Exhibition Poems | Examples

The Postmodernist Exhibition

Last night's storm
has left its artwork on the beach,
a postmodernist exhibition 
of brown seaweed strewn in clumps 
like hair on a barbershop floor,
broken seashells 
and a fallen rainbow of plastics 
strung out along the shore
where now an exhausted sea
licks the leftovers of a meal.

Chaos has been distilled down
to washed up artifacts 
and red bottle caps, drinking straws
and spoons buried deep inside a ball
of yellow twine. I cannot make
much sense of what is on display
or glean from this haphazard art
a hint of meaning 
other than in its making.

All seems uncoupled, specimens 
torn from lonely souls, bits
and pieces coughed up 
out of the exhaust of a huge machine 
whose pistons pump and drive
a spinning wheel that has no purpose. 
I pick up a plastic sandal 
and wonder whose foot 
it once belonged to, then put it back
and walk home
alone.

Squirrel Exhibition

Squirrel's Exhibition


taking all its course
in swift acrobatic feats
wind’s walnuts heist


Feb. 1,2022   7.33pm

I Don'T Like Exhibition Speakers

Join eloquent words is tempting task
invite them to your show is pure pride
demonstrate of wisdom is not talent
is total arrogance and contempt for others
is preaching without being blessed
is wanting to be greater than humanity.
and does not elevate anyone to holiness
 even  not allow anyone with God be right
still allows digging breaches of hell's path

Walking Into An Art Exhibition Outside

A long street closed
     To all traffic
     Time for a sale
     From all the stores
     On this long street

     Tables just outside
     Items on display
     For everyone
     Lots of choices
     To choose from

     There is an area
     Where artist set up
     To paint a scene
     Splashed on canvas

A Sporting Poetic Exhibition

Today West Ham Went Berserk 
And Bournemouth Lost Its Shirt 
No Need for A Cover 
Since Jason Was Sent Home to His Mother 

So Far, Its Four 
That the Hammies Have Scored 
This Will Put A Little Space 
In the Stay Out of Relegation Race 

A New Coach Is Here In Spirit 
And The Supporters Let Them Hear It 
Hopefully He Knows How To Steer 
As Everyone Cheers 

But Honestly What Will West Ham Do 
With This Athletic Job That Was Real Cool 
An Olympic Year Is Hear, What Could Be the Fear
Must It Be Chatter About Building Costs That Matter 

With the Stadium Finished in Japan 
West Ham May Want to Make Good with Its Fan 
Money and Goals Are Hard to Come
And We Enjoy These Two Things Since They Are Fun 

So, Keep It Going My Dear Hammies 
And Next Time Lets Do Another Slammy 
For the Enjoyment of The Fannies

Pictures At An Exhibition

Pictures at an Exhibition

I recently saw the ghosts of beat poet visionaries
staring lonely, from pictures at an exhibition
Ginsburg, Corso, Snyder, Kerouac, and Cassady
the murderer’s row of the desolation angels line-up
smoking cigarettes on dingy New York fire escapes
eyes squinting into the brutal mid-day sun of Tangiers
chanting Buddhist mantras in Golden Gate Park
posed with arms around each other in Mexico City
with the fires of holy imagination burning in their faces
My heroes, the ones that lit my blaze of spirit
and urged me to write with their heat and passion
burdened souls, searching out the mysteries
of rhythm and god hidden inside hip, jazz phrasings
My heart swelled with gratitude 
and for a moment, they were friends  
ghosts grown much larger than life
urging me to walk in their footsteps…

Curator's Exhibition

Eyes do speak.
It's funny how they perceive the things around.
The broken conversations heard by fully complexed ears.
I believed that I'd be ok.
The conclusions that eyes draw.
Never making sense of the words heard.
I believed it to be my biggest mistake.
Falling for the beautiful images seen.
Following sight, my first love.
Pain is often beautiful, layered one color after another.
The stories that unfold given enough time.
The initial cause and effect, forgetting the love immortalized before anything
was ever heard.
The intimacy that eyes will only understand/
Speak to me and I'll fully understand.
She'd never been in love.
I gazed intensely
Still I pursued

Exhibition Unknown

Ever watch Exhibition Unknown with Josh Gates
Uncovering ancient cities with treasures that await
His sense of humor
Makes him shrewder
Than many, he's a natural as our souls he elevates

Exhibition

Manifesting the Love of God, 
Moving with of authority the rod, 
on atemporal  life laying hold. 


showing forth his Glory, 
in the Holy Ghost making history, 
casting away all worry...... 


Author : Luckson Mupakamiso

Picasso Exhibition

we r at the picasso exhibition
i love him studied him
the naked art now
here
going through periods
blue pink delving into
cubical geometry
of figures violins
my heart is leaping with
joy
gigantic voluptuous
art on marie teres
crying sharp vagina of
dora
they were cracking jokes
we were beginning to finish
my heart is full and i was weeping
they asked me
who is picasso
your father?
i cried harder

Initial Impression of Art Exhibition

I ogled through the open Atelier,
  And chance into a spacious grotto,
  Wanting to carry out an exploration of voodoo kingdom,
  I made a pact with my kinetic limbs,
  On they ride and halt at interval
  Introducing to the eccentric phantasmagoria sheen;
  The jaunty strokes dance on sheet nondescript,
  A splash here fund a dash there, presenting views
  Of nucleus of venerable attenuation of skeletons,
  Damp dark commingle with laser flavour colours in a bout,
  The power in waves transformed curves alive,
  In practice of the occult, evergreen vision on screens;
  The spirit-fay on the bark of Iroko,
  Entangling themselves in limn haphazard liquid manner,
  Chorusing in their parasitic wail:
  You won't go until you bless me.
  The wizard tore deep into the belly of denizen,
  And offer sacks of intestine, pancreas and spleen,
  Liver and heart on thorns of kernels, 
  Including a farrago of feeze, symbolism of shaggy
  figures,
  The ragged cupboard of labourer’s model,
  Hole infested trusted rusted metals bind tight with
  arteries,
  And rope of twirling circles,
  Tin filled up to shed.

Requiem (Instrument Exhibition)

This museum is a mausoleum
The stench of decay assaults you at the door
Permeates your clothes, your skin
And sinks into the floor

Clear coffin cabinets
Proudly present their dead
For the private pleasure of public eyes
In decorative death shrouds they sleeping lie
In oak and iron beds

An entomologist’s dream
Preserved and pinned back tight
Neat little labels
Green felt canvas, dim light

An orchestra of exotic insects
Wood, wind, brass, bone
Mouths gape lamenting
In a silent secret moan 

The death bell toll resounds
As a widow’s wail, and sings
Of supple breath through tender lips
And nimble fingers on cupid’s strings

In an arid crack-lipped rasp 
They chant the cold refrain
‘We are as flame fodder masterpieces,
And worm fodder saints’

Our Lives Are An Exhibition

For the carpenter it is his hammer and saw,
for the artist, his brush and paint.
And it is God who makes us all in all
as He brings forth His gifts in the saint.

For the preacher it is his pulpit and bible,
for the writer, his paper and pen.
All of our lives are an exhibition
with His message to the hearts of men.

For it matters not what field of labor
you find yourself moving through here.
If what you do is in obedience to Him-
as others see, to the cross they'll draw near.

Lay hold of the gifts given you by God
and speak a word of life in due season.
For all are called and not just the preacher
to show hope in God's Love as the reason.


(As the reason for why we do what we do)




Douglas L. Ace

Exhibition In Memory

Abstracts hang:
sterling silver frames,
matted in motif,
celebrating Artist.
An exhibit, ten years old,
collects dust, forcing recollection.
The mortuary – Boyhood Curiosity.
Mother: Naked. Stretched. Stiff. Grey.

Tin baking dishes engulfed the counters.
Great aunts and second cousins crowded our sofas.
Somber chatter and pats on the head stung.
Clasping my girl’s hand, I twisted my door knob 
quietly. Their chatter continued. 
I escaped into her for my first kiss: 
tear salt and cherry lip gloss.

Tuna casserole and ambrosia slopped
into lunch boxes. The cold steel of fresh
cut key tapped on chest, pulled the string around
my neck, leaving a rash. I walked into our empty house.
The walls echoed.  Odor from cold spiral ham
replaced aroma of fresh cookies and oil paint.

Art followed Artist.  Canvases were laid on the autopsy
table, framed for their wake.
Dressed in their Dynamic Blue, 
Electric Lime and Habanero Red, 
the dirging dead
hang on wall.

Our Exhibition Before An Ignorant Audience

The scent still lingers on my fingertips
Of days and nights and houses on fire
We are the nostalgia of nothing that tires
A metaphoric phrase amongst the most literal of days
The poise and the name will always remain
My recent awakening, a beast nonesuch
And our mothers never knew as much
A stroke, a glance, a branded touch
`												
So we dance within this hourglass
As if time is whipping by
For we neither have such a thing to waste
Nor are the fools to turn awry
We’ll continue these weightless rounds
Our limbs contently extended and sound
Tongues that talk of shapes and escapes
Oh, the routes we’ll take

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