Long Frescoes Poems
Long Frescoes Poems. Below are the most popular long Frescoes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Frescoes poems by poem length and keyword.
Enea, at the Scottish Court
The critics claim that this is far the worst
of all the frescoes. Enea the star? No
inkling here. Can that be James the First?
And that’s the Clyde? It looks more like the Arno.
A spartan Stuart court? Or is it Bourbon?
Less Edinburgh in feel, and more Locarno.
Whoever saw Scots courtiers in turbans?
The ceiling is salubriously embossed,
more like the Vatican of sainted Urban!
Perhaps Enea’s Latin can’t be glossed,
for no-one’s listening, that much is certain.
One wonders what the marble columns cost.
And wrapped in that red robe (looks like a curtain!),
he seems to lack all gusto, all scintilla.
For this he braved the Beauly and the Burton?
There’s nothing interesting in the villa.
Less Donatello, more like Damien Hirst.
It wasn’t worth Charybdis, much less Scylla.
Enea Receives the Laurel Crown
Not only is he with the Emperor:
he’s kneeling to receive the laurel crown.
His deeds will be preserved in tempora,
his poems printed, bound and handed down.
What more can man achieve in life than this?
While many live and love, and toil in vain,
Enea’s standing on the precipice:
rewarded for that fine, well-nurtured brain.
So why am I uneasy? Read the signs.
And eagle savages a hapless duck.
The building seems all wrong. Wrong size, wrong lines.
And what’s it meant to be? Are you not struck
to see the woman on the loggia, being raped?
Pandora’s Box is open. Hope’s escaped.
Form and Matter
It all comes down to this, don’t you agree?
The Court of Charlemagne, the Holy See –
there’s Thought and Thing: idea, reality.
We’re in the presence room, but some are free
to stroll the colonnade at liberty.
Unyielding marble throne, lapped by a sea
of flowing silk: that’s how it has to be.
Enea kneels between eternity
and actuality: the Papacy
against the Empire. Physicality
abuts against the realm of sophistry.
Though amply rested, I still yawn
And feel energized after
light exercise doth spawn
break through viz mental impasse,
where endeavor to coax
germinating ideas to sprout
about as successful as
buzzfeeding, jump/kick starting
rooting brown lawn
to whether drought.
Long fostering literary creativity
analogous to prying open
figurative curtain drawn
shut tight within
thy noggin unresponsive
even when brute force
strongly applied, but still...
no progress (for aging Pilgrim)
made come crack of dawn,
thus I temporarily abandon intent.
An effort to craft satisfactory poem or prose,
(which coveted, kindled, unexpected...
futile endeavor deluges me when
least able to jot down eureka,
whereby brainstorm burst adrip
saturating yours truly head to toes
dribbling out nostrils,
asper my porpoise size bottle nose,
hence this feeble effort to appease.
No expected attaboy, kudos, bravoes...
discerning metaphorical whaling expedition
beseeching, imploring, soaking...
mine mindscape with
profuse voluminous wisdom
sans anonymous followers
waiting for me to compose
usual meaningless gibberish or
rare profound nugget of wisdom to disclose.
While thrashing within cyber sea,
possibly abandoning ambition to compose
superbly laced, ginned, coined...
poetic adage gee oh
into magnum opus masterpiece
eye catchingly exotic creation
exquisite as silk negligee pantyhose
(yea...perhaps yours truly
will also send near nude selfie,
a worse fate than death
cab for cutie)
and chuck stock inhibition
brokering favorable frescoes
tattooed across flesh
accentuating anatomical contours of flab
wharf flexing muscles simulates geckoes,
(albeit selling progressive insurance)
appearing to slither across body electric
predictably ejaculating Freudian peccadillos,
now bolt upright - ******** awakened,
no longer sleepy,
but dwarfed by giant spuds,
no small potatoes
eh...yar right to deem this poker face
eccentric - born (free) this way,
how Elsa to explain (without lion)
rambling riotous rumination
one among many bumptious desperadoes,
and oh...mooch hoe gracias reading poem
bumbling, degenerating, fizzling...
into lobbying primal salvoes.
Beneath the veil of night that shadows the stars lost in the cosmos,
You, voyageur of heart's depths, cast your shadow over me.
Unwind the garment of veils, hide your thoughts beneath heavy lids,
And with languid gestures, in a dance of fate, intertwine your dream with mine.
In the depths of my eyes, see the rivers of silver of a forgotten realm,
That silently carve their own mythology, an Atlantis relearning to breathe.
Our lonely vessels unwittingly shelter the outlines of a world unraveling,
In the song that cradles our memory in rhythms of the tide and promises of dawn.
We navigate seas of amber, with hearts anchored in mystery,
Wandering paths covered in foliage with whispers of ancient murmur.
Revelation and occultism, two faces of the same nocturnal star,
You and I, spirits interwoven through the dark thread of an unforeseen destiny.
With fingers painted in the celestial blue of the open infinite,
I invite you to sculpt my days in frescoes that point toward a diluted tomorrow.
Let the bitterness and abyss descend below us like a carpet of oblivion,
While we animate the spectacle of life, with halls resounding with echoes of light.
The nightbird with opal wings, alighting softly on the shoulder of time,
Hear my heart's solfeggio, where each beat is lost, then found again in harmonies.
Harmonies of enchantment and mystery, when your presence becomes the altar upon which I raise my offerings,
And every dream, a petal that falls, fades and is reborn in these tender cycles.
Thus, with your magical steps, you become a sweet guide to our love's crystalline palace,
Where the entire universe asks you in gift on a palette, to paint the dawn in colors that cannot exist.
And at last, once we've veiled the brilliance of our show with a kiss,
Enclose my soul in your labyrinth, paint it immortal, embrace it in your eternal abyss.
Written: July 23, 2026 for a contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Quote: "There are gentle touches that remind the soul how fragile it has always been." By Poet
**********
Tremulous dawn drips through the lattice,
a lapidary light that swathes the room
in citrine silence—
yet even here, amid sedate scriptorium calm,
the walls start their quiet sunder.
Not the wanton wrecking-ball,
not the truculent ordinance of overt ruin—
but the sapient, serendipitous wooing
that treads orchid-light across an inviolate floor.
A patina of gentling,
a furtive augury that the impregnable
is never as adamantine as it claims.
A beam buckles—
and something in me buckles with it.
The katabatic abyss widens
in the marble edifice
and in the psyche,
a shared gossamer grid spreading
through plaster and pulse alike.
The collapse is circumspect,
a mellifluous malignancy of tenderness
that pinions both edifice and toughness
with the same tremulous touch.
Even the sacrosanct rafters
—Tuscan arches, hortensia frescoes,
ochre patina of archaic iron tether—
start to sway,
and my thoughts sway with them,
their once-ruby-lotus resolve
now cerulean edge cleaved,
squelched by soft insistence.
A whimper in the joists
echoes a whimper in the chest.
A sedate sashay of dust;
mirrors the silken saunter of doubt.
The synergy is unmistakable:
each gentle stroke against the wall
evinces a stroke against the mind,
each frolicking fissure in the façade
summons a fissure in the heart.
Demolition by soft touches—
the lucid quietus,
the quiet debacle,
the wanton velleity of tenderness
that dismantles the impregnable
brick by breath,
beam by sigh,
until the whole edifice
—outer and inner—
sneaks inward as an ouroboros
consuming its serene façade
and the psyche that believed
it was inviolate.
In the finale,
the rubble is not only stone.
It is kenopsia,
hiraeth,
the sacrosanct self
rendered scree by gentleness.
A serendipitous synergy of ruin,
where the physical demolition
and the emotional collapse
are one ordinance,
one augury,
one soft, sapient sunder.
If you've ever seen Ca' Rezzonico
seeming quite to float
upon the Grand Canal
as you bob in a boat,
or if you've ever eavesdropped
in some Trastevere alley
some golden afternoon
on some tenor's voice a-sobbing
beneath an early moon,
or in Andrea della Valle
breathed in Puccini's subtle chords,
you'll know that life affords
no more sacred boon.
Recondita armonia, literally.
If you've taken in
Albinoni's Adaggio
or gnocchi con formaggio
in a loggia on the Arno
or the slopes of Montepulciano,
or walked in misty thunder
the olive groves of Cennina,
or sat in wordless wonder
in the theater of Taormina,
or witnessed Piero's frescoes
in San Francesco of Arezzo,
or breathed the morning sunlight
or Mascagni's Intermezzo,
seen summer rain in torrents
come laughing down the street,
then you'll know why
or looked down upon fair Florence
like a carpet at your feet,
Italians set at variance
themselves and us,
and call us The Barbarians.
And feel energized after
light exercise doth spawn
an mental impasse,
where endeavor to coax
literary creativity analogous
to a figurative curtain drawn
shut tight within
thy noggin unresponsive
even when brute force
strongly applied, but still...
no progress made come crack of dawn,
thus temporarily abandon intent
to craft satisfactory poem or prose,
which coveted brainstorm burst adrip
saturating yours truly head to toes
dribbling out nostrils,
asper my porpoise size nose,
hence this feeble effort to appease
with no expected attaboy, kudos, bravoes...
discerning whaling imploring be
sea ching, sans anonymous followers
waiting for me to compose
meaningless gibberish or
profound nugget of wisdom to disclose
while thrashing within cyber sea,
possibly abandoning ambition to compose
superbly coined adage
eye catchingly exotic
as silk negligee pantyhose
(yea...perhaps send near nude selfie)
or chuck stocking favoring frescoes
tattooed across flesh
accentuating anatomical contours
wharf flexing muscles simulates geckoes
(albeit selling progressive insurance)
appearing to slither across body electric
predictably ejaculating Freudian peccadillos,
now bolt upright awake, no longer sleepy,
but dwarfed by giant spuds, no small potatoes
eh...yar right to deem this poker face
one among many bumptious desperadoes,
and mooch hoe gracias reading poem
bumbling, degenerating, fizzling...
into lobbying primal salvoes.
From on high to the crowded corners
of the world's temples, castles, cathedrals
From frescoes by the hands of grand masters
or sculpted alongside leering gargoyles
cherubs look down from heavenly perches
Many myths abound about cherubs -
they direct desires, prompt passions,
hours to cherubs are lifetimes to us
When believers hear a bell rings
an angel has gotten its wings
Riding cumulus clouds in an aqua sky
Vaulting lightning bolts to earth
Shooting arrows into human hearts
Coyly cowering in naves, abiding deities' demands
Making mellow music, fulfilling dreams denied
When 12th century Gothic sculptors crafted
church cherubs, adoring peasants marveled at
how the honored the Eden Garden fable
By divine right they played their ancient antics
One 15th century cherub mused that
when Raphael painted him, it was
intended that his infantile face
would portray pure sanctifying grace
In 1946, George Bailey of Bedford Falls
had planned his own suicide
Angel Second Class Clarence
was charged with saving him -
after 293 years of wistful waiting,
Clarence would finally get his wings
The godly greet the "Power of Myth",
they know that "...the bell tolls for thee" -
pray, "Appeal to our better angels"
There are no wings for us mere mortals
Only believers hear those bells ring
So, in the vast domain of spirits and angels,
does it seem trivial to be concerned
whether or not a cherub has wings or not,
in the face of this world's "Pandemonium"?
Listen for the bell
I never leave my point blank
Point Blank!
At the point of a saber
Now we are at the point of danger
The point shatters
Friends stab me in the back with daggers and i stagger
Grab her,Nah! but I'll take a stab at it
Aw! I never set hearts on fire or dash hopes at all
I aspire to inspire you
Now desire is a furnace
burning inside a word of encouragement
So i pour on your heart soft pure words
Uplifting impressions that just may last forever
Or at least brighten your outlook on life
And rare is a one who can make your day better
No! I don't consider to compare myself
to the choisest comparisons available
You know Stallions fight for the power
Men are no different
expect their words to be slippery as a serpents
Detect lip service
as they profess their minds to be a place of higher learning
I crash and burn then
I don't attempt to reach the highest level of stupidity
Echos of Justice descend into frescoes of the Liberty bell
Fractured as it is now
Snap^ Ice bergs rise up as you fall off the Ice shelf
Glaciers crack_-tons of ice grind into sluishes of Beautiful Love stories
Harmony sings happiness restored
Thoughts shared in the stillness
We can hear each other
Zero seconds to a Sonic boom!
O days left
It's Autumn and the leaves fall now
Flowers fade and overhead
shooting stars give their last light of Glory
And now new stars are born
to carry on, to die for a wish, to create hope
A voice coil expands
A tiger pounces on a lion
Two young cubs involved in a power struggle
I fall into Indian paintbrushes
I hear the petals crush doubts
No doubt about it
The Cardinal requires Ser Bernardino,
as high contracting party to the tasks,
to paint ten histories in damasceno,
in gold, vermilion: also asks
that other pleasing colours be employed,
the whole to be so handsome, beautiful
and lively, as will fill the present void
with fantasies. He should be dutiful
and diligent, and supervise the work.
Designs will all reveal The Master’s hand
(though pupils may fill spaces). He’ll not shirk
in imitating latest fashions. And
(this is insisted on) the Master shan’t
dodge off to paint some panel here or there,
but shall remain engaged on this. He can’t
retouch, restore, revivify, repair
or otherwise (without grave loss of honour)
adapt, adulterate, or amplify
some tuppeny hapenny Umbrian Madonna,
without The Cardinal demanding why.
The frescoes should contain protagonists
appropriate to the life herein depicted,
with landscapes, trees and mountains, mists
and such (for instance, like the storm inflicted
on Enea by the gods at Piombino).
Each pose and gesture, such as may amuse
and fascinate. This done, Ser Bernardino
may add whatever detail he may choose.
The Master binds himself and his garzoni
to purchase olive oil and best verdicchio,
all flour, figs, cheese, fruit, maccaroni,
with vouchers I’ll supply. Signed, Pinturicchio.
A setting sun inks purple mountain peaks,
painting frescoes on slopes of sullied snow.
And smearing scarlet in blotches and streaks,
its art surpasses Michelangelo.
Shadows scurry to merge with silhouettes,
as acrobatic bats hunt moths in flight.
And when Night gets as quiet as it gets,
ebony extinguishes Dusk's last light.
Crimson and cerise, color carmine skies,
as Sol's chariot gilds the edge of Night.
And trillions of stars materialize;
twinkling overhead like jewels of light.
And in the heavens hangs a beaming moon,
light pooling around it, like liquid gold.
For glowing as bright as a gold doubloon,
Luna's face is a wonder to behold.