Long Collages Poems
Long Collages Poems. Below are the most popular long Collages by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Collages poems by poem length and keyword.
Obdurate goat tangles rough knotted rope
Stuck beside shadowy friend, Silky Oak
Hedonistic prisoner capricorn, cheap trope
Ethics remain riddle, morals mere joke
Towered timber utters truth in its creak
Canopy clapping hands crush recollection
Billion fingered Silky Oak, silver limbs oblique
Obscure overlooked sins, a whispered detection
Keeps capricorn unkempt, tethered to trunk
Smooth curled horns apply keratin to bark
Scaffold of decency rubbed back, defunct
Gloss of molestation, shamed oblivion hark
Hefty hormonal avenger of societial conform
Ediface eroded by wiles of willful exhibition
Tortoiseshell taupe noxious horned capricorn
Weapon wield deposit encircles oak, dark depiction
Mirror denies texture, mirthful obstreperous ignores
Shine diminishes structure, erect neck narrow
Malnourished foliage, goat's gritty diet implore
Capricorn's carnal gyrations abate, restore marrow
Fractured cracked tenacity, tree's foreboding scream
Matchstick snap collages goatman gonzo in debris
Collapsed capricorn of devilish demeanour obscene
Scruple niggard gruesome morbid marauder buried
22nd August 2021
Written for Contest : This Or That Volume 6.
Tethered To A Moment
Sponsor : Edward Ibeh
He was a writer, a fighter, an old-timer word rhymer
Always thought free verse was asinine
He was the queerest, the dearest, the tear in your beer-est
and he was one Tolkien over the line
He was archaic, prosaic, euphoric, historic
Made pentagrams optically divine
He was the cheekiest, geekiest, and uniquely freakiest
and he was one Tolkien over the line
He loved cigars and Star Wars, guitars, and sitars
Collages made his artistry torch shine
He was the jivest, high-fivest, young poet alive-est
and he was one Tolkien over the line
It's not much reward to those who are bored
but are afraid of not acting benign
Sometimes you gotta get riled, and go a bit wild
and step one Tolkien over the line
November 14, 2014
Oh, What Is Life?
(Written for Kay Collier McLaughlin-With gratitude to Thomas Merton)———
What? What is life?
No concise, assuaging answer comes.
For there are no stepping stones outside
For a clear, examining view...
Except, perhaps, to wander through
Our fertile imaginings, where
Collages may be so composed
By one’s and two’s to fit
Some consequential assorting
Of our senses for a sight of our hearts’
Music; of desired peaceful, tailored reason
And freedom!
Suited to a sigh, softly then...for
.The view may even cause tears to flow.
Dab them then. Dab away. As the collage
Is due for a re-fitting, an alteration of pieces
Day by day. Take strength. We are so blessed.
Our touches, our skills are needed for
One and all altogether as we were blended
In Creation, as our moon walkers saw...Here!
Life is yet the search for truth;
Life is a joining of hopes;
A keeping of nature’s landscapes;
A piecing together of chards;
A mending of the displaced;
A continuous editing of our prayers;
A rejoicing of our souls when we love.
This is a layered collage: in history, in myth,
And space, and time...
An exploring of our souls.
********. *********. *********
(C)sally Young eslinger 12/21/2020
Thanks be to God evermore
For ages, probably for prolonged ages
They have been waiting for the ecstatic pearl
Collages of pomegranates in bends and edges
Are on the toes to get into the whirl
For ages and ages the two hungry clouds
Have nurtured their myriad colours
Explosion of passion in retiring from the shrouds
Two fantasizes colliding in tremor
For ages and ages the starving crimson words
With the pen and paper set dance-like
Waited in the molecules of curve in the swords
Tonight they are getting into the crushing of psyche
Touches of silk and strokes of electrons
The birds at mad bites into the pineapple
Inbox is flooding with cloud nine neurons
Moments mesmerized in moonlit maple
The horses from Harappa racing fast
The fountain opens its wonderful floodgate
The ship tossing along with the mast
Tumultuous tempest in the Ithaca strait
Go go go Owl plunder your moon
Let the black beauty put on maroon
________________________________________________________
July 31, 2016
Hockney the ultimate experimental artist
Painter, printmaker, photographer, stage designer, draughtsman
Always challenging traditional elitist art
No barriers, no preconceptions, eyes always wide open
Bradford boy whose roots always prevail
1962, demands to be judged on his art not his writing
Submits Life Painting for a Diploma
RCA considers and changes regulations
Diploma awarded, so art wins
Continues his artistic quest
Vibrant colours capture people and places
His vision reaches beyond everyday reality
Unconventional proportions and perspectives
Fresh new takes on vistas of old masters
1980s, he arrives at photo collages
Painting ceases for a while
Creates two hundred plus patchworks of joiners
Photos, manyfold, of a single subject
My Mother, Bolton Abbey epitomises his experiment
Embraces technology using phones and iPads
Bending it to his artistic aims
No texture, no brush strokes
But still his take on life prevails
Locked down in France during COVID
Chinese scroll painting and Bayeux Tapestry feed fertile mind
A Year in Normandie results
Two hundred and twenty iPad paintings enlarged
Ninety metre chronicle of changing seasons
Salts Mill exhibition, back where it all began
Visitors immersed in a linear experience
Hockney pursuing a lifetime of artistic exploration
A contemporary art virtuoso
He ignored the warning signs and moved carefully forward and backward
In the rocking chair of swept memories and went for a wild white knuckle ride
Swayed but not faltering although he swung like a junky on amphetamine pills
Soaked in recollections gathered momentum and made dents in the floor boards
He pictured himself as a young man courting his sweetheart and kissed the bride
Life had dealt him difficult cards but he had upped his game in the view of defeat
Made allowances for bad hands and survived depression divorce and uncertainty
Valued his shortcomings and turned obstacles and flaws into forces of challenge
Photographs trinkets newspaper clippings and baby shoes swished past in a flash
A rollercoaster adventure of vertigo and nausea but also of thrilling escapes
Parachuting down abysses cliff diving and bungee jumps into a red-hot volcano
Confined to a nursing home he refused to accept the dumping ground it seemed
His conscience was clear but that signalled that truths were merely impermanent
And the subconscious tends to rest below an iceberg of prominent falsifications
Like laundering imperfection with fabric softener on kind collages and tapestry
Photo-shopping was before his time but he knew to cut and paste with his mind
Racing thoughts and blustering emotions collected on the windscreen of his soul
First pay packet for an old Enfield motorcycle then traded for an Austin Minor
Redundancy after the miner’s strike and still both his children made it to College
Some say it’s been a junk yard but he fathoms recycling for future generations
26th October 2019
Pull out the easel
set the canvas
positioned long and slender clean slate.
Sketch the figures huddled and dark-bound hostage
to charcoal-cooled coals
etching in shadow images;
Faceless entities
slipping in and out the background
earth-toned sojourners accepting, alone, quiet, dying;
Still the images in silence
hard and disfigured
grotesque horrors in place;
Somber soul-drained eyes
skeletal socket holes
buried in the heart and mind;
Let tears fall down their cheeks
in wonder, awe, and
fear of what happens next.
Acrylic primers dilute the wash in the storyline
flaking and cracking
tearing each soul and truth away;
Polyptych blended burnish bleeds
quiet, soft exuding
whimpered cries, asking why;
Chiaroscuro collages of death from life
fading to diluent breaths
the heartbeat of an unholy silence;
Graded gouache monochrome scraper boards
releasing sfumatos of singularities
communal lives sacrificed
Varnish the final rendition
camouflage the realities,
the actuality of what it represents,
Time immemorial in genocidal atrocities
of Native Americans, Cambodians, Hawaiians,
Jews, Rwandans, Bosnia, Darfur,.
When does it stop?
The never-ending list
life is more precious than this
until change comes
Paint the Picture Black and Gray
pray
then act.
How cutely and compactly you fasten,
My shirt and coat and make me smart looking;
Could I fancy my woolen coat open,
For a chilly cold wave to break us through?
How a bit decoration on you change,
Shirt or skirt or blouse or frock or jacket!
Wallets, purses, and bags wear you proudly,
Your ornamental face shining on them;
Our children play 'Messy Tray' and 'Name Plate',
They match you, sort you, arrange ardently;
Make necklaces, collages, and countless patterns,
Fun and frolic surround their play groups;
Sand play; dress up play; play dough; ode one out,
Of you we make puppets and play bingo;
Do our nursery mathematics end,
Unless we learn counting, first, with buttons?
Don't buttons teach lessons on 'life balance'?
Don't they teach us core ethical values?
Isn't button a nod of connection,
Betwixt brain behaviors in psychic molds?
Truth, respect, procession, and progression,
Crush and quash disrespect, insults, and lies?
Symbolizing control, calm, and courage,
You end depression and low self esteem;
O button, just like doors safeguard my house,
You save my physique from perilous risks...!!!
16 March 2023
"Her Mind is a Carnival of Picasso Harlequins"
Walking through the poetic frames of featureless ghosts
her fingers play like harps their ectoplasmic cages
strange symbols that clang the frivolity of vacuumed cleaned emptiness
dissolving in the invisible time wasted in the chronicles of their newfound empires
the meaning of their spectral presence swings
like canaries singing home all their honeys sweetly
it’s all bluebirds entertaining the wisdom of lovelorn owls watching on
like they are azure feathered blind mice adorned with halos,
while the carnal vultures smile winging it above them all in prayer circles predatory
“her tongue is an arena of silent conflicts”
her mind is a carnival of Picasso harlequins
balancing the trapeze, the affairs of a wild heart
scorched and stinging with fragments of cubist love collages
arriving like ashes within the flames of her phoenix stages;
some newly burnt Aphrodite.
elements closer to reality than the abstractions of geometry
CandideDiderot. ‘25
when i was a kid , a notorious one, i used to turn the world upside down
to calm me down my mother taught me the art of poetry, though it still remains a mystery
but back then when i used to write, my one line brought a thousand smiles
started with the small and silly ones but were loved by the ones who used to listen
one of my poems still hangs on the walls beautifully framed and well maintained
those were the days when they would appreciate
now that i have grown up
my dad shouts to say, stop all this nonsense and focus on the degree
the same art then loved was now not worthy
my mother says keep poetry as a hobby and studies your priority
i did as it was said quitted poetry and became a book worm
24/7 i studied and followed the norms
days passed and the hardwork paid off
admitted in one of the finest collages ,the ones never thought of
now that i had the same life like everyone's else on this planet
the one which askes us to run 365 just like a servant,
all this led to grave disappointment
i wanted to write poems that's what i believed my life was made for
poems that people could can relate to and adore
with confidence and a lots of uncertainty i quitted my work
my parents lost hope and the society ignored
but i knew my words were my beauty
and relate to what people feel and pen them down became my duty
the first poem i wrote was called
"THE JAME'S BOND"
which described the life of a normal person ,his duty meant to perform
my words became my life and then there came the prize
let me be more precise and call it
the love of my life
met her in an auditorium ,sitting in the black velvet dress right across the podium
as my show got over she ran upto me and asked for a favor
asked me to read her poems once and later give her some assistance
but to my surprise , her poems were so deep that i fell for it and did not even realize
time , feelings and words brought our hearts close
what beautiful moments were those
soon my family accepted me when i reached the paths of glory
listen to your heart ,is the moral of the story
even though the time r hard ,do not worry
try hard till the moment , that later in life u don't fell sorry