Long Artiste Poems
Long Artiste Poems. Below are the most popular long Artiste by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Artiste poems by poem length and keyword.
By different lovers I’ve been kept,
some skillful and a few inept.
I always respond, unafraid.
I rather enjoy being played.
A Spaniard picked me up one time.
His classic strumming was sublime.
Notes poured from me like a cascade.
I rather enjoy being played.
That man released me, and soon I
was picked up by a strange punk guy
who stroked me roughly. Though betrayed,
I rather enjoy being played.
My strings broke often from his touch,
yet thrilled was I by his thrum. Such
unique new tunes from me were made.
I rather enjoy being played.
His sister held me awkwardly,
but then she sang so beautifully
it mattered not my sound would fade. . .
I rather enjoy being played.
She and her brother gave me to
some plucking fools without a clue
till an artiste came to my aid.
I rather enjoy being played.
He pressed my frets, this handsome boy.
My stings were vibrating with joy.
I climaxed with his smooth glissade.
I rather enjoy being played.
With him I hope to have remained
in years to come. His love’s unfeigned.
Although I know at times he’s strayed,
I rather enjoy being played.
“The window gives the eyes a view of where the door leads.”
Quote_ by Poet
Out the window, beauty pervades,
Inside my chamber, night invades,
Out the window, I see colours,
Inside my chamber is a pathway that contours.
Out the window is a vast unknown,
Inside my chamber, I bear the seeds sown,
Out the window is a change of seasons,
Inside my chamber is the permuting of reasons.
Out the window, nature whispers,
Behind those walls, the artiste searches for what inspires,
Out the window, I'm embraced by nature,
It doesn’t consider my stature.
Out the window, are the places I desire to see,
The sages say the will dwells in me,
Out the window, I see a meadow,
A reminder of an old man's shadow.
See this girl in the painting, this skinny girl
working on a puzzle at the bottom of the stairs.
With big rimmed glasses and her plain brown hair,
she’s an ordinary girl, with nothing seeming special.
Now see this girl. . . really SEE this girl.
At age 12, she’s just been fitted with new glasses -
They are black horn-rimmed - an utter disappointment
in the life of a young girl.
Some guys now call her four-eyes, and they don’t even notice
the beauty of her light green eyes and
long lush lashes behind those big-framed glasses.
But still she likes to fantasize, and in her dreams
she’s idolized by every boy she likes.
Always having wanted to be part of the “in” crowd,
she was a girl that struggled for popularity.
However, she’s been learning of another way to be!
Seeking out girls more like her, she hardly has to try
to fit in with her new friends. And now she’s much less shy.
With fun new friends, she is witty. She makes them laugh.
She’s even feeling pretty, wearing lipstick frosty pink.
She’s discovered she is smart in all her classes.
This girl who now is wearing black rimmed glasses!
She gets into the Glee Club, even sings on PBS!
With her athleticism, she also has success.
She makes Top Twelve in tryouts for cheerleading.
And though the student body does not vote her through,
she’ll soon get over it. She’s blossoming!
The glasses she will change for contact lenses,
and she does not know it yet,
but soon enough - a number of boyfriends she will get!
Also years of dance lessons and being in recitals
has boosted her self confidence.
Both her body and her spirit are transforming!
See the girl in the painting; a puzzle she assembles.
She does not know that one day
her mind will be on puzzles of a very different kind:
She will be assembling many words inside her mind,
and she will be partaking in an art called poetry.
I know all this because
the girl inside that painting - that ordinary girl -
is the one I used to be.
Based on the painting "Assembling the Pieces"
from Contemporary Figurative Artiste Stephanie Deshpande
for the Contemporary Free Rhyme Contest of Cyndi MacMillan
I hope you will see the painting at this link. When I saw the girl, I was
struck by how much it looked like me as a young girl: http://www.stephaniedeshpande.com/porfolio/
On a lower branch of a crooked mango tree ,
Flapping wings and shining tail , in charge
Perched the happy rooster steady and free,
Intending to view his surroundings at large ,
And announced sharp : cock- a- doodle - doo :
' Know that after all the world is mine too '.
From the cloudy grey sky , like an alien
Descended a peacock in all blue and green ,
Jiggling crest and dangling super-tail in wont mien
And in proud stance began afresh to preen ,
Intimidating the little aborigine with a scream
Aloud to defy all and claim to be supreme
Minutes lapsed before the ice was broken
As the intruder in a half- friendly way said ,
Poising : '' Of what entity are you a token..
'' Your feathers are but greenish black and red ;
'' Yet is there pride in quarrels and crowing vanity ,
'' To end up as a delicacy for the humanity '' .
The other lost his temper and did thus retort :
' Perhaps you know not how they relish
' Even their drinks , naming my tail smart ;
'And more , their menu we do, forever replenish ;
'For sporting too ,each kills the other with spur ,
' Truly a cringing thing to shame and abhor ' .
Amused , the artiste with the left foot
Straightened the talons and popped down in style
And as the clouds became heavy and acute ,
With feathers blue, green and brown, the while ,
Shining in full bloom and span, danced: a spell !
Rhythm, quiver and numerous eyes - a marvel !
Thus went the rival feats of the fowls twain
While from behind the thick foliage unseen ,
A cuckoo began its sweet song in pitched strain
To match the mood and melody - abstract and keen ;
Somewhere in the distance the grey clouds began
To jump down in drizzles and droplets to scan .
Gentle light flows through the pines,
Inviting the oaks, the laurels, to sigh,
Echoing soft breath, smoke rising –
Mist in the sky, a moment of silence
Breaks the song, playing on the crisp morn’
This is summer’s sadness, when August
Shadows the heat, the sweltering thoughts
Erasing July quicker than sunlight erases
The dew from tender petals who remember
Only the beginnings of dawn’s presence
Soon, Autumn will write its lyrics in dancing
Leaves, vibrant promises of scarlet and gold,
Enchanting the dreams with laughing hues,
Music playing quietly on the still, cool morning
When a heart reaches through the misty air
This is the best recollection of the autumnal
Wings, airborne, soaring gracefully over the
Trembling skies – into the endless veils, vapors
Still, ashen clouds, mysteries in the heavens,
Inspiring poetry from those who write visions…
Warmest wishes, feelings like leaves faded
Beneath the strongest branches, oaks and birch,
Inspirations beguiling the moon to heed the stars,
Blow away the doubts from the storms, rains falling
Melodiously, stirring the embers of a heart, a soul
August noon awaits the temptations so soon removed,
Washed away by the fond webs, the drying memories,
In tones of ashen amber, soothing auburn, reflections
Breathing out psalms along the mountain ridges,
Repeating the trembling hopes, the dreams of a spirit
Eminent woes, memories peeled away in layers –
Intimate and healing, reassuring that fall will be what it will be,
Always alive with reflections, embraces, traces of hope,
Heartfelt desires and wondering affections kissing the truth,
Abiding inside those who know this is God’s unfinished painting –
This is the treasure of summer poured out in wistful
Memories and promises, prayers for the seasonal grace,
The inspirational – the thanks, given to the One who
Captured light and poured it across the earth in one enchanting
Explosion of amazing, marvelous, stunning – even the greatest poet
Can’t write a wonder like that –
His hand, His sculpture, His creation… baffles even the most confident artiste
With God, there is no impossibility and no reason for upset
With Him, not only autumn, not just august, but the entire heart
– the whole life, the entire soul – is blessed!
SUPPORTING ARTISTE
When I used to tell people I was a film extra, or ‘supporting artiste’ as we preferred to be called, they would say, “How glamorous, mixing with all those stars.” But, of course, the reality is not like that. You get up at 3.00 am in the middle of winter, scrape the ice off the windscreen and drive for two hours to the location. Having queued in the snow for your costume, you then sit all day in a draughty marquee waiting to be called, hoping that you might find yourself near enough to the camera to be recognizable in the finished film. You certainly don’t get to mix with the stars. Once I got a small speaking part and told all my friends to watch out for my big moment. But, alas, it ended up on the cutting room floor.
far in the background
supporting artistes wander
split second of fame
28th August 2020
Let The Pens Flow - Haibun poetry contest
Sponsor - Jenish Somadas
People always assume that I am nothing new.
People always presume; let them presume.
People are always sure that there must be a cure to my broken heart,
If I only took a chance;
But the truth is I can no longer go out drinking in bars,
Travelling as a Lone Star, forever searching for romance.
I am not confident, so I will fall again and again and again,
While I wait for her to love me and then I get left behind in the rain.
I have met divine beauty and I just let her walk straight past me.
I have heard the voice of an angel,
But my mouth was empty of the right words to say.
No sunny day inside my mind today,
I let her slip away…
I am unable to be successful,
Because my timing is faithfully, always dreadful.
If she could only hear me being truthful,
She would know I think she is truly beautiful.
But I am so forgetful…Why can’t I tell her how I feel?
Why can’t I remember what I wanted to say?
Maybe she could feel the same…
Oh and the other thing I need to ask is, what is your name?
I do remember now; that song is my way.
It speaks of love; it tells me about her.
Born of true romance and loving words;
I want to take her out to dance,
But my eyes always instinctively avert.
She could be my ideal mate;
I only wish I could ask her out on a date,
But still here I wait, always too late, wasting away.
Breakfast is calling.
Guess what...I am stalling.
The story of my life;
This artiste is not performing
And she is not painting me in a pretty picture of love,
Because if I never tell her how I feel,
Then there will never be us.
I could fall so deep into her loving arms.
Her loving caress would cure my soul.
I have to tell her, but would she be alarmed,
By the words of love she never did want to hear from me?
And would I be left to regret the truth that I told?
So no, I never did win her love.
So no, I never do get to be happy.
So no, I never had the courage to say those words that I must:
‘You, my dear, I could truly love.
What do you imagine, when you think about me?
Do you even think about me?...’
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
She moves like an Angel with gossamer wings
with all the delights that being from heaven brings
that angelic smile that lights up a room
and her wonderful hearts glow that always lifts the gloom
As she dances and twirls around
her dress flowing yet so near the ground
as it rises up her long legs come into view
when the pirouette she tries to do
Up on tiptoe she glides around
the audience making no sign of sound
breathtaking maneuvers she makes at will
the scenery behind her quiet and still
Pictures of an enchanted forest show
All she wants the people to know
what her dance is all about
without having to sing or shout
The stories simple easy to follow
as she dances in sleepy hollow
whether daytime or night time scene
she glides around the floor like she’s in a dream
As she skips and jumps and does her turn
young girls in the audience sit mesmerized and yearn
to be just like her a star so bright
and have that moment, a great first night
All that training, all that work
never a moment to rest or shirk
if to be that shining star on the stage
you need to start dancing at an early age
So much dedication and the heart
to make it through from the very start
the sacrifices’ that she has made
to be at the top, where she has stayed
And as she moves with delicate ease
the only sound a muffled sneeze
to see this artiste in full bloom
as she captivates everyone’s heart in the room
She slipped into the ballroom
Shimmied across the floor
Bobbed a graceful curtsy
Slid quickly through the door
Leaving some mixed reactions
From all those gathered there
First time they’d seen a tango
With the artiste totally bare
And it’s not the sort of thing
One ever ever expects to be seen
At an Official Civic Reception
For Her Majesty the Queen
And certainly not in Bolton
Not even as a merry jest
Especially when entertaining
Hordes of other Royal Guests
Though some few unkind people
Thought the Duke wanted more
Insisting they heard that personage
Murmuring encore encore encore
The palace issued a strong denial
An apology came from Tony Blair
Seen as rather ridiculous
As he wasn’t even there
The Heir was rather annoyed
Because he hadn’t been invited
On that special day that the
Mysterious woman was sighted
Somewhere up near Wigan
The dancer read her press
Already preparing for her
Next appearance sans any dress
I reminisce of childhood prowls, the mild
Unfolding through lustrous summer sways
That in my past, musings replay when twigs
Are sprinkled with blossoms rare like
pearls. I find myself wandering downstream
On banks wading softly, entranced along
fresh shrubs…a vignette of burlap and silk,
Rustling like bright confetti that often
Fine dewdrops envy my near sunset’s trend.
And I could but possess the warm flavor
Of buds in heat, my face dipped in their chests
Hesitating to leave the lush of gold as
Nightfall breaks. Then, floral tapestry churns
Against a mural of summer’s rich pattern
Up high, where lacquered glint from hillside bursts.
Full moon rolls with amusement to cradle
Dawn’s garlands, auroral as this child’s eyes;
floating through next seasons when my tossed hair
sweeps a cluster of maiden time's fanfare.
...............
‘ Flora Abunda’ … www.stephaniedeshpande.com
Contemporary Figurative Artiste Stephanie Deshpande
in Contemporary Free Rhyme...Cyndi's Contest
by nette onclaud