Long Connoisseurs Poems
Long Connoisseurs Poems. Below are the most popular long Connoisseurs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Connoisseurs poems by poem length and keyword.
Aye, what a revolution in red and orange against the
venom of society and culture
With the flowers of right palm though a gesture of dance
in fact covers her tears
A story of blue tension and deep emotion in red flamenco
so flamboyantly executes the dancer
The crimson movement of the lyrical arms and torso
in sync with the guitar is awesome
Unique euphoria of exuberance in the swirl of a female figure
so provocative
What a dancing dream doing up the drawings of
the body on the fly
What a message of moons in mounds you convey
through the crafty curves
And each passing passion pulsates from prose to
poetry of muscles and bones
Eros encouraging us to transcend ourselves through
the journey of desire like a fountain
From brownish black towards the orange flames
on the comely conical mountains
And the warmly amber valley as it mingles with the
flames from the dancing spark
Blackens darkens and then harkens at joyous response
of mesmerized connoisseurs
Deepens the dense dance still further by generating
romantic proposition in her gestures
Unstoppable time hypnotized to stop for a moment to
stand and see how infinity can dance
Time itself in much ado on the long neck of
reddening movement
Aye, you dancing fire spreading your oranges everywhere
from Andalusia to Madrid
And then all over the globe amazing you me and all
in modern style of elegant gestures
Sliding the shoulder blades down the back and thus
the chest held proudly
Inviting inquisitive attention to read the poems
up to the chin and down the tall back
Closing the eye for a few seconds we see in awe our fertile
dear earth in a dance of rebellion
The earthy and raw in a fascinating gesture of life
we do need to feel so much
That while in the midst of viewing what you interpret
we too get merged in the dancing colour
Aha! What a phenomenon
____________________________________________________
September 23, 2017
For the contest:Poems that paint a picture 3
Hosted by: Silent One
Monet's Impression, Sunrise
First impressions leave memories
that can linger for a very long time
and give a sense of peace and understanding
that rewards the solitude of the mind
with satisfaction in contemplative reflection.
This may be deceiving and can mislead one to believe
that which is right may, in fact, be wrong.
Graciously accept the artist’s shared perception
that there is no ambiguity, only a warning
of the impending storm threatening prevalent reasoning.
The ascending sun, with its reflection on the water,
highlights a sense of direction as the rowers row
across the harbour at the break of morn.
Past cranes and derricks and ships at anchor
beneath a smoke-blurred fiery sky, accented
by pastel shades of blue to create the sombre mood
that expresses Monet’s "Impression, Sunrise" painting
and shares with the onlookers his representation
of nature from an Impressionist’s point of view
in the Industrial Age, heralding in the revolution.
That begs the question, “Where are they going,
and why blood orange?” (Oh, but I’ve seen that colour before.)
Day-to-day inquiries are asked of one another and strangers.
Monet incorporates an art form using oils on canvas,
forcing the audience to observe with curiosity,
thus presenting a sliver of time of life’s tranquillity at sea.
This provocation of thought chinks the consciousness
of seasoned connoisseurs who see change as frightening
and challenges their manipulation of artistic output
(to act like mechanical agents thwarting creativity).
“Will they reach their destination? Will it be as they hoped for?”
Hurry! Though calm, the waters will soon froth in labour.
***
Note:
“Monet’s Impression, Sunrise” is an ekphrastic poem referencing the painting “Impression, Sunrise” (1872) by Claude Monet (1840–1926).
My Dear Carolyn, I want to Thank-YOU for YOUR Contest “ The Work You Do? ”
I usually Do not Brag, but I’m going to in this Piece I also may throw in Kitchen Humor
I Dedicate this to YOU : Carolyn Devonshire My POETRY “ TEACHER “ LOVE, HG
The first two quotes I heard in the beginning of My Career
“People will always Eat” ( Chef Lis ) : “People eat with their eyes” :
( Mr. Franklin Whalen ; ) Owner of The “Barrington House Restaurant”
Forty-Four years later, the Sonata of these words Still Rings in my ears
The Aromas, sweet and spicy, sour ,tart, fruity, meaty, waif through my nose
I remember the smell of burning starch, elbows set in ice cold water on the stove, two hours
Taste buds come alive, epicurean; connoisseurs : enticing The palette soothing the throat
I read my breath, in the dire cold of the freezer: a block of ice becomes A Heart of Swans
The Center Piece of Mr. & Mrs. Posner’s 75th Wedding Anniversary Dinner
On a Pedestal , in the centre of the “Swan Heart : I carved the “POSNER" Holding Hands
How Sweet, When they asked me “Would You makes us one of YOUR Classic Dinners?”
“The Rack of Lamb, with the Plum- Mint Jelly” “ Don’t forget his Famous “Béarnaise Sauce”
A Vegetable Bouquetire , Cottage Fries, with a special “Flaming Cherries Jubilee” for Desert
Perhaps, as they did when : Young : Their eyes found each other, as they fed each other
The Gleam in their Eyes, reflecting the Jubilee’s flame Opening the Mirror of Their “ L O V E “
As a Chef The work I do is very Rewarding and I shall Cook until I die( and even Then!! )
In times of trouble it outshines its glow
The supposed intrinsic value of its allure
Is a safe house in times of economic un-certainty
When money is being made but not through
Traditional means
The historian would if consulted dismiss
The hype surrounding this shiny metal
As nought but a greed reflex based on
Short-sighted ignorant mania
Its value is akin to a smoke screen
Of dazzling lights
And a house of cards
That will disintegrate when the fickle mob
Move to a safer bet
Speculation and speculators
With their shark instincts
Miss the point
Gold is shiny and there lies its allure
Our supposed sophistication
And technologically advanced state
Still makes us kids drawn to the light gold emits
To flash it and bling it
Is its purpose
Not a store of wealth to be kept in a vault
The man who buys a band to
Prove his love
The gangster who shows his wealth on his person
Are the true connoisseurs of gold
It has no inner magic
Its surface does the job
It was bought to do
A status symbol of wealth and prosperity
That was meant for show
Is gold at its best
And most appealing
`
When the wearers are outspent by an investor
Then gold has rusted
And speculators lose
It's true intrinsic value laid bare
That of hype caused by uncertainty in the money market
It is to the economic historian no power-house of value
The more coveted it is for gawping appeal
The more valuable it is
Speculative mania will only
Tarnish its dazzling glow
Wear it
Bling it
Don’t invest in it
FAT BITCHES DIVINE
What is so exciting about life is that we only live once, and that once is a lifetime.
Therefore, we must fulfill and enjoy our time here–on earth.
Dance for the hell of it…
Never condoning a flicker of insanity.
Let your hair down and wipe all of the frowns to a clown face.
Wouldn’t you rather become a ventriloquist instead?
Shout to the stars and tell them who you are.
Once is only a lifetime to enjoy.
Living the hell out of life.
Taking what is ours and not looking back.
Singing our hearts bound because we are here to inspire.
Warning ourselves that we must not deny life.
Eating what we want.
Watching our weight, of course.
Body is our focus.
We want meat on our bones.
We have only once in a lifetime to explore.
We are the Fat Bitches.
Body delicious and pleasing the women.
Brained as geniuses as life itself with meaningfulness.
Masterminds of sexuality and high preference to the quality of our togetherness.
We mate well.
Therefore, we love who we are with.
Heaven bound now.
Profound mavens standing their ground.
We can do that and never back down.
We love our women unsound.
This give us power in the world as connoisseurs.
Laugh if you wanna, but we are the ones that will not be destroyed.
Fat Bitches will move-on and all these skinny men and skinny women life will be bygone.
This is when skinny better Slim Jim as brothers and Virginia Slim as sisters.
Otherwise, divinity belongs to the Fat Bitches.
Peter Beechey capped the last bottle, of the latest Lager that he'd brewed.
He's changed his recipe this time, so the argument will be renewed.
He say’s the Lager that I make is not near the standard that he sets,
now we'll argue this for hours until we’re finally making bets.
Stout, lager, bitters labeled; the smell of malt drifts through the shed.
Air-locked and popping through the water; a brew ferments below a head.
Us pair have now refined the art; our little breweries come of age.
No longer do we show impatience - we've stopped bottling hand grenades.
Both of our stocks have built up now and so of course the word soon spreads.
This means the visits from the connoisseurs; blokes each home brewer dreads.
On weekends we roll out 'Hilly' - insensible - to which beer is best.
Even the local cop and publican closed the pub to take the test.
Water, yeast, malt - but no sugar - clarity and flavour of the hops.
The head, right down to the barley, but the disagreeing never stops,
and 'Hilly' never cleared one point; our beers were locked in similar status.
We need an independent to give a true scientific basis.
I suggested what we ought to do, is send samples to the public analyst,
for he will clear the finer points; the ones that obviously we missed.
Three weeks later in the mail, his analyzing caused a further strain -
'Gentlemen, I regret to tell you - that neither horse will race again!'
Strewn on the shoreline, as I walk along the beach
Bits and pieces of life forms, churned up from beneath
Shells, jellyfish, crustaceans, even sea anemones
What was alive yesterday, lays shredded in the weeds
Hard to fathom what happens, below ocean waves,
One big stewing pot, perhaps a connoisseurs buffet,
Before me are remnants, of this very watery grave,
4 billion years of evolution, I’m the apex that surveys,
Take a second to absorb, let my observation sink in,
No creature other than humans, come here to think,
Many have walked this path, maybe even to swim,
I only see gulls now, pulling starfish limb from limb,
Humanity tries to discern nature, a need to understand,
Figure out what the hell’s going on, in our wonderland,
Where’d that seed come from, who’s really in command,
The biggest question of all, was anything ever planned,
A moment of clarity, really hits me over the head,
Why me, an individual, but one of unknown depth,
Sitting on the sand now, drawing in, rigid breaths,
What’s it all about God, come on please confess,
Voice in my head says, people are the chosen ones,
I’ve seen this very instant, before the universe begun,
But nothing was planned, when all is said and done,
I see what’s going to happen, you design how it comes.
10/18/20 original post
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 11 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
08/09/22
Not a person to marry what gets in my way,
Life's more balance and freedom than 'roll in the hay!'
Ice cream melts, steak is great but to my taste gets cold
Though my dinner's not done. Truth (though passive) gets told,
Mine's the space a train has in between cheap freight cars.
There's fresh air, a quick exit; my dream's not of Mars,
Or a place to find peace! Stars? Friend! Who has the time,
The moon's rear just a piece locked by gravity's dime!
Butt's mysterious? More just a woman in clothes
Connoisseurs? Few brains found! Rocks, yes, many of those!
And they're cheap! Need a dozen? Rocks always in stock,
But it's true (an admission) can stop a man's clock
With a glance! That's romance? No, I live for the rhyme,
Girl with music that tingles (in meters) through time.
One whose poem makes humble what rainbows dream of,
God's first promise! All stumble (when push comes to shove!)
Tell me how to thank God for the gift (JUST OF LIFE?)
If He/She, not a prayer, "Sun grant, I'm a wife
To the planet we live on, I husband what's here,
And to friends, that I orbit, give moments of cheer!"
We've got lifetimes to live here, does death have this chance?
With one second to live, how can death find romance?
More's to pity (than rhyme). Give me poetry's fate!
Can death win? There's no time? It can't come (quick or late!)
Brian Johnston,
15th of May of 2019
Cage the rage you envisage
At the slightest intervention
Your mood swing fails to assuage
When folly in full bloom springs into action
To boost the small ego that looms large
In response to the uncontrolled wrath
Your short fuse unleashes in a rage
Whose momentum galumphs onto the path
Littered with glass shards
Reaped from bad blood to your head
Reeled off when to wisdom bards
You fail to listen instead
Pandering to inanities
With neither rhymes nor reasons
Blown out of proportion to embrace vanities
Spirited out of prisons
Where by dint of their mammoth magnitudes
They lay caged to prevent their devastation
From breaking free, releasing moribund monsters whose deleterious attitudes
Grew increasingly worrisome to the stable station
Where you fled upon release from the mental asylum
Isolated from innocent lives and their wives
You swilled vats of cheap grade rum
Fielding and yielding to vicissitudes of knives
Whose glint on double blades
In serene sunshine on the surface of brine
Opted to shred to pieces jars of lemonades
Manufactured in clandestine kitchens in the shrine
Desecrated by your Trojan horse
That came undone
With neither coercion nor force
When your favourite colour dun
Drew roars of disapproval
From art connoisseurs
Whose absolute approval
Found favour among misguided masseurs.
All music is relational
Even if the instrument itself is unconscious:
Like tree leaves in a breeze
Telegraph their praise in God's presence,
Dot and dash an earthy hymn;
Like an earthquake whose rumblings
Remind you that in geological time
All that we think of as solid and whole
Shares water's properties;
Even mountains bend the knee;
What was tight winds down, relaxes,
Like a German music box,
Becomes a cosmic "OM" at last;
Only whales, those connoisseurs
Of deep and low, perhaps can hear.
Our human ears span such a narrow range,
Need scientific augmentation to hear
Last ringing reverberations of "Big Bang."
For sound is not just vibrating air,
Our eyes too have their limits
As invisible stars also play their role
And human senses discover new symphonies
In the music of the spheres.
For doesn't vision inflame the heart as well
As guitarist strums and fingers dance on ivory?
Have you never seen a string's exertions,
Or felt invisible waves of tympani?
Yes, even bowels play a role!
And, oh, the stories told in sound alone
Can find their poetry in dance,
A music of another kind,
A kinetic vision of the soul itself.
Whatever touches heart is music,
Cannot be missed, only denied,
Oh, do not ask for whom God sings,
He always sings your song.
Long Tooth
April 21, 2016