Long Frescos Poems
Long Frescos Poems. Below are the most popular long Frescos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Frescos poems by poem length and keyword.
A palette of sounds, smells, and colors;
Spring fills the canvas of my mind
with Her stoic beauty.
And once more, Her fabulous frescos,
fuel my passion for impressionism:
when She dapples Winter's wet stucco
with vibrant splashes of color.
And my heart is stimulated
by Her earthy sweet-scented breath.
Nothing feels as refreshing
as a Spring shower;
the feel of renewal
is encapsulated within each drop.
Robin-Redbreasts and daffodils;
early harbingers of Spring,
magically, change the landscape.
Flowers bloom in copious colors;
and songbirds add a vibrant pulse
to the heart of Spring!
I cherish Spring's sweet smile;
for smiles are made of hope:
and hope is the promise of Spring.
In western skies, an eagle soars, at ease.
Below, the curving Colorado flows,
Winding its way through deep and dusty seas
Carving canyon walls steep, through tracts of time.
Twilight to twilight, its myriad moods
Are freshly painted on those ancient walls
Like rich frescos of reds and tans and mauves
In syncopated colors, all sublime.
The eons are borne by water and wind
From sea to land to sea and back again.
Their passage scribed on texts of sand and lime
Layer on layer like pages of time
Forming holy testaments neatly stored
In earthen temples and archives of stone,
With tales to read, as silent oceans roar,
For those with eyes to see and ears to hear.
I went to the Frankfurt Book Fair the other day.
It was mind-boggling..
Books! There were fat books, thin books,
White books, black books, tawny books,
Paperbacks, hardbacks, beautifully bound books,
Pure books, lax books, learned books, lay books,
Plain books, books of many colours,
Books on every subject under the sun,
Not to mention other books on
Distant galaxies, pulsars, quasars, black holes,
Books on any theme you can think of,
Or on themes you can’t even pronounce, from:
Art to Arthropods,
Bees to Biochemistry,
Cats to Catastrophes
Drugs to Decadence,
Energy to Ergonomics,
French Cooking to Frescos,
Guns to Gout,
History to Hippopotami,
Internal Medicine to Icebergs,
Julius Caesar to Justification,
Kulturkampf to Kinetics
Lace to Logogriphs,
Man to Manchuria,
Nietzsche to Nonsense Rhymes,
Opera to Ophthalmoscopes,
Poodles to Pollution,
Quantum Mechanics to Queen Victoria,
Russell to Rabbits,
Shaw to Shingles,
Tao to Torts,
Urdu to Ultimatums,
Virgil to Vivisection,
Whales to Witchcraft,
X-rays to Xylographs,
Yoga to Youth Hostels,
Zen to Zola,..
By closing-time my legs were giving out.
A voice, it seemed, was saying:
“Of more than is taught by these, my son, take care.
Of making many books there is no end,
And much study is weariness of the flesh.”
I don’t know about making them, I thought,
As I commenced my get-away from the Penguin stand,
But it takes something of an athlete just to glance at them.
I felt crushed, not only by the crowds
but also by the weight of my appalling ignorance.
EPISODES
separate moments
timlessy
suspended
&transported
harmony
torn apart
by
covert hints
& embedded
warnings
inertia
in
tranquil
contrasts
of
dramatic
focus
petulant periods
of
shadowed eyes
a
narrative a
of tensions
both meticulous
& incongruous
in
scenes
recreated
of
vast frescos
a
triumphant
apotheosis
reaching up
in
serenity
to moods
of optimism
in
celestial
celebration
from
undertones
of melancholy
idyllic
concepts
in
shimmering
surroundings of
scenes
a
rural
mass
of
exploits
foreclosed
by
banal mishaps
striving
for
attention
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
Everything was so spontaneous
and beautiful in my younger years;
a young heart reaching out to adventurous dreams,
making them as real as his imagined schemes!
Climbing a grassy hill,
pushing forward to reach mountains,
and discover hidden treasures
that lay in darkness for centuries;
frescos of saints in spacious caves,
a statue of an Archangel
guarding the dusty altar
as he thrusted His long spear
into the woeful Devil!!
Spring was a stunning sight of fireflies,
so incrediblly cheerful and thrilling,
when the impetuous wind
scattered the small white flowers
of a clustered viburnum
over the acient town of Baianum...
where I spent my younger years,
cherishing the liveliness of adolescence!
Coming down steep cliffs
towards early evening...
when the sunset was ablaze,
serenity was never felt so deeply;
and as weary as the canary's song would be,
it prompted me to sing!
In my younger years,
all those days weren't a passage through brevity...
they lingered on like they were enraptured by eternity;
If I had foreseen the misery of my misfortunes...
I wouldn't enunciate the loss of their affinity,
or the vitality of my unrelenting footsteps:
when I crossed,so unhastly,
that magnificent land called, " Italy! "
Lure of mirage
in deranged dunes,
dances in
dandelion rhythm
with oasis dream,
illusion inscribed
in sane sands of time,
sliding continuum
with desiccated travail,
thirst unquenched,
stimulus perpetual.
Dormant despair
usurps harps of hope,
vibrato dissipates
unperceived,
wisdom shroud
unfurls crafty chimera
in life of actuality,
awareness imbibed.
Stifling shadow
of ebony anguish cloud
creeps remorseless,
dissension darkness drips
opaque desolateness
on listless landscape,
mangled in
strife maelstrom,
mind sucked within
hope vortex,
umbrage unushered.
Silver spectrum
of lines transient
in acumen cloud,
splits into colors
of radiant reverie
in optimistic prism.
Convoluted canvas,
carapace conjured
for contorted hideous faces,
turning in a trance
into baroque frescos,
flicker of beauty
sparkles sneaky
in conceived smile.
…beholder, the painter.
At sunset, orange frescos on the west wall
Sink gradually into the bowels of hills flung
By distant wavelengths of a backward illusion,
Which yells silently at concupiscent terns,
Yodelling and returning from carnivals of the
Wild. From the faint glow, a rainbow stretches
For a cuddle, musing over a curious world,
Ditched by diaphanous tarradiddles of the odd.
Shadows on ground level travel on painted
Tars, recreating their bosoms on surfaces
Raven-black and soot-framed.
Seagulls welcome waves in one cracked voice,
Honking the horns of billed staccato.
Among able-bodied patterns of bituminous tracks,
Rivers, ponds, pools seek their faces on sun-flushed
Mirrors, which laugh at their fatuous inclinations
Mired by the sputum of drained rains.
Sandro
Mastering his skill of painting, diligent to detail, color, and Frescos (Sistine Chapel)
Born in Florence, Italy, apprenticed as a goldsmith, then later with a master painter
By 1472, he had his own workshop where he created most of his works
Painting his Early Renaissance and Gothic Realism art plus doing church Frescos
He feared marriage saying it gave him nightmares, so he never married or had children
However he did love a married noblewoman and asked to be buried at her feet and was
In his later life, he was accused of "keeping a boy" but he was dismissed of charges
Yet he died in disgrace. His art remains in churches and galleries forever beloved
Botticelli
________________________
April 3, 2016
Poetry/Bio/Sandro Botticello
Copyright Protected, ID 16-774-483-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
(Real name - Alessandro di Mariano Filipepe)
Lure of mirage
in deranged dunes,
dances in
dandelion rhythm
with oasis dream,
illusion inscribed
in sane sands of time,
sliding continuum
with desiccated travail,
thirst unquenched,
stimulus sensuous,
perpetual.
Dormant despair
usurps harps of hope,
vibrato dissipates
unperceived,
wisdom shroud
unfurls crafty chimera
in life of actuality,
awareness avid,
imbibed.
Stifling shadow
anguished onyx cloud
creeps remorseless,
dissension darkness drips
opaque desolateness
on listless landscape,
mangled in
strife maelstrom,
mind sucked within
hope vortex,
umbrage pervades,
unushered.
Silver spectrum
of lines transient
in acumen cloud,
splits into colors
of radiant reverie
in optimistic prism,
sculpted.
Convoluted canvas,
carapace conjured
for contorted hideous faces,
turning in a trance
into baroque frescos,
flicker of beauty
sparkles sneaky
in conceived smile,
beholder,
the painter.
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!