shani Fassbender
on June 13, 2011
for the contest "Angels in Cemeteries"
Categories:
statuary, faith, inspirational, uplifting,
Form:
Rhyme
As Adam’s gift emit into her statuary,
The echo in her spine, screamed and cracked because of the screw
Her Ebonics layer was smooth and soft
As her mouth thirst for a missile
As the as massacre descended into caressing
Caressing into the unknown
Tongues webbed and waxed in emotions
Emotions mixed with commotion
A departure from ocean’s commotion
As the couch shook as an earthquake
A lightning strike through her breasts
As Moses rod divided the red sea
As we both pass through the swelling sea
Tears oozed from her eyes
Smiling all the way, as the ride and the pipe intersecting
Slide show covers the dark
Then a knock knocked down the atmosphere
It was a friend
I stood from her sanctuary
Coming back to chase my illusion,
She was gone…
awoh awoh
Categories:
statuary, love, romance,
Form:
Classicism
I acknowledge my status as a stranger inappropriate clothes old habits out of sync with wasp
and wren i admit i dont know how to sit still or move with purpose i prefer books to moonlight
statuary to trees but this lawn has been leveled for looking so i kick off my sandal's and walk
it's cool green who claims were mere muscle and fluids? my feet are the primitives here as
for the rest ah the air now is a tonic of absence, bearing nothing but news of a breeze.
Categories:
statuary,
Form:
I've climbed the monkey-sided mountains
overlooking Rishikesh;
a spill of Rishis in the granite bowl below,
each with callous, with incense, with their
various beggaries...each sweet-tongued with
prasad.
I've bent to kiss a broken man;
my lips on his toes, his laugh in my ear.
Antarayaami statuary all around.
Japa mala japa mala japa mala;
Namostute.
I've tucked my frame under
a stories-filled and stories high
Hanuman; folded myself into
a Room of Song. Chalisa after
Chalisa for hundreds of years.
The pilgrims and flowers, the
ghee candles and Sri Ram Sri Ram
Jai Jai
Rams.
I've sought myself. I've sought the selfless.
I've made friends with both.
I've come home dusty only to
be Lost.
I've come home refreshed only to
be Lost.
The Names, the mantras.
The Bhajan, the Ganges.
None had Answers for me.
Each had answers for me.
None had Questions for me.
Each had nothing for me.
And so I bow.
I thank.
Each.
Every.
One.
I thank One.
Categories:
statuary, spiritual, voyage,
Form:
Free verse
(The assignment, on another site, was to write a poem
using at least two words from those suggested. I first
used six out of their list. Now, here is my revision,
using all seven:
* Alabaster
* Veil
* Tower
* Bells ringing
* Silent like snow
* Precise
* Depth)
Cold Keys, Warm Art
Speak not of frozen alabaster
from the halls of statuary,
rather of melodious sounds
imparted now by living bells
ringing out their glory from the tower,
and of the man who shares the power
of feet and fists upon
the pedals and the levers
at the top of the winding stair.
Speak of him, the lonely creator up there,
the carilloneur, for without him
few know that the bells would be silent,
like snow seeking only the depth
of precise calculation, undreaming of scale
measured only by music, by mind flight,
until he lifts the intangible veil,
releasing the art and the joy that they tell.
~
I had the privilege once to mount those stairs
with a carilloneur, and watch her perform from
a very challenging and complex score on this
fascinating array of levers and handles up there,
as the huge swinging bells rang above and around
us. Never to be forgotten!
Categories:
statuary, tribute,
Form:
Free verse
There's a place of sanctuary,
That shows me a face of statuary.
I would travel to the roof,
Where the moon would keep it aloof.
Lie on my back,
Set my heart to the steady track.
Falling down to my eyes,
Are the shinning stars from the skies.
Laying unto me a blanket of dust,
That the night found to me a must.
Speaking to the shadowed clouds,
While it formatted my long lost drowds.
You could peer into my eyes,
There you would see the reflection of the skies.
You'd see harmony in the lights,
Or maybe the wings of people on flights.
You could see your loved ones,
Hiding behind the face of the suns.
Look into my pupil,
See the passion asserted in dupils.
The bright night sky,
Provided me a place to fly.
Running my finger tips through it's star dust,
Flashing a smile from far to dusk.
Can you feel the magic in the air?
You can find it in the heart you wear.
Or perhaps the the world above,
Where the most magic is part of.
On your way to this journey,
Grab ahold of the night sky firmly.
And never wonder why you have nothing,
As long as you have that harmony in grip,
You may have a long fullfilling trip.
Cali Mitchell
Categories:
statuary, beautiful, beauty, courage, fantasy,
Form:
Rhyme
Georgie
His was a pudgy boyish countenance,
With rounded river eyes and an Alfalfa smile.
He wheezed like a sick tern with repeated asthma attacks,
Playing hard at the various outdoor games and chases,
Of our fleeting childhood years in the inhaling sun.
He perspired profusely in 1964 as he sat with beads of sweat which
Gathered like a water pox above his lips, all in a wheezing row.
Bespectacled Georgie was the curlicued, black-haired boy
who lived two houses up from ours; the one with the green hedge.
He wore converse sneakers, a white tee and blue denim, with
Thick black-framed glasses astride his chubby white face.
His was a temper not sought by anyone, including Elsie his mother.
Georgie was her little boy, but when angered, baseball bats went flying.
Curse words were screamed loudly with one’s birth name questioned intensely.
Stones and large rocks were heaved at innocent windows and nearby statuary.
Baseballs were hurled at the heads of other little boys, with misses near and far.
Toy darts were skipped across baking sidewalks to the bare feet of his playmates,
Producing more loud voices shrieking in pain when the darts impaled their feet.
Oranges and lemons were rabidly picked for the purpose of pummeling one’s nose;
But gentle mother Elsie loved her little Georgie, and his little blue inhaler.
Years and decades sailed by like lost boats in a starless harbor.
Little Georgie grew into a pudgy man with nothing changed except, the drugs.
Marijuana odors hovered like invisible swarms of masticating locusts,
Lurking above the silent brick houses of our street, with old Georgie lighting up.
With a pipe and a baggie in his pocket, my old friend gave up on his life.
He decided not to work, but to take aimless walks down deserted avenues;
Day after empty day he took his drifting strolls into a personal oblivion.
We subsequently lost contact in the ensuing decades, and I forgot about him.
Until recently… I found out…
Georgie’s funeral took place 25 years ago at Rose Hills Cemetery.
Rest in piece old friend, old tormentor, with your little blue inhaler.
Categories:
statuary, friendship,
Form:
Free verse