Best Vincent Poems
from beyond his
vibrant palette
that bore all his
lifelong scars
is what I see
beneath his sky
and myriad
of stars
a scene of shades
and silhouettes
formed by the
yellow light
that hints at
The Last Supper
at that café
in the night?
Vincent van Gogh**
Sliced his left ear off
Only one painting did Van Gogh sell -
maybe he didn’t hear the doorbell!
The only painting Van Gogh sold during his lifetime was Red Vineyard at Arles
**Based on the European pronunciation of the name which is Van Goff!
05~30~15
Entered into Premiere contest #11 sponsored by Skat A
an asylum's garden~irises full of life without tragedy
the sky resonates
with what’s written in the silk of stars,
in pulse-burned pensiveness,
penned in poignancy,
personifying pain
with yellow-gold dust,
where lament liquefies and softens
into an ethereal lake,
chronicling it with surging blue sparks ~
an evening elixir, enveloped
in confetti cravings…
this l o v e knows not
the ingredients of
ephemeral effervescence,
as the thriving tip of twilight
manifests the magic of want,
whilst I tremble,
engrossed in the thought
of moon-flame touch,
brimming,
brewing,
breathing
across cups of catharsis,
concocted with caffeinated calmness ~
aligning the inner innocence
still longing in loneliness,
amidst seated strangers
lost in their own appetizing lyrics,
clothed in cold cobalt colors,
unaware of the emptiness
they feed their mindless muse
from superficial spoons
filled with smoke and silence ~
like scattered illusions,
illustrated with surreal ink…
what if I hold onto forever fallacies
hiding within?
would I be promised
a peaceful plate of patience
beneath ineffable iridescence ~
for I’ve feverishly struggled
to rephrase the verdicts behind
faces phasing in the haze of life,
sipping sorrow
as if it were mocha ~
balmy, bittersweet,
burning in sync with my
Swarovski crescent crooning
lullabies to diamonds dancing
in infinite nebulae,
carrying secrets the table holds,
served in sincere oblivion…
and I am still learning and healing
the soul’s breaking lines,
to leave lovelorn reveries
without losing the light of lucidity,
letting go of their narrow narrative
of me and my ache ~
of us and our heat,
as even the routined routes
could not erase what’s
handwritten in a heart made heavy…
so wait not for the
rise of supernova sanguinity ~
I am not the warmth of woven woes.
I am a charismatic chameleon,
~ c o m p l e x ~ cautious ~
catching comet-notes,
camouflaged in melancholic versions
of humankind,
hiding vulnerability
within firm flares of vivid vibrations…
O beloved night,
on this terrace, I devour, not alone,
but evermore lonely,
i m m e r s e d
in the forlorn frequency
of stellar fire…
July 29, 1890
Colored daubs and swatches
crave artist’s practiced hand.
Justice, nearly blind, yet watches—
unwrought art upon a stand.
Regard the brushes in a row—
the palettes and the sponges.
Genius maimed by status quo,
vain a hope that fate expunges.
Guttered myriad lifelong dreams—
in desperate ruination.
Fading now the piteous screams
of self-inflicted termination.
Time Passes
Abruptly then adoring praise—
contrived their sudden expertise.
Rude cabal who would appraise—
byzantine their guileful sleaze.
Each masterpiece a servant
of craven yearn and greed.
Bang the gavel, swift and fervent;
sate purveyors’ inveterate need.
Justice now is truly blind;
vanished those She would impute.
His final piece is left unsigned;
and undisclosed, for now She’s mute.
4th Place: I Love Rock and Roll
Inspired by Don McLean's song, Starry Starry Night
Now, I am speechless; I am without speech
As you transcend the simplistic to grand
Grant me the guidance of your gifted hand
In the temple of your pen, I beseech
To climb in your footsteps of verse, and reach
Green summits of imagery-laden lands
My throat growing tight as your voice expands
As my eyes feast on all you have to teach
Seeds planted long past still flower, untrimmed
Beyond the span of pink springs come and gone
Nor even the darkness of death can dim
Words lit luminous in eternal dawn
A timeless poet's timely passions brim
In lyrical legacy, sonnet drawn.
6/11/20
(this is an ode to my all time favorite poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay; if you would like to read some of her work, I recommend 'The Spring and the Fall', 'Dirge without Music', 'Prayer to Persephone', or the sonnet which begins 'Love is not all, it is not meat nor drink' or 'I shall forget you presently, my dear' - but I love all of it!)
OH VINCENT
Oh Vincent, can we ever know what torments plagued you;
what demons fought you; what images raped your senses?
It was no accident that you sent blinding blasts of brightness
swirling, like hurled saucers to splatter upon your night sky canvases.
There you found your voice feathered
with mixed hues of unrelenting colors
swished in among tired out bristles.
Unconstrained, they brought to life
the frenzied haunting façade of your crazed visions.
Oh Vincent, you have tried to paint pictures of God,
broken frames holding thoughts alive within a broken soul,
You felt other’s deep sorrows and you placed
your mournful tears upon empty spaces,
and rendered images of a faceted life,
conceived from a passionate heart.
Oh Vincent, you created holy existences
upon folios of painted scenes
the glory of dreams carefully uncovered
and laid bare to once again transcend life
as permanent shapes and shadows.
Evocative images were lured into sensory miracles
of what you wanted to offer, and of all you had to offer
You told your stories in ways only you could express.
But, oh Vincent, I ask you, was it really ever enough?
CAK 2-20-2014
heart ~ a wild collage
of gold-smeared skies
pressed within
oil-washed layers
of breathing
melancholy
as leaves curled in
cashmere greens
trace
condensed contours
between
the restless air
stroking
the pine needles
soaked in the
dewy-dreamed breeze
of piercing persimmon
where time takes
a trembling leap
sailing into
vermilion arms
of the
colorful oblivion...
and herbs of hope
f
a
l
l
like iron nails of silence
as the sun seizes
saffron sighs of love
caged amidst
the tangerine tips
of tomorrow,
peeking from the
edge
of
f l e e
t i
n g
summer,
as amber embers
s w i r l and s w a y
above roots of resilience
rushing with
grains of patience
while you
question the
velvety filter
of fatigued fog
as if every
burden I’ve worn~
almost bent
and broken,
is a fabricated lie
sketched not
with tears...
O lovelorn twigs
forlorn ferns
this I frame
in
windswept woes ~
an aesthetic archive
in the museum
of
r u s
t l i
n g
murmurs…
Chases me down a paint-stained alley.
My feet are swollen—maybe someday they’ll rot
Exhausted from the brush stroke agony
I seize when the light forces itself upon me
When will I decide to turn myself into dust
Deranged is what I seem to be
They locked me in a rage-filled scene
Hearing petrified, hate-charged screams.
Peering through the curtains as I wake from restless sleep
Staring at a starry night
It sings me a melodic, stunning melody
Maybe the air that flows through my lungs
Perhaps the heart that pumps my blood
Is not what I truly need
Maybe a pistol will give me ultimate peace
Perhaps a bullet will allow me to foresee
As I lay near my brother
I don't sob, I don't plead
The life I lived wasn't for me
“The sadness will last forever”
It won't be cured by remedies
So I must cut short my legacy
The rope that strangled me with miseries
My death is not a tragedy
The wheat blades read as alphabets;
And the flowing fields, a poetry -
Winds guiding the tune and the rhythm;
The horizon blends the sky and verse,
A still painting paints this flow of poetry
Any wonder how the flow of his brush followed his still mind?
Vincent
from within sanctum dykes
glamour
birthed from sorrow
celestial brightness
whirling
in Prussian azure
and sublime gold
Urania in the welkin'
blackness in the spirit
breezes probes hefty
all alone in your wisdom
an optical lover
within
dancing with orbs
through gaps with iron rods
go bust in flesh
your title
always
moored in the starlit darkness.
Written September 29, 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
in need of breeze
beyond the noise,
seconds slither
through veined currents,
smothering the light within,
as silence forgets
the syllables of stillness
turning the sky
into a sea of electric blue ~
waves carrying
the weight of quiet grief,
restless ripples
pushing...pulling...
toward the swirls
of love
etched beneath
the midnight sun…
and if tomorrow I f a d e
intrinsic ink phase,
remember me as the dusk
that defied
treacherous tremors of dark ~
I gathered sparks
from spiraling stars
as constellations
shattered and crashed
against shivering skin
within this sleepless home,
carving a sapphire silhouette
of solitude ~
a poet drowning
in a demented dream
in the heart of
an unnamed village,
no soul of dawn longed to see,
unaware of heaven
hidden beneath
brush-bruised strokes,
where only a
feeler’s eyes
could trace the
fine feathers
f l o a t i n g through
the finesse
of a forlorn life…
Dew drops grace green grasses
Soothing like my pearly power shower
I choose the right outfit for an orange day
Under the fruit bowl by Vincent Van Gogh
Breakfast bar stool welcomes hungry hips
Honey dew melon kisses lips
Pray meditate talk to God and myself
Water plants feed perky pets sweep steps
Thunderous thud at the French door
Blue genes deliver the paper boy
Who always smells like molasses
Busy red rush for beige boisterous bus
Cool car pool to trendy train that passes
Helium houses that empty again of masses
Spied by sharp eyed animals of prey
Early bird flight climb sky
By Water Lily Lake
Sun is a ball of fire rolling uphill
A wise bald eagle relaxes on top of the world
His seat red, white, blue flag’s pole by the mill
Sun rays in his face
Tattoo him as silhouette Smokey gray
...with gratitude to an incomparable artist
Your vision is a beacon
gracing us with golden sheen,
though your heart was dark and heavy
with redemption rarely seen.
You plumbed the probabilities
of faithlessness and fear,
you challenged life's inequities
and often with a tear
of sadness in your dream-dimm'd eyes
and shades of anguish too,
this world was never meant
for one as beautiful as you.
sloppy fields carpeted
with golden mellowing wheats
a fevered light
with vibrant sun, trapped in pigment
bleeds across the canvas
the wheat, thousands of tiny swords
with each stalk a silent hum
caressed by a gentle breeze
ever try to reach
the impossible blue
some dark green defiant cypresses
overshadowing the surrounds
stretching towards the sky
spinning their secret story
of sublime strength and resilience
providing shade around them
stand as silent vigils
guarding intruders
a serpentine path
winds its way through the fields
leading to some houses
and beyond to a cobalt stream
the dwellings of familiar shape
not grand, not imposing
stand gazing at the sapphire sky
shrouded with some stretches
of cotton clouds
each window, a rectangle of mystery
holds surreal surprises
one can hardly guess
blooming like whispers
with the chimneys` silhouettes
a smudge of charcoal
breathing quiet sighs
into the vast, indifferent air
in the background
hills shaped in quasi-perfect triangles
reflect the azure blue sky
merging with the horizon
with a sense of infinity
it is not just a scenic scene
of undulating wheat fields
and giant cypresses
but a warmth of feeling
a serenity made tangible
a quietude, that speaks
its own language
Vincent with his passionate brush
made the scene bloom
made it blaze
a place for living in peace
a place for inhaling nature`s bliss
a piece of land fallen
from heaven to earth.