Long Baroque Poems
Long Baroque Poems. Below are the most popular long Baroque by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Baroque poems by poem length and keyword.
Woods
In the green woods no path has direction
decay is a form of progress
and despite all the circumspection
'Getting there" wouldn't be understood.
It's true, ants industrialize, and squirrels very middle-class
bank on the prodigal oaks. But the fashion is baroque--tulips like venetian glass, birds ignite on every branch, each elm has Restoration sleeves,
and the bees and flowers are an old scandal.
The effort, what there is, doesn't show.
Flying must be fun, memories are short
and where nothing is remembered,
nothing is routine.
Everyone has a talent, nests seldom fail,
and what's spent is miraculously retained.
What they report of us we have only indignant noises
from which to judge--and then the quiet watching 'til we go.
The Red Priest preached his violin sermon,
His baroque interpretation
Of the seasons’ fickle whims.
I listened closely to the soothing concerti
And came to the conclusion
That though we may have been passionate lovers,
It’s just as sure we never were friends.
Now all my wounds have been healed
In a hardened lump of scar tissue,
And I make no issue with ghosts from the past.
My intentions are wholly benign,
Though my motives are hard to define.
Even Vivaldi could be overly sentimental at times,
Engaged in a contest between harmony and invention,
To fill the night with program music tension.
Exhume my gone exuberance,
I’ve always been drawn to a chance;
Such enticing grandeur;
Resurrect me from hollowed ground,
I long to indulge lush newfound;
Run with me, wildflower;
Missing all the juice of layers,
I’m dry devoid of purveyors;
Poundcake of foundation;
Through dynamism opened up,
faint flush from natural makeup;
A welcome distinction;
Revive me but do it slowly,
I’m stained glass you are the church key;
So sensitive to sensuous,
it’s been buried deep for so long;
Your hymnal could wake my soul’s song,
lead me to exodus;
Set free my dormant element,
overwhelm me and leave me spent;
Look at me, make the call;
To others we may seem baroque,
with all that passion will evoke;
Love is real after all.
There are many things that make me happy in life,
But a day when I can go to the art gallery is the best;
I walk the many galleries, totally lost and delighted with the art,
From room to room, Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, 18th Century;
The bright religious paintings of the Gothic era, the mythical painting of Renaissance.
I could dwell there forever, for art is life, a story painted,
And then I rest, perhaps a bit of lunch, then I begin again;
19th Century, 20th Century, and a quick visit to Impressionism,
A peek at Abstract (not my favorite) nor is Modern Art, but I view;
And in my gallery, because I am in Canada, there is the Canadian art, amazing.
And then the Aboriginal Art and the Inuit Art of Canada,
That is always very moving and beautiful to linger over;
Then after yet another rest, I go to the Water Court and Garden,
In the very heart of the gallery there is a reconstructed church;
Well as you can tell, a day at the art gallery for me is blissful with happiness.
For me art is part of life, painted of life, it tells a story of life,
and it brings me utter happiness that lingers for days and days.
______________________________
April 14, 2016
Poetry/Verse/Lost in Art
Copyright Protected, ID 16-777-976-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, What Makes You Happy
sponsor, Royal Ninja
Fifth Place
_____________________________________
Written for the contest, Happiness of Life,
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negren
Second Place
The sound of baroque fills the air
the lively beats one can hear
as senses reel to music sweet
elves dance upon imaginary leaves .
The orchestra reaches crescendo
shattering crystals of chandeliers on high
staccatto beats .....the doe skids across the icy field
as snow cascade down from cypress trees.
Violins squeak ...Trombones blare
mandolins vibrate the inner ear.
The harp thrills......soft ripples along the narrow stream,
fish jumping into sunbeams.
Cymbals clash , a metallic crash...splintered timbers caught in lightening flash
A silent throb...the music dims... a cool beeze flows over the hills
soothing, drawing all into a warm embrace
calming the spirit , slowing the pace.
The music wanes...... delicate snowflakes stuck to window panes
A Grand finale......twitching nerves that long for solace.
Silence now as the music stops.
Peace follows music sweet.... into dreams.
Baroque music lives on....do not weep.
Sleep now ....sleep.
The lush hill towered over the quite town mostly built with big rock;
it had three tall church towers
with different distinguished styles: Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque...
wondrous was every sunrise!
Oh, their loud bronze bells could be heard ringing
through the vast, sun-washed and peaceful valley
sorrounded by mountains that reached a sky so dazzling...
then the clock-tower stroke each hour so precisely!
The summer's aroma was kind of strong and irritated the eyes,
and it almost got me drunken as aged wine does;
and I ran to the lush hill thinking of finding a treasure
in a cave that the invading Normans might have hidden in there!
But to my surprise, only frescos of martyrs were discovered;
all the while, that treasure was in front of me:
Nature opening up with its magnificent beauty!
It took observation and reflection for the rare gifts it rendered.
Whenever I ran to the lush hill, either morning or afternoon,
I was astonished by the humble faces of saints showing no demise
for their persecution and carnage by beast such as ferocious lions...
as those pious faces looked to Christ for comfort in their doom!
Their image made me much stronger and believer in the Shepherd
whose sheep never was lost among grunting wolves waiting aside;
and every mystery revealed, it grew to teach me not to be afraid...
when profound silence arrived bringing delights to an innocent child.
Oh, lush hill...keep my image of young boy intact even after I die;
let it come alive when sheer curiousity arises and tantalizes...
to make me climb that lush hill again for the heart to fantasize,
and 'though my health may not be as vibrant as then, I must try!
I am a dilettante of 17th Century Baroque,
loving the elan style of this extravagant;
and avant garde art form full of boldness.
The gaudy ornamentation given wings,
and the artist wild carte blanche.
I never have ennui when at the gallery,
and wandering I am filled with deja vu.
Until one day I spotted an anomaly,
in a painting that I declared not bona fide;
oh, what a cacophony I caused that day.
___________________________
January 17, 2018
Poetry/Verse/A Baroque Dilettante
Copyright Protected, ID 18-9831-63-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, 10 Words, 10 Lines 2
sponsor, Silent One
Second Place
Ten painters of over a hundred greats in an exhibit are discussing about their works...
The first painter said, "I dreamed of this, long time ago... my old crush!"
The second painter, with watery eyes whispered, "This is my mother's picture when I was born..."
A Baroque painter, the third one, showed his work and said, "My beautiful Lights And Shades."
The fourth painter unveiled his piece, calling it "Water Lilies."
Fifth painter, showing sadness exhaling, "I painted myself because not everyone wants to see my paintings..."
Sixth is a member of graffiti movement, telling that his work will be featured in New York.
The seventh painter is an expressionist saying, "I dreamed about myself smoking, but I painted "The Scream."
The eighth painter, wagging his scarf, is a pro-women artist. He painted the beauty of women as naked.
The ninth painter showed his masterpiece, showcasing plants and animals on canvass.
The nine painters noticed that the tenth painter, another expressionist, is so silent since the beginning of the discussion. Everybody looked at him. He turned around, showed his work and said, "These are the three women I courted... then I cut my ear!"
"A little boy dreaming
A painter in his being
A boy who kept on painting
And was loved by everybody reading."
(Prosebite)
the nomad in me wanders
a i m l e s s
in the labyrinthine wasteland
of the denuded life,
d e s o l a t e
the sinuous dusty track
takes me ambling
f o r l o r n
to an ambiguous terrain
of obscure nowhere
my soul’s sensual lattice
e n t r a n c e d
migrates mystified
e n t a n g l e d
in the encircling web
of enigmatic conundrum
asks bemused
shall I escape
from the deranged decay of delirium
or
shall I be the embedded in enigma
e t e r n a l
I couldn’t decide
the ingrained imprint
of possessed obsession
i n d e l i b l e
of the obdurate persona
tracing the tortuous track
of the weaving wheel
of the demanding time
winds on its own
out of the tormenting tangle
of the remembrance maze
of the pining past
transfixed in the halcyon horizon
as the menagerie of memory
f r a m e d
steered with the promise
of pervading pride
my beleaguered mind
migrates out of the warren
shows me the pathway
to the fervent fountain
of the euphoric future
f i g u r a t i v e
with the beat of my heart
I break resolute
the invisible blatant barrier
i m p e r v i o u s
you’ve built insolent
with the skeleton of seclusion
around the secret garden
shrouded by the arctic mist
of mind’s fluid feelings
f r o z e n
as the baroque buds
supine on supple saplings
waiting for the sapphire spring
line your garnet garden path
I saunter there
suffused sensually
with the seraphic shine
of the sunburst new dawn
I intuitively wish
before I walk the last mile
our paths will cross someday
in the valley of flowers
entwine eternally
to metamorphose
into posy of passion
e p i t o m i z e d
In the resplendent dawn of one seraphic spring
I saw a delicately weaved bird’s nest nestled
on the baroque bough of the magnolia tree
that was in full bloom in the backyard lawn.
Since then I saw every morning a cheery Robin
fly low in zest through the crispy fragrant air
with the wings spread to span the cerulean sky,
and descend to its nest as my songbird.
The bird of bright daylight flew with sunburst zest,
kept the secrets of avian delight in scarlet breast.
When thrushes were silent it sang to the first sunray,
the winds carried away the lyric of the dawn.
Little Robin swung on tree boughs in the surge of squall,
fluttered with rhythmic melody when rainbow appeared.
I heard the bird perched high outside my window
sing for me the sunrise song of the new day.
The charming bird dancing on the bowed branches
gave me enchanting company in the lonesome hours,
singing delightful songs that sailed in the gloomy air,
suffused my time with the ether of sensuous joy.
As I enjoyed the friendly closeness of the chirping robin
my pet cat sat by my side at the edge of the portico.
Perhaps with a built-up feeling of envy she watched me
engrossed with the little bird, unmindful of her presence.
One sunny morning I placed some corn on the porch,
found the bird fly in, hopped around to eat the grains.
My cat appeared from nowhere, pounced like lightning,
caught the robin in her sharp claws and ran away.
Sitting now by the window I miss my robin on the tree,
but in my ear still resonates the twitter of the bruised bird.