Long Gogh Poems
Long Gogh Poems. Below are the most popular long Gogh by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gogh poems by poem length and keyword.
His life came to a ruinous end
Plummeted into insanity
The red-bearded painter
With his self-hatred, despair and desperation for understanding
He drank yellow paint thinking it would make him happy
Locked up in a mental asylum that would shatter any person’s self-belief
Deceived Vincent cut his earlobe in an unforeseen calamity
But he channelled the awful torment into beauty
Immaculate and sublime
To find ecstasy in the ordinary
And in transforming the banal into a magical masterpiece
The Starry Night, Sunflowers, Self-Portrait, The Potato Eaters, Wheatfield with Crows, Irises, The Bedroom in Arles
Each a genius’s masterstroke into Eternity
A jumble of love, sorrow and rage
Painting the canvas in bold strokes as his heart and mind burst into flames
The King of colour, a whisper into the future unheard in his times
He died in a rut with voices all over his mind.
So, he picked up the gun
And the bullet went straight into his golden heart
Wonder how many colours lost their lives on that day?
orchidlike delicate petals ~
oozing in shades of teal and admiral
are like dancing ballerinas
hailing for the first kiss of rain
whilst flaxen and golden grasses
are softly cascading honey
flowing where your footsteps go.
ochre and mustard hues from afar
dance in unison with the luminous leaves
of verdun and chateau
like hands of the chosen~
praising the Omnipotent
21 March 2021
Notes:Irises is one of several paintings of irises by the Dutch artist Vincent van Gogh . He started painting Irises within a week of entering the asylum, in May 1889, working from nature in the hospital garden.In 1987, it became the most expensive painting ever sold, setting a record which stood for two and a half years. ( Photo and info credits to Wikipedia)
I Van Gough,
love my paints and canvas.
My brush is dancing with dark blue,
as it covers the white canvas.
I see yellow as a luminous moon in my work,
like the bright sun outside my window.
A little white for depth,
white is all colors as one.
Black is needed to make this night dark,
because my night sky is filled with swirling stars,
with a village and cypress trees looking mysterious.
I create with paints and canvas,
my writer friend creates with ink,
a quill pen on paper.
My work comes alive with paint,
my friend comes alive with words.
Now almost finished,
I want it to be about a heavenly night,
I see a "Starry Night,"
this should be your name.
"Starry Night,"
Painted By Vincent Van Gogh in 1889.
somewhere sunflowers catch a Van Gogh glow
nature's fragile stems
that pull us up
that spill their light
like heroism
to break the growling crumbs of earth
somewhere people die, bludgeoned by circumstance
by life altering chaos
from a tyrant's malice
that strays like poison gas
to sever their resolve
somewhere folks rebuke science
to strip a health direction
claims of stifling freedom
flashing banners of entitlement
that risk collective safety
somewhere freedom's script
breaks its rigid capsule
for a people reclaiming dignity
to fight the beastly brute
the truest code of conduct
towering
like sunflower fields in far off places
Poem composed April 15, 2022
Elemental formulations of healing for the soul
Consequential co-ordinations as we resist growing old
Monumental calculations from a mind in the scientific cold
Fundamental indignation from a heritage that has been cheaply sold
Inspiration from an underground rebellion against corruption
Congregations gathering peacefully while they plan the next outrageous eruption
Elevations of encouragement reserved for the next humble induction
Consternations of conscience as they deliberate the latest disruption
Elated Birthrights of grace that alleviate the suffering of man
Conflated sights of misplaced rights that insight the oppressed to take a stand
Berated knights of armies that fight for the underprivileged lands
Outdated insights from the furtherest from right that cannot reach out to take their neighbours hand
Sorrow amidst the grieving leaves of the oldest oak lined tree
Tomorrow rids the meaning of the boldest manoeuvre to be free
Borrow a reference from those streaming the coldest point of view even though they cannot see
Chateaux of Buddhist Mist resists those seeming as though they understand what it means to just “be”
Retrospective Franz Kafka, Kubrick and Van Gogh are turning in their respective artistic graves
Genuflective baroque bursts out in the streets and illuminates the belligerent and brave
My perspective resists the twists in the narrative that perpetuate the misrepresentation of knowledge in this dying age
Defective subjectives invoke word detectives as contradictions alleviate words from a sage
Retreating from gender and bigotry , racism, discrimination and persecution
Completing a consulate meeting while avoiding contamination of your verbal elocution
Deleting the render of fascism, recrimination and avoiding electrocution
Competing the bender of catachlysm while intimidation forces an absolution
Give peace a chance while you look at him askance and allow a new world to now form
Live through this strange dance while the privilege prance and the poor remain utterly forlorn
Forgive the wanton violent stance of those who are existing war torn
Outlive the demise of the good in disguise as a baby cries after being born
The End Copyright Elizabeth Moroz
The shopping centre's open, the car park it is packed
No sign of mother nature unless it’s been vacuum packed
the car park just a lay by no clue’s what lays beyond
just a dirt track and a factory fence to walk along
traffic noise fades into the background
the birds begin to sing
and an ancient woodland stands before me
an oasis in a land of commerce scared by human hand
mother natures been out painting a lovely shade on blue
a woodland dappled with painted dots
Vincent van gogh would be pleased
when the bluebells show.
Parrotts drumble is an ancient woodland in an industrial centre please click the link to understand the poem many thanks
http://www.staffs-wildlife.org.uk/reserves/parrots-drumble
click on the link you can see a massive shopping centre the wood behind it
you walk down the side of a factory to get to it, and for those who do not live in the uk stoke on trent is an heavy industrial area .
#1: The Cravings Cull
the cravings have come back ...
and, they are so more restless ...
at my finger's edge ...
they cull at you--an easy picking, know they their victim's all ...
but their unrest is incomplete ...
in me ...
they never rest ...
like now ...
constantly, the cravings are insatiable
and the only way I knew, was to fight and so I drew ...
I drew, I drew, I drew, as I fought the way I knew ...
The casualty of a heart hurts
and seems to bleed clear tears
from this enigma. It harrases an
assuming face coldly hand-held
serene.
Triumphs
there's more
coming,
isn't from
Vibrant and radiant life abounds
as lovers, sealed around devotion
thrive midst nature's care...
mindful of paradise
blest, blooming, blissful
entrusted to their stewardship
for functional optimization
they both are committed to fulfill
since trees and vegetation witnessed...
the Creator exhorted them to
"Go and multiply."*
*Genesis 1:28 And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.
February 15, 2025
1st place, "Select a FEB 25 POSTED" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 2/19/2025
~Master Painters~
(The Cinquain Chain )
~O~
Paintings
Some beautiful
Masterpieces I love
The Mona Lisa with that smile
Arcane
Arcane
Delightful ones
Paintings that bring much joy
Rembrandt, Vermeer, Van Gogh, Kinkaid
Masters
Masters
Of great paintings
God given gifts that glows
Study their work looking at them
Brings joy
Brings joy
Many stand time
Picasso, great painter
J. Waterhouse, just mention some, are
All great.
~O~
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2012
December.09.2019
“Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
- Mark Twain
~Author's Notes:
The " Cinquain " is a poetry form or style developed by the Imagist poet, Adelaide Crapsey.
Sweet you look in warm rain
Peeling the soil for chocolate chains
Recalling Vincent van Gogh
Inklings of green mailbox
Nestling molecules of paradise
Greeting us in the melting ice
In the flute of your green wood
Soft Grosbeak in the neighborhood
Comely you look
Oomph in your brook
Mystic whisper in the air on your moonflowers
Images of dreamy hours
Nectarous noise in our hemoglobin
Green and pink touches you offer umpteen
Shadows of your strawberry stories
Oleander glories
Open the boat’s door
No more desolation, quick pulse of footfall in the silken shore
___________________________________________________
19 March, 2017