Best Tableaux Poems
Goblet of moonlight overflowed
Spilling glow, dusting ground
Spread over deep winter forest
Creating oasis fey folk found.
Moonbeams hang on denuded trees
Magical warmth spreads its glow
Forest creatures for one short hour
Join fairy folk in happy tableaux.
Enchantment fades it will not last
Winter will not be usurped this way
Silence so cold all creatures depart
Memory savored until spring day.
Pixabay image: BlueHeartGraphics
Going through its ambiance, (on) with open thoughts,
Past scenes so serene, and picturesque (in situ passed).
A house, its windows just ajar to the tactile winsome breeze
That taste of zest & adventure infused; with distilled memory’s,
And (sensed) delights unmet “as yet”.the wend of life so rich,
surrounds my mind & senses like the abundant shining light.
That upon the varied tableaux glow, before falls the lilac scented night.
Through all the turvy ways, and livelong day,
I’ll count the picket fences, as I travel or Stop to gaze.
I look out onto the pastureland that runs between the towns,
Observing rolling verdant turf, and cattle with thoughtful frowns.
The Holstein herds and Jersey cows, with Friesians ’mooing low’,
Character houses stand on hillocks; a horse & buggy moving slow.
There are tended lawns with a velvet like pile,
that have entered my awareness, these pleasant miles,
And on the horizon moving; (waits) that shimmering rippling run.
Of a blue & ribboning shoreline where pleasure necessitates fun.
There wind can like a lion roar, or call like turtle doves
With New Jersey soul superimposing the whole in the USA that I love!...
©Joe Maverick 1-6-2011Copyright)
George W. Towne
1847 – 1899
From Iowa I came by restless wagon train.
From the mid-west I arrived
With satchel and silken scalp still intact.
I read Proverbs and Ecclesiastes to pass the time.
I read the Gospels of John and Luke.
I read Harriet Beecher Stowe and
I read John Greenleaf Whittier.
I saw the icy Rocky Mountains beckon me to the west
Waving their invisible fluid fingers
Like blond ballerinas in silent ever-moving tableaux.
I saw the railroad snake through the endless golden valleys.
And I saw the muddy roads converge
Under a hundred bee-infested pepper trees.
And it was here in this new colony I found a home
For my wife Fannie and our three dubious children.
You could always spot me in the distance,
Walking down Pickering Street.
For I was the dapper one in black derby hat
Taking the cash in the Greenleaf Avenue millinery.
I was the suited one in dusty black,
Winking and bowing to the lovely ladies
Showing my respect but imagining something else
Deep within my empty searching soul.
I was the tall, cleanly shaven erudite
Who had memorized the entire Gospel of John
And walked the northern foothills at sunset
Wearing my ever-present derby hat
And meeting, yes,
Secretly meeting Lucy Swain
Under the tall cedar tree on Rideout Ranch.
Confession is indeed good for the soul.
Confession has always allowed a good but dishonest man to sleep soundly.
To sleep long languorous hours on a cold winter’s night.
To sleep for an eternity without guilt or regrets
Under the hardened forgotten dirt of Clark Cemetery.
For I was the handsome one in derby hat
And only Lucy and I knew,
Only she and I knew intimately
About the patch of soft carpet-like grass,
There under the tall silent cedar tree
On Rideout Ranch.
Christmas time haiku -
“tableaux d’une exposition”
post-it notes on walls
Long Tooth
May 25, 2016
The painting here is a beautiful portrait of Mussorgsky the composer of the famous classical work 'Pictures At An Exhibition.'
This haiku is a very dense multi-layered haiku perhaps unlike any you have ever seen
before. Let me explain what it means to me and then please share if you think I
accomplished my goals in writing it.
The Christmas appellation refers not only to a season of the year but also stretches
this seasonal reference in nature to include the gift giving season which, for a poet
like myself, is any day that my muse offers me an idea for a haiku or a poem.
Since haikus are usually images, like a painted picture, the haiku suggests that
the post-it notes on my wall are frames of each picture (or different individual
haiku) in my exhibition. Using the seven syllable French phrase for 'Pictures at an
Exhibition, ' a very famous piece of classical music by Mussorgsky, gives the
exhibition an erudite air as if my haiku were hung in the Louvre rather than my
office. Vanity, vanity, all is vanity!
My questions for more experienced haiku writers include:
1. Can a real haiku be intentionally dense. ie., carry emotional overtones?
2. Can a real haiku have only one real interpretation, ie., the poet's intention?
3. If a haiku has as many possible interpretations as it has readers, how can it possibly be art?
Wild are the spring flowers which win my heart
wood violets blue, and those Johnnie jump-Up starts
waves of ajunta burgundy glow
pierced with lost daffodils standing apart
a gourmands delight admired a la carte
'mong seas of forsythia fences are draped.
Bushes of fuzzywillows looking smart,
cozy up to dirt roads soften the heart.
even the dandelions make a fine tableaux
as off I go my head spinning with art
to paint images, the sweet and the tart
expressionist posies, as if for VanGogh.
Indian strawberries dot gardens in beds
as buttercups yellow, slip through rye grass
tickled by warm winds and skies overcast.
Oh, I'm ready to paint the beauty ahead
with crimson, vermilion and titanium lead.
Sitting on a hummock I draw the repast
mixing my colors on a piece of glass
stunned by the wild flowers, most over tread.
*Dante's variation on the Italian sonnet.
Gerrit Verstraete released his first book of selected poems titled “Mid-Seventies Crisis,” in
1980 ( Admiral Press, Canada ). “But,” he says, “it’s never too late. It’s not that I stopped
writing, I just didn’t know what to do first, draw, paint, write poetry, work on my novels,
write columns, and of course raise a large family together with my wife Alice.” A number of
his poems have been published in various magazines and publications, but his new
book “Cerulean Odyssey – the long distance voyager,” is the first volume of an epic poem he
began writing in 2004. Cerulean ( meaning sky blue ) is a personification of the artist’s
personal journey through the web and weave of life, a journey of art and faith that focuses
on Cerulean’s search for “the city of God, not built with human hands.”
The content of his new book is a contemporary style using conceptual imagery in a narrative
poetic manner. Much of the writing was inspired by his island surroundings, both on Gabriola
and Vancouver Island. One reader in New Zealand said, “Wow! I've now had my daily dose
of inspiration. Your visual poetry is truly powerful and transcending...I love how it reaches
out on so many levels and does not exclude anyone in its scope.” To date the epic ( in four
completed volumes – so far ) comprises over 500 tableaux or sketches ( individual poems )
with 200 in volume one.
The book is available online through Wordclay Publishers. The 6 X 9 volume is paperback,
full colour cover, and 124 pages at $25 US ( plus S & H ). Simply log on to
www.wordclay.com, select the “bookstore” and type in the author’s name: Gerrit Verstraete.
Lots more information about the book is posted. Currently Gerrit is writing the fifth volume of
the epic. So, if you’ve ever wanted to own a Verstraete for less than fifty bucks ( many know
him for his fine art drawings and abstract paintings ), enjoy a copy of “Cerulean Odyssey.”
The Translucent Loft
The girls choir at St. Mary’s still sings there.
Shh, be quiet as we step inside
through these green rectangular doors,
Shh! Listen...
We can hear them up there,
in the translucent loft.
They are still cloistered upstairs in the saintly glow,
of stained glass fortissimos, and bare knees,
dressed in blue sweaters with plaid beanies doffed
upon the three dozen crowns of the virgin sainted;
And now before us, the majesty of the holy sanctuary,
the deep eternity of ever-swallowing horizontal constictions,
upon which the devout might meditate the spirit mysteries,
with blessed rosaries, scapulars, and communion wafers,
bristling miraculously upon flaming tongues of fire.
“Shh! Be quiet here in the church, it is a sin to talk!”
We must fold our hands in silent contrition to an invisible God.
We must say our prayers, memorized from old missals.
We must genuflect on bended leg, making the sign of the cross.
But still, a likeness of our creator, dead and naked,
Nailed and bloody, with sickening thorns and gushing crimson,
hangs before us most ignominiously, a dead creator.
How can this be, Father Flanagan?
Why are we being reminded of this, Monsignor Molthen?
Why dear saints?, all ye there, encrusted immaculately,
in stone cold tableaux, absorbed forever and today,
in emerald stained glass transfigurations, way up there,
high on the upper reaches of this long heavenly nave,
that stretches out like long arms wearing bracelets of infinity.
Why are we to be reminded of this?
The girls choir at St. Mary’s still sings there.
Shh, be quiet as we step outside
through these green rectangular doors.
Shh! Listen...
We can still hear them up there,
in the translucent loft.
MAGRITTE
dream world
unfurled
DEGAS BALLET
a pose
on toes
WARHOL FACES
monroe
tableaux
Sitting in the waiting room her sunlit day; complying to their sequence
Amid a foregone conclusion ? Appearing suddenly out of nowhere
Ineffable somehow it seems this, March two thousand twelve's
National Geographic's copy titled, 'The Journey of the Apostles....
Theocracy's last supper sublime; tableaux ? Instinct taking hold slowly
Savoir-faire walking past these doors surely tis for me ? Sanctum sanctorum
Seder thirty years now, gone by ? Why his doctor queried; Angels in the mist hieros.
Hast thou clouds? Hast thou storms? Which saintly light kisses and caresses the overgrown field. Such emblematic curves. Notions are not a daisy nor a blade of grass and a blanket can be created from branches. Yes branches. Is not a wandering a way of locating oneself. Ruins cam be rebuilt and reinventing can be obtained. Wishes are waiting. Willing is wanting. And watering is weaving. Creating calmly calamities causing chaotic caustic creative chops. Birthday notions of a dwindling pickle is rife when bathed in auric dew. Wonderful. Great isn't it? So upon reaching rubble take care when uncovering past missions. Swords dwell in ancient spires. And shells move slowly to the ball. Valour of the tableaux. And a linguistic king in a scarlet cape. Wise. Good. Goblets hidden. Dishes. Wine. Nothing is exact in a tourism channel. Houses historically hide. Heavens then. Waters glowing. Many caves. Globally positioned. *** archeological z
Sublime reflections ,eye catching tableaux
monstich ekphrasis tribute to Dutch realism in art
Hear me recite from my 4000+ PS anthology on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro..
catch my short forms @strandpoet on twitter..
read my kindle guides on amazon
The sheer art of peeling a snail is akin to rubbing moth balls in one's eyes. To feel and sense with such ambidextrous wisdom is often not that wise. And of course plain hazardous. One's mental sanity can best be preserved by nodding in agreement thus not allowing any turmoil to exist. In a floating membrane there can be many colours so paints must be rearranged alphabetically to not cause confusion. It us the will of a cloth to clout dust. And trust is often stagnant when placed in rows. Documents arriving to call time on a neglected front. Good. The mere prowess of a supernatural wallaby is derived from the simplest of string bows. Whilst rabbis often enjoy racing in sand dunes. It is to be ascertained at this moment in this era that a spun yarn is tarnished and onions jumping from ships are best left in dingys to float alone. On and on an up and up. Down and down and round and round. A voluminous cake in high heels causing a sensation in a tree lined street. Bickering horses pass over the tableaux and all is motioned with the booming cluck from a forty foot chicken. A congested area can seal many secrets of secretion for the antics of an ant man and a silver fox woman can and will be baked in a line of sugar coated biscuits. So chant then. Sing then. Dance around. Annihilate the frogspawn leaking from a house. In a nice posh voice ask Mr Speaker to run around with his many legs and forty foot antennae. This will be applauded by the global fish faces. Great. Gobi then. Oval Office occurring on oceans. Xxxxx milk bottle calling xxxxx trepidation table xxxxx zoological Z paleonticalogical p y q
SENTIMENT
commitment
highly personal
orthodoxy.
in
modern values
so
enigmatic
a
tableaux
displayed
an inward
looking
response
a
temporary
reaction
ushering
youthful
fervour
distancing
the
inherent
musing
mediated
&
inscribed
the
ultimate
translation
remains
to
overtly
accomplish
DISCONNECTIONS
harmony order
reason &
beauty
&
incidentals
severed
by
upheavals
cerebral &
austere
a purveyor of
dimensions
to catalogue
&measure reveals
the obsessive
elaborate
laboriously
constructed
tableaux
of
destruction
so instantly
recognisable in
impressive &
immaculate
artefacts
to
specifically
fire the imagination
&
concentrate
the interplay
of
reason in
perpetual motion
in grappling
&
conveying
the painstakingly
drumbeat
of
sensation
amid the melee
of the
orchestrated
ensembles
at a distance
the measured
mood
detached
artificial
yet in
symmetry
knitting
everything together
in
cool respect
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Perched on figurative shoulder...
taking devil's advocate stance...,
with sharp eyed cognizance
of course Joe King abidance!
Wild eyed traitor Joe Schmoe,
albeit Democrat subjects himself to grow
wing skepticism at impeachment show
whip lashed, viz strapping jock who stow
weapons of mashed destruction
expects at least one rotten tomato,
or "mother's petrified pop slop,
electronic brickbats, et cetera
hard as(s) bupkis targeting yours truly
smack dab rendering aspiring po'
wit smashing me face
courtesy final deathblow,
while pilloried vainly
waiting for... Godot,
cuz I must say impeachment travesty
appears triumphantly trumped,
where Nancy Pelosi will eat crow
proving Hillary Clinton's catchphrase
basket of deplorables apropos
aforementioned speaker of the house
tin pot dictatorial desperado
scuttling hither and yon to and fro
oddly enough even staking out
manhunt for Wizard of Oz
enlisting (right on the Dot) doggone toto
tense seat of pants increasing
stiff competition on all faux pas,
whereby freezeframe tableaux
icy (I see) as temperatures
dip down into five below
analogous to stop motion
projector manned by bonobo
sports petsmart stuff and struts
(think shock absorbed) ditto
Ringling Bros and Barnum
& Bailey Circus, where ma's yoyo
tricks, tracks, and trumps...
three ringed circus, nonetheless
(toe) nail biting suspense
amazingly graceful slick cameo
starring emperor donning
invisible new clothes
couture well worn portfolio
prosecutorial cadres itching
to dredge schmutz (quad) drilling,
and extracting ore region null
evidence upending forefathers status quo
appearing impressive bandying
sine qua non quid pro quo bingo
emphatic pedantic Latin Oh
though above named
language dead - Anglo
Saxon heavily and
will (yum) doth barr row,
especially to appear self important
those of the Senate
does saul full bellow.