Best Visualized Poems
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
There were the usual horse collars, clocks and various sundries on display.
Havin' no need fer horse collars and sech, I quickly passed them by,
But a paintin' of an abandoned stagecoach really caught my eye!
The artist depicted it in a field overgrown with tumbleweeds and brambles.
It looked so very forlorn, its former glory now in a total shambles!
I contemplated this poignant scene and mused upon its past,
And how it may have helped conquer the western frontier so very vast!
I could picture the cranky driver a-cussin' and crackin' his leather whip,
Stingin' the ears of his cantankerous mules urgin' them on to a faster clip!
As they raced across arid deserts and rounded treacherous mountain curves,
How the passengers must've been jostled, gittin' on each others nerves!
I visualized the characters that old stage must've transported to the west!
There were gamblers seekin' suckers, concealin' ample aces in their vest!
Platoons of preachers clutchin' their Bibles were numbered 'mongst the hosts,
And young and innocent teachers were headin' west to teach at army posts!
Soiled doves, plyin' their trade, were headed fer sawdust saloons.
I wondered if the old stage had ever been sacked by outlaws and their goons.
I reckon the old derelict had earned its repose - its axles no longer squeal.
If only that old stage could speak! My oh my! The secrets it might reveal!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
A Poetry Souper, seeing bright stars,
Grabbed his PC and headed for Mars.
He’d make some dimes by writing rhymes,
Selling them to the New Mars Times.
Traveling through the ethereal blue,
With revved up rockets, his fervor grew.
Orbiting the moon to pick up speed,
He’d bust his buttons for this brave deed.
He saw fluffy clouds for God’s gentle feet,
And wondered if galaxies were places to meet.
He visualized skipping through outer space,
Dancing with angels, but couldn’t keep pace.
He thought of Mars, as candidly prime,
Poetry Soup’s outpost, so proudly sublime!
Thousands of Martians were quick to enroll,
Clamoring to setup new poetry goals.
Little red men, each sporting a grin,
Their three-fingered fisties bearing a pen.
Female Martians seemed to insist,
On whipping out sonnets with Shakespearian twists.
The red planet shining bright in the night,
Beckons to poets seeing its sight.
Schedule your flight, and do it right quick,
For poem palaver, it does a neat trick.
EXAMPLE
We are on this Earth to learn
With a sample of description
A visual account of the relevant
Or a biblical parable illustration
That is what is called the example
The right way we should be taught
First is the beginning of the word
Exam, a test that must be caught
Then when you do finally catch on
And, actually begin to really know
You will get to become the example
Teaching while you continue to grow
An example is being the mimic
Of what has happened already
Ex means past, to look back on
Ample is the full reference we see
A live sample view of the lesson
Which is the reflection of your life
As you climb up the steps to success
Or spiral down tangled rows of strife
We do learn and teach by example
Be sure exactly who you are imitating
For the example to be set as good
Or a truth of moral you are illustrating
The example can be either visualized
By your reflection or given spiritually
Like a parable coming from the Bible
Either way it is being like a mere copy
It seems easy to learn, teach, set or be
An example of a genuine duplication
Yet it is so difficult for me to describe
Just this simple example explanation
Florence McMillian (Flo)
Will I Recognize… The Face Of Love?
Or the Wonderful, Bedazzled Appearance of:
A Moon-kist Meadow, Hushed and Dark
A Solitary Silhouette, this Beauty Mark,
Windswept Grasses, like a Babe’s Soft Lashes
Rippling across Earth, that’s smooth as a Cheek.
In the Hushed and Flowery Scented Air…
Your Face of Love Materializes, Silvery, Full
The Face of Love … is Unforgettable.
From the Face of Love … Will I Withdraw?
The Face of Love without Any Flaw;
As a Canopy of Clouds with the Splendor of Sunbeams
Piercing past the fluffy powder of Heaven, to Radiate Gleams
A Classical Cameo-Sculpture, Perfect Profile Structure
Yea… in the Bright Beacons, I see Your Smile
In the Illumed, Clear Sky, ‘Your Face’
Can Love’s Face be Touched … Attainable?
The Face of Love … is Unforgettable.
The Face of Love … I Have Visualized,
Potent, Breathtaking, The Vision Rised;
From a Sunlit Lake, Winking as Would Diamonds.
Your Face of Love, Emerging from Far Beyond
The Depths of the Lake, as My Heart Quaked,
because of the Wavering Portrait’s Peace
because of Water-Color Caresses.
That Face of Love, was so Tangible.
The Face of Love … so Unforgettable
The Face of Love … has Gazed Upon
Dreams of Mine, the World’s Not Known
… Out of the Woodland’s Emerald Mist
With Drops of Dew, Love’s Face Kissed
The Framing Boughs; My Relaxed Brow.
Floating… Breathing out the Mist of Morn Light
That I may Sketch Your Face of Love, in Life.
The Face … More Handsome, than Sons of the Womb, is Possible…
The Face of Love … is Unforgettable
(For A Medieval-Tongued Poet, I Found Here at The Soup...
Ismael Nieves, this one's for you Kiddo
Mistress MoonBee
Enthusiasm sweeps me up and
tosses me casually into the wind.
I travel heights never travelled before
To far away places
Smelling flowers not fully visualized
More fragrant than any earthly daisy
The sights are vague as I am tossed about,
but gently, endearingly
I do not argue or fight this freedom
I am feeling, unencumbered
in every way, an honor to my gypsy soul self
Encouraged to create art in a variety of forms
God given utter joy and permission
to create whatever I desire with bliss and love
Written: January 09, 2024
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Seen through a sepia scale
Drab grief, of hiemal cradle
mirthless, a desolate land
shrouded in frozen doldrums,
amid solemn ripples
on threnody and sizzle
akin to a gentle sway
with a oneiric, susurrous
tambourine wave of yore
rain whistles in tune
of doodles in gold and silver.
Swells of silk
of a hypnotic spell—origami
wispy petrichor wafts!
It was tender
ignominious mayhem
of withering earth
sadly surprised
amidst golden neon notes
and vermilion,
as stricken soil stirs.
And flushes in luscious tones
of singing and crystals
as daffodils and clover bloom
amidst webs of aurelian curls
a fairy's rhapsody,
let spring song rise!
each seed that is still alive
hope will sprout subtly,
to refuel the soul
from the cosmic womb.
Wars will hinder any way to harmony
and allegiance to nations
Earth is our vast home
we purport as world healers
send me a melody
smoother than embers
we're rooted in clay
as melody with thawing knack
once I visualized piano tunes,
each tone evoked anguish
yet, our sonata is harmless
paramount of my persona
beyond brink of kismet
we ought to sigh and cry
sultry concerto
In a garden labyrinth.
Give me that old skool love, a groovy throw back
kind of love that is black and white like the first TVs.
A tapered leg acid washed jean trouser and a crop
top feeling sexy.
A striped miniskirt with leg warmers and go-go boots
to swirl on the dance floor.
Give me a classic kind of love, a ride or die commitment
that means so much more than being called, “boo” or “bae”.
A mature relationship where i am the only girl you chase.
Write me a love letter and create a mix tape for me.
Dedicate to me a song on the radio and fill my ears with
sweet loving endearments as we get lost in a deep embrace.
Give me the Love Jones, a jazzy soul under the moonlight.
Serenade me by singing my favorite song.
Put some money in the jukebox and spin with me like
quilts of silk.
We will set the dance floor on fire as our favorite old
skool jam plays.
Dim the lights and caress me in a slow dance as our souls
intertwine and bodies sway to the fading rhythm of the night.
Give me that sensual vintage love, the barbecue parties,
movie nights and a night cap.
The kind you don’t see in these times, the type of love
that’s a mystery and a craving to many.
The love that was groomed under the stars and bloomed
during the Harlem renaissance.
A deeper and more tangible connection than video chat
on the internet.
A strong bond that built relationships and kept families together.
So, give me that real old skool love.
The kind fabricated in romantic movies, visualized by poets,
painted by great artists and reproduced by sensational
soul musicians like Gerald Levert, Luther Vandross, Teddy
Pendergrass, Anita baker, Chaka Khan and Regina belle.
Make it sensual and sexy, deep and mind blowing, as tasty
as chocolate, and smooth like butter.
Create a carnival procession in my mind and feed me
with romantic vibes.
Let’s fill the streets with our own mushy public display
of affection.
Let’s talk for hours on the telephone, cab and travel
until anywhere, fill my head with talks of forever as we
sail swiftly on our own old skool yacht.
A faded, vintage and washed out photograph feel
embraces my soul to create beautiful images,
I love to capture texture and detail and shapes
and the shadows and details are truly amazing.
It is endless the beautiful images that can be visualized
the only limit is imagination and inspiration,
I find black and white photography dramatic and vivid
never mind the cost of film developing and the time.
Step into an out-dated, antiquated age that is alive
delight in how the light falls and the intensity,
manipulate the image to compose a mood and aura divine
I have started thinking in black and white.
. . . and just turn off your color vision
__________________________________
March 20, 2015
Poetry/Verse/Thinking In Black and White
Copyright Protected, ID 03-655-627-20
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, The Colors Black and White
Sponsor, Laura Loo, Judged 2017
First Place
___________________________
Entered in the Standard contest, Black and White Photograph
Sponsor, Giorgo, Judged 2015
First Place
Words are the quintessential mystical fabric and common medium of all poetry.
Words often portray what the poet sees, senses, feels, imagines, and even dreams.
The very magic of poetry comes to life from a deliberate woven process
Of words enveloped into thoughts, metaphors, beliefs, situations, and emotions.
There is a saying in the original Latin: “Verba sunt indices animi,”
Which when rendered in English is: “Words are the indices of the mind.”
Words, in the poetic sense, form the ethereal undergirding for these indices
And beckon all poets to think deeply and precisely—and to challenge their thoughts.
As poets develop and expand the precious word treasures of their minds,
They begin to see and sense over time a deeper understanding of the human psyche,
And a greater appreciation for the complex circumstances and interactions of people
Which drive the human endeavor—good, bad, happy, sad, glad or indifferent.
Words then form the very symbolic arrows in the poet’s quiver to be employed
With thoughtful care and meaning, enraptured intent, and an enchanted vision.
We as poets should strive for nothing less as we reflect on our poetic visions,
For these can be always visualized in: “Words are the indices of the ‘poetic’ mind."
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany (September 23, 2014)
Am I the one you dream of,
Am I the one you prayed silently for with closed eyes at your bed side,
Am I the one you magnificently created of her figment,
Deeply rooted and knotted in that dark part of your past.
Do you think you can create, recreate those vivid but vague images of her carbon
copy through me?
Am I the one you want to smile like her,
Caress, embrace and erase your deviant discrepancy.
Have you visualized the slaving, the hard work she put in?
It seems I am the one you want to prolong the epidemic of your rage
Am I the one you really care for
Or am I just a coaster to absorb that water from your glass
Am I the one you pictured walking towards you on that cool Sunday evening
In that small chapel on the side of that Hill.
Am I the one you will share and tell stories about,
The one who will inspire you to become greater than you.
Will I be the one you run to when all hell breaks lose?
Am I the one you place above all other.
Will I be the one to conceive and bear seed just to please you?
Seeds that resemblances you and in essences are you
Will I ever be that one?
The one you have morphed within the cavity of your brain.
.
The poem was visualized on the front, screen porch,
in silence, in wonder...
It swarmed the Autumn-purpled flowers by the door,
leafed through reds, golds of the Chinaberry Tree...
sleucing words down Sunday-wet-tin,
onto the wooden steps.
The poem never stalked like Lady McBeth, through
darkness to her ending hall, last line spoken...
Never flew too close to the Sun, as Icarus,
gathered no Phoenix rebirth...
The poem did not herald a magical Sunday.
For the poem stayed on the front porch,
and was never written.
.
She stood there, by the roadside;
eyes of obsidian,
framed in wispy lashes.
I was certain that she’d run
onto the crowded interstate.
The closer that I got, the more intense,
my neck muscles, grew.
In my mind, I visualized her,
leaping back into the woods.
I prepared to pull over,
but no one else was doing that for a deer,
I felt; at any rate,
I would not be dining on road kill tonight
and I hoped that, no one else would.
Go back into the woods, baby;
over and over I thought
and visualized her graceful rebound.
I drew closer, prepared to pull of onto the gravel;
I would not let her beauty be spoiled.
Tension turning neck and shoulders steeled,
I chanted my mantra…”go back…go back, baby”,..
Her soft, brown head turned, to look at me;
an instant glance,
confirmed that she’d received my message;
as she bounded back to the safety of her wood.
The focused mind, can work small miracles;
More than one life, was spared, that day.
Oh, Ravi Varma, you are a legend!
When I look at this Indian postage stamp
(brought out in your honour),
a miniature of your self-portrait
with the inset of your painting
of the legendary Damayanti
with the mystic swan,
I am of course reminded
of the well-known little narrative,
the episode from the grand epic—the Mahabharata:
Princess Damayanti interacting with
the soothsayer-swan, which,
at the moment, is suggesting to her
to take King Dushyanta as her spouse—
in the ensuing swayamvara, the moment of choice
(of a husband from among the suitors),
and Damayanti listening,
with bated breath, to the mystic bird.
My stream of consciousness takes me
to the originals—oil on canvas:
the strikingly common feature in both the portraits,
I must observe, are the observant eyes—
Your bright, beady, artistic eyes
And Damayanti’s glittering eyes
that nearly give away the excitement
surging in her, the bhava;
and her bhava, too, her posture.
My thought stream takes me further
to the other eyes in your enchanting array of portraits—
of the celestial Mohini with her bewitching eyes
And the legendary Shakuntala with her alluring, lovelorn eyes—
to mention just two.
Your artistic mind visualized the scenes
and your eyes didn’t fail to capture the bhavas,
and the bhavas, that is, the feelings
together with the complementary postures.
Oh legend, you have had your accolades—
national as well as international;
You also had to face turbulent criticism;
you still face it.
But, as we know, it’s not the grounded aircraft,
but the flying plane that faces turbulence!
***
seen from the highway traversing
backroads in central south dakota
the framework of an old homestead
a carapace more than a structure
in the distance gnarled limbs held
rusted barbed wire in place as fence
scant distance from the homestead's
weathered shell still standing proud
a decades old Aermotor windmill.
it filled a galvanized tank guarding
life giving water for far grazing cattle
golden crisp prairie grasses spread
far as an eye could survey
weathered bond of the homestead's
walls stood--relics of another age
hardened and annealed from
daily immersion in plains weather
noble despite capitulating to time.
in the minds eye he sees the windmill
at Little Reata from the movie "Giant"
as light faded welcoming the dusk he could see
the youthful Jett Rink climbing its ladder
rising to gain the platform-then squatting
to survey his empty land
the silhouette of Jett's sharp-cut features
visualized more than open grassland
Jett envisioned an empire. the visitor kept
mementos of a unique bygone era.
old homestead
9-29-16
I guess I was a gift that was never opened, a question that was never answered,
a clever thought that was never utilized, a blessing from God, never realized,
only criticized and recognized, through the temporary owner of the devil’s eyes,
lies vividly visualized, and analyzed, through those who socialize, just listen why
my soul cries, love unveils, hate’s disguise, my heart’s been floured-n-fried, from
those who used it to capitalize, like the ocean’s tides, my temperature rise, even
though I am alive, a part of me just died, that part of me, was a gift that was
never opened, a question never answered, a clever thought, never utilized, now
through severed ties, your blessing from God is realized and recognized, this is
what it sounds like when love dies.