Best Vincent Van Gogh 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…
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
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
Look what you have left us, Vincent van Gogh
Found hiding under your tormented mind
A vision of your Starry Night in Rhone
The Night Cafe' was revenge of a kind
At Eternity's Gate one sits and cries
But I reside in A Poet's Garden
Thirty seven years of visions disguised
You turned from God as your heart hardened
In suffering your gift was your pardon
At night I sit in your Cafe' Terrace
And contemplate the dreams you starred in
The Self Portrait you painted in Paris
Thank you for the chance to let us all see
Your brilliant visionary ecstasy
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Spenserian Sonnet abab bcbc cdcd ee
Vincent Van Gogh
By Dane Smith-Johnsen
Passion tormenting.
Acceptance? Unholy flaw.
Vibrant colors capturing,
All alone he saw.
Beyond starry skies at night,
Honored by his vibrant brush.
Cypress glory, bright,
Embedded images hushed.
Country houses, peasants, cows,
Smitten. His soul crushed.
Chestnut trees. And coleus.
Perfected by sorrows eyes.
Lilac bushes. Irises.
Still Van Gogh's soul cries.
Orchards' blossoms, olive trees,
Fields. Bottles. Hats. Books. And Seas.
Still-lives. Harvests. Groves.
Then, to the asylum led.
Protected from hurtful flows.
Eyes absorbing strife-
Gripping anticipations.
Frantic energetic strokes,
Garden. Creations.
Pondering at his easel.
Paint, brushes and canvas hoped.
Life moaned in his face.
Endless striving. His mind seized.
Competition wore him down.
Peer recognitions.
Pained. Rejected. Feeling naught.
Oh, “Sunflowers in a Vase”,
By death fame was bought.
"Self-Portrait In Front Of The Easel"
To view, use the link below.
http://globalwholesaleart.com/selfportrait-front-easel-p-6458.html
This poem was written for Abe Lopez's Van Gogh contest
I heard…
he was higher than the starry sky he painted
a genius’ stroke with a sable red brush
dipped in white opium dust
of pain hidden from the mirror’s occupant
agony twisted darker than the starry canvas
concealed behind glistening constellations of doubt
to live or die
the artist painted Vincent’s Sky
I know…
the piercing pain of abandoned nights
allegations echoing the deeds of a sinner
bearing track marks on rawboned arms
chained to opium’s ether
blinding sodium vapor stars
broken asphalt lulling my dreams
to live or die
straining to enter
Vincent’s Sky
When the heart seeks understanding
When the heart shows true passion
Yet aware, taking the gift of caring
"with a dull ear"
In a distance
The blade glistened
as your package arrived on time
Say they "a madman to degree"
To lose thy hearing for thee!
Yet left behind
a masterpiece
"can you hear me"?
She screamed,
She weeped....
Thanks for mentioning Van Gogh in your write today, John R. ~I did something with it! :)
VINCENT VAN GOGH COMES CALLING FOR CHRISTMAS
V.V.G. was broke again
On his way to feast with mother
Wrapped up his ear
As gift for brother
ART Vincent Van Gogh
An Afinity of Yellow
The moon is slowly engaging the afternoon sun
and the crows fly randomly o’er the fields
where wheatfields bloom with hues
of radiant energy and bright patches
of yellow imitating the sun
and Vincent, the Artist applies on the canvas
a black stroke here and a black stroke there
before the crows disperse and disappear
his Wheatfields with Crows he would create
he steps back to observe but his mind
is uneasy his affinity for the bright color yellow
is enhancing his depressed manic state
and he must strife for completion
before it’s too late for his mind and his soul
will be lost to his inevitable fate
but the Van Gogh legend must carry on
that he must fall and rise again
to seek out the night and to paint the stars
by the river Rhone
then repose himself at the Night Cafe
an absinthe to create a sensation
of a light burning bright in his brain
to paint on the morrow and borrow
what goodness will come his way
but the days grow short he can only hope
for a promising sign that he can cope
Celebration of Art Contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues
April 28, 2017
soft voices splintered by thunderous laughter
float
in the cool September night air.
serving savoury tastes
of garlic, thyme and wine
le garcon de cafe shivers, eager to be cocooned
like a butterfly in radiating warmth from the cafe’s heart
under a paled lemon awning,
statuesque lanterns extend towering candlelit arms
to paint the terrace and its patrons below amber,
while illuminating dancing shadows on scarred tables
imperfect light from windows of darkened houses
splash the nearby cobblestone street
creating an illusion of blue black and
aubergine paves
under starry lit inky skies
evening amblers footsteps echo in quiet conversation
unaware the solitary pine tree in the Place
became a shadow.