Best Stylized Poems
'Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee' ~ tale of woe for how life used to be
There's no Trail of Tears to escape ~ stylized humans in robotic shape
A hostile takeover, a conflict ~ no court order can interdict
Bury AI and set poets free ~ to claim their authenticity
It may not be seen as a threat, yet ~ some day perhaps as a regret
I have spent,
a lifetime,
being calm___________cool collected---afraid to show the darkness!
U n a w a r e,
of the freedom,
that comes from releasing the beast, no longer muzzling the dog!!!!
Growling low,
from deep in my chest,
fists clenched and released, red flush in my face and chest.
I feed off your fear,
as you look into my eyes,
you my tormentor SURPRISED as you watch me rise.
Big man,
see my new found addiction,
I'm in a heightened state, no longer afraid, an uncontained contradiction.
Interruption,
between heart and brain,
moving from soft spoken to someone I can't explain!
Powerful emotion,
to me my weakness personified,
letting my self completely go, spectating from deep inside.
ANGER e r u p t s,
fifty four years of playing the stamp collecting game,
I'm the one at fault but others think you're to BLAME!
Written October 29, 2015
By: Richard Lamoureux
For Casarah's Dancing with description contest.
Note: this is eight lines stylized for visual effect.
I once was important, folks cared about me,
Keeping me safe in a special bound book.
And in this book I had perfect stylized sheets,
Folks would gaze, remember and look
At every small detail that they could see,
Treasuring the moment in time that I was,
Treasuring the true honest faces all over my skin,
Treasuring me simply because
Their films only held maybe twenty small moments,
And folks waited for the shop to call,
There was no other way to capture that time,
Every time I was hung from the wall.
But now I’m replaced with a million small selfies,
The same silly person with the same silly face,
Now I’m so unimportant, forgotten in seconds,
I’m your small, precious photo remembering a place.
O.K., let’s see where you are with your math,
Which areas do we need to work through.
Algebra, space, number, or measurement,
Which topic do you need to review?
Today, algebra, a fantastically obtuse idea,
Instead of numbers, use letters, counting the ABC’s.
By the end of this tutorial you’ll love these letters,
Counting everything with ease.
Words like simplify, expand, and collect like terms,
Will become your new second diction.
Don’t use these letters like in tedious essays,
Nor like when expressing your poetic fiction.
Algebra strives to abbreviate everything,
Every single concept’s to be generalized.
It establishes an effective working formula,
Making it all neat, sleek, tidy, and stylized.
But don’t ask me who uses this at work,
Laborers, builders or for financial investments.
Just make sure you use it next Monday morning,
When you’re sitting your math exam assessments.
To me, yea, Iris is invisible,
The scent of yours all pervading,
Behold your face all-rich,
When I close my eyes.
Wordsworth's daffodils to me,
Membrane of the eyes,
That gives light to me,
Light that misleads the morn.
You are the genus iris,
With sword-shaped leaves,
Showy colored flowers,
Displaying rainbow colors
Your eyes green and deep,
Deeper than the depth,
Stilled waters at even,
Those eyes break of the day.
I see a heart full of love,
With the gentleness of a dove,
Feel in her eyes March,
September in her heart.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
Fourth Place Win
Contest: Convert a song into lyric by Giorgio V.
*This is the revision of my Poem entitled "Break of the Day" posted on this site in 2005 based on Elton John's Amoreena. Actually it was dedicated to a Denmark Beauty.
**The fleur-de-lis is a stylized lily (in French, fleur means flower, and lis means lily) or
iris
placid pond
in the moon's reflection—
kabuki dance
1-13-22
HAIKU CONTEST inspired by BASHO only Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Damned I-Be
Thirteen Syllables or Less Contest 3-29-16
Sponsor Timothy Hicks
*Kabuki, traditional Japanese popular drama with singing and dancing performed in a highly stylized manner. ... In modern Japanese, the word is written with three characters: ka, signifying “song”; bu, “dance”; and ki, “skill.”
Kabuki plays are about historical events and moral conflict in relationships of the heart. The actors speak in a monotone voice and are accompanied by traditional instruments. The Kabuki stage is equipped with several gadgets, such as revolving stages and trapdoors through which the actors can appear and disappear.
Why are Kabuki actors all male including those playing female roles?
Image result…All-male casts became the norm after 1629, when women were banned from appearing in kabuki due to the prevalent prostitution.
The most commonly used colors are dark red, which represents anger, passion, or cruelty, and dark blue, which represents sadness or depression. Other common colors are pink, representing youth or cheerfulness; light blue or green, representing calm; purple for nobility; brown for selfishness; and black for fear.
Kabuki actors need white powder to prevent color bleeding caused by excessive oil and sweat, with an easy-to-apply, lump-free consistency. Oshiroi must also look impeccable and defined under special stage lights, and provide a stunning contrast to the colorful kumadori makeup.
When the northern star opens her gauzed veil
On clouds’ ladder, winged pixies arise
Where magic glides like a lucent trail,
A parade I watch with angelic sighs.
Glossy dust bounces on cosmic array
To kindle thrills from a fancy dreamland
As elves gather a rhapsodic play
With choirs stylized by mystical wands.
Jiggling lithe toes beyond stellar frames,
More fays croon in my secret heaven
Till youthful imaginings proclaim;
I become Nyx of this orbit’s glen!
Nyx--Goddess of Night
Mystic Rose's Fantasy Contest
6/27/2015
1. Dimple under left eye, apply air brush.
2. Extend her legs, more voluptuous. Add 4 inches from ankle to knee cap.
3. You know...I'm just not feeling the dress. Do we have one of her in that green strapless?
Men like strapless right?
4. Holy hell! Can we do something about those teeth? Yuck!
5. She needs a glow around her head. Yeah like that, like an angel. Fantastic!
6. Rosy hue around cheek bones needs touch up. She needs to blush harder, like she's
embarrassed about something...something shameful.
7. Final edit, her smile is too big, women that happy don't read magazines...what? Don't look
at me like that!
Et Voila! Our hyper-stylized over-edited fictitious standard of beauty is realized.
Ok society!
Get ready...
Set...
Conform!
(Conformity ensues)
Bonus points! We got a celebrity to do the cover shoot.
(Hey, you can only sell your soul once and chances are she already did it...Christ, stop
looking at me like that!!!)
When she takes home her free promotional copy,
She can hold up our ideal of her side by side with the mirror and think:
"Wow...these images are so different and yet...I sense a strange and *vogue familiarity...
Almost as though...just maybe...they were of the same person...
Huh...I wonder which one represents me?"
*Typo alert! Should be 'vague'...silly me
Music and your muse
What moves you to write?
What puts your pen in gear?
Your muse you say! Hmmm!
Muse is the root word to
many things like Music
musing, museum, amusing
etc.
So then, what moves your muse?
makes you feel something
is it Music?
Music moves the world in
one way or another
Music makes you feel
one thing or the other
So music moves your muse
and your muse moves
your pen.
Music makes you think
makes you muse.
If music is funny and
you don't have to think
is that why they call it
amusing?
If you listen to the blues
then you may give your muse
the blues, then you will
write sad words of truth.
If you listen to rock music
you are rocking your muse
you may end up writing
views dazed and confused
If you listen to classical music
your muse may be beholden
when listening to beethoven
and be emboldened to write
words that are golden
If you listen to jazz music
all jazzed up and improvised
your muse will be enthused
and your writing more stylized
So next time you wonder
what moves you to ponder
about what moves your muse
put on some music
classical, rock or the blues
and put on your dancing shoes
Then put your pen in your hand
see what ink on the page lands
let your music move your muse.
John Derek Hamilton
April 08,2016
It is not like these restaurants in America
with their sterile atmospheres: slick new furniture,
stylized art, ambient lights, and every angle
rationalized to the judgment of specialized interests.
It is a restaurant filled with details,
inviting customers to take in an experience while eating and drinking,
to converse casually and caress senses
with a collage of décor less convenient.
One side is open to the city,
looking out on multi-story hotels with lush landscaping,
palm frond trees and a pine tree
with spreading branches and a green cloud of needles above any tourists.
Short squat curved posts hold up a wide concrete rail
with two bouquets of flowers on it: one has small yellow blooms
while the other has white daises mixed with tiny red blooms.
A Mediterranean influence can be seen in columns
supporting a large opening onto the street.
It is also present in a mural painted on the wall.
In the mural a tall woman baring her breasts
looks down on an angel reaching out to her,
below them is a rural town and above them two puffy white clouds.
Painted around the kitchen doorway’s edge is a grapevine.
Near the doorway a statue of a nude child blows a horn.
At his feet are a bouquet of daises and some yellow candles.
In the center of the room is a wide wood column,
on which appears a green copper statue of a woman in a long dress,
holding a large round bouquet of live yellow daisies above her head.
There are four groups of people in the restaurant.
Two are near the wall.
Two are in the center of the room.
All sit at round tables draped with white linen trimmed with intricate patterns.
The chairs are curved with no angles.
Two small rams’ heads are carved on the top back pieces of each chair.
Each table has a bouquet of red flowers and a large yellow candle.
Customers drink beer from green bottles and tall clear glasses.
A waiter rushes out with the empties.
A man with a dark complexion, thick hair, and mustache
beams with friendly eyes and expressive hands
talking about things that interest common people.
For him common, in his place of impractical details.
For travelers far away from their bare, stripped, planned environment
his speech has a life that is new, different,
paced with living rather than practiced in haste.
Fellow poets, when you write, you put down words, of fact or fiction.
With conscious thought you select letters to make words in diction
Words strung together in rhyme, pearls of wisdom, marking the time
You create the thought, the flow,you're painting pictures as you go.
What would you say if I told you, it's all a lie, Shakespeare never existed
His works arrived by chance, perfectly phrased, not tongue tied, or twisted
Letters assembled themselves into words, then words in perfect succession
Formed themselves into rhyming sentences eloquently said in progression.
DaVinci too didn't exist, he's just a figment of some wild imagination
Mona Lisa was only a chance meeting of paint and canvas in congregation
There was no artist, with stylized strokes of brushes and pens in harmony
Ink and paint just flowing freely, creating their own masterpieces randomly.
You wouldn't believe it if I told you, because you know it's just not true
But when they tell you God doesn't exist, what do you think, or do?
Some say that life evolved by a chance meeting of cells and molecules
Natural selection, started chaotically forming an organic cosmic soup.
Does that make sense when you see the beauty and artistry all around
In the sunsets, oceans, lands and seas, where life teems and abounds
The universe with a complexity of it's own, a cosmic timepiece of majesty
Saying order comes from chaos, is a disgrace to the Artist, a real travesty.
When an artist paints a sunset he is just copying what he sees with his eyes
It's not an original work, but he signs it anyway, maybe he doesn't realize.
The complexity and order in life should tell you we were fashioned by design
Faith in the Designer comes not by chance, but by choice, read the signs.
John Derek Hamilton November 20, 2015
Shadows pool in an intimate embrace:
as sunset inks lovers in silhouette.
And two lovers sculpt a stylized beauty:
a synergy formed, before time began.
Twilight's subservient to wishful hearts:
pausing time, until it almost stands still.
And floating blissfully in love's aura:
soulmates dive into the depths of their souls.
Indigo pools mirror a tie-dyed sky;
as shifting shadows merge, within the dark.
And enraptured by the allure of love:
each, savors the essence of the other.
Twinkling stars confetti the veil of Night;
reflected in a pair of dreamy eyes.
And Dusk lowers an ebony curtain,
upon a magic moment: lost to time.
Like many, I masqueraded in shades of urban gray.
I offered my love to the midnight neon angel.
I walked the caliginous streets alone and astray.
She remained distant, alluring, always disdainful.
I courted cynicism, resignation, and despair as my style.
I wore tilted fedoras in smoke-filled reeking bars.
I feigned culture and literacy, trying to look worthwhile.
I blush now, recalling my see-through shooting stars.
Like many, I was just a child renting a man’s body.
I impersonated adulthood with stylized gloom.
I thought maturity was an act, so mine was shoddy.
I donned trench coats, my affectation in any room.
My blinking street angel had seen it all before.
My love for her was simulation and nothing more.
Wearing her nine-inch stiletto heels,
stylized and polished to a high gloss:
she absolutely loves how she feels.
In her high, sexy shoes, she strikes awe
within the hearts of unwary men
who get tongue-tied, as they hem and haw.
Granted, nine-inch heels may seem extreme:
but this seductive siren on stilts,
comes off as anything but mainstream.
In heels, she stands out above the crowd,
leaving some women green with envy:
while for the most part, men are left, wowed.
“Karlsruhe Hbf”
A man wore a bib on the outside of his down jacket
at Weiner Feinbacher.
Struedel doesn’t drip.
Poinsettias from Blumen leaving on the next train,
maybe from the same platform where
945 Jews departed.
Citizens unwillingly embarked.
The beginning of the end of their journeys.
Now 500 Euro strollers pass by the obscure corner
where Officials placed the not too big “Fidelitas” sign,
a generous, shame filled, failed attempt
to tell the truth about the indescribable horrors.
The façade a beautiful art deco of scalloped concrete.
Tracks supported by stylized
girders of industrial progress.
How many opatrons passing beneath
the abundant curtains of Christmas lights,
grabbing a McCafe for the ICE,
recall the role the Hauptbahnhof played
for the victims of the 3rd Reich.
Has it been long enough, too long,
to constantly commemorate?
Veritas, Fidelitas.
If the sign were bigger and put somewhere so
People would see it, going to or from the planned Karlsruhe,
It would be another start.
- - -
JDZoller - Copyright © December 2009