Long Mona lisa Poems
Long Mona lisa Poems. Below are the most popular long Mona lisa by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mona lisa poems by poem length and keyword.
1)Bind your eyes with a scarf. Do not cheat, allow no light to pass through.
2)Pick a quiet place with just you and the following; your paints, your paintbrushes, your easel, and your canvas, and collected items from across the world.
3)To ensure that you select the appropriate colours of his eyes firstly you need to go on a journey to the Carribean in hopes of replicating his human canvas exterior. Gather some fresh ocean water in a vial. Examine the manner in which the light passes through the deep blue life liquid, like a dolphin's back cutting across the glass surface of the ocean at sunset.Capture the memory of that colour, tuck it away, without this appropriate representation you will not do the piece any justice at all. It would be like Da Vinci giving Mona Lisa hair that was gray. Try to stop your mind from wandering, imagining what it would be like to swim through those eyes and be lost in his visual paradise. So captivating, and full of his pure hearted desires. His blue eyes speckled with Silver are reminescent of the moon. The wolves cry woefully because they are too far away to feel his lovely grace. His gaze so penetrating like steel rings, is truly comforting. He is the protector, he is a lighthouse, and his heart will always be your shelter.
4) Capture the next flight to Greece. Run your hands over the marble, memorize the contours of the milky Statue of Angel Icarus. Feel the muscles of the upper arms, to recognize what it is to create a man out of stone. Sit cross legged on the floor, at the feet of the Stone Angel. Icarus is a cold vision of a man, but Tay is full of warmth, beauty and compassion, it is obvious that the winged image of a Greek God could never manage to compare to him. Tay is a modern day livng breathing sculptor, with a microphone tattoo uniquely etched into his skin. Just remember how wide his arms are for hugging. His cheeks so flushed with joy, you will need to gather the grapes from Italy. Climb the highest tree in the Orchard. Find a handful that is so rich in flavour like his pernality. His taste from his lips are aromatic and intoxicating.
Form:
“since thoughts speak in past tenses,
drop mind, rely on senses,
embracing and releasing,
pain pangs and pleasure pleasing” ~ Unseeking Seeker
The sun
w a n e s into the saline swell,
and the ether
undresses corseted ruminations,
while heart follows formless flames
illuminated with flares of
frankincense forgiveness
as mind replays recurring regrets
like vinyls~
spinning forlorn runes
laced with fallacious fragments,
clouding the intricate cycle of lunar~
intuitions with illusive riddles,
drifting into the eventide of agony…
So I drink and I dine
from the hyacinth hands of
the golden chalices
brimming with turmeric tranquility,
listening ~ in sync ~
with the soul of sanguine stillness
ricocheting with rustling repose,
erasing cracked crevices
heavy with ache
from soft smears of monarch-bliss strokes,
spilling picturesque pigments of peace
from Mona Lisa musings
to veil visions of vanity,
to mask mirrors of melancholy,
to soften scarlet streaks of sorrow…
Tonight I close the portals
of perplexed perceptions,
unlocking the crown chakra
like forgotten forests
glowing with faith and fireflies,
allowing stars to glaze
my inner psyche
with dusts of glistening gratitude,
fine-tuning the symphony of Kundalini
to musical mists of mindfulness,
cloaked in
crystalline clovers of clarity~
like an awakened fairy
flipping leaves of lotus love,
pausing the pulse of pain
beneath an empyrean embellished
with spiritual elixirs,
detached from darkness,
clinging neither to
the seraphic scriptures
nor the egoistic galaxies,
sprinkling superficial sparkles
of material mantras.
As enlightened ink r e m a i n s
reliving ~ sewn into the
seams of sacredness
like endless rivers rippling with
opalescent quiescence…
O divine almighty,
I vow to sow herbs of harmony,
engrossed in the timeless phase
of rose-wine twilight~
untangling twisted tulips
intertwined with
weathered willows.
As I seek nothing but lucid light,
soaked in petrichor musings,
resting in zealous zenith,
for I am a rhymeless disciple
accepting the reality
that kissed the silk of silhouette
amidst rain and warmth~
the celestial peaks of change.
I taste flavors of kismet,
swallowing spices of lament,
comfortably composed
in the mystical essence
of soundless rhythm…
Mona Lisa has worn that mystical smile on her mug for over 500 years!
Who is this mysterious lady who at us from The Louvre benignly peers?
She had to sit for over four years for the artist to capture that simple pose.
Who she is and what's behind that smile, only Leonardo DaVinci knows!
She ain't the most beautiful woman to come down the pike but what the heck.
Since her genesis in 1503 she wasn't treated all that well during her dicey trek!
She's been mutilated, stolen a time or two and graced Napoleon's sleeping place.
All the while she's borne it with grace with that inane smile upon her face!
Some have said that she's the widowed Duchess of Milan, Isabella of Aragon.
Others have sworn that she's Mona Lisa Gherardini and so it goes on and on!
Signore DaVinci left no specific clues as to the name of this mysterious dame!
Through the centuries men have scratched their skulls trying to seek her name!
Was that frozen smile upon her face to hide teeth that were crooked and stained?
Or was her pose such that her posterior and sacroiliac were slightly strained?
Perhaps her compressed smile implied to Leonardo, "Hurry up and git 'er done!
You're payin' minimum wage and fella, posin' fer posterity ain't all that fun!"
Now hung upon the wall of The Louvre she's worth millions and millions of bucks.
Not bad for an unknown woman from who knows where, but here's the crux:
That beatific smile upon the homely face of Mona Lisa that Leonardo created,
And what she's smiling for will always be debated and pondered unabated!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tied for 3d Place in Carolyn Devonshire's "Unsolved Mysteries" Contest - Jul 2011
You can take an agency tour
Or a cruise to somewhere exotic.
You can cram onto buses and trains
Or sway on a camel hypnotic.
You can stand on your toes in a group
And try to see o’er the crowd,
To possibly glimpse Mona Lisa
Or hear, though the noise is so loud.
Instead of coming home tired
And set for a week in your bed
Travel the way that’s relaxing
And see more and hear more instead.
I’ve traveled the high Himalayas,
Seen mountains and valleys galore
Trudged with the yaks and porters-
No frostbite, no blizzards, no sores.
From ocean to ocean I’ve wandered
Seen whales and dolphins at play,
Walked in Australia’s Red Center
Without face nets to keep flies away.
I’ve learned much about native people,
Their customs, their habits and lore.
I’ve even been south to Antarctica
And oh, to so many sites more.
And all of this time I was sitting
In my living room lounging chair,
Dressed in pajamas and bathrobe
With books piled around in my lair.
My armchair’s a magical carpet
That whisks me wherever I wish
No planes or lines of security
Just a turn of a page and –whish!
BLACK MONA LISA
Art renaissance, a masterpiece did appear,
A captivating portrait, both bold and sincere.
Splintering ebony grace, a figure so rare,
The Black Mona Lisa, with brown eyes and flair.
Her visage, a canvas of shadows silent night,
A drapery of contrast, a mesmerizing sight.
Her ebony skin, like a moonlit night's kiss,
Radiates elegance, impossible to dismiss.
Her brown eyes are windows to her soul,
They hold mysteries, stories we'd love to know.¹°
With depth and warmth, they capture the gaze,
Inviting the stare of all who occupy her space,
They look upon her and are undoubtedly amazed.
Some criticise this rarity yet she remains unfazed.
In a world where beauty adheres to a mold,
The Black Mona Lisa breaks free from the old.
This isn't the archaic Mona Lisa you all knew.
It's a rare painting, an artwork that pins your view.
For within her lies a narrative profound,
Such as resilience, triumphs, adventures unbound.²°
With each stroke of the brush, colours disperse.
Her existence, a testament to beauty diverse,
A celebration of uniqueness, a universe to traverse.
With her dark beauty & brown eyes that gleams,
She reminds us that art is more than it seems.²5
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©? December 2023.
"The Ballad of The Poet Destroyer"
Destroyer, and creator of words
Flying high on the wings of a bird
Drowning every inch, by foes and friends
Where has she gone?
When push came to shove,
She continued standing tall after every fall
Falling fearlessly like the falling star tapping the lips
Topaz, a star in the eyes of envy the enemy
A dreamlike, miracle mirage, fresh like mints
No reason in remembering yesterday's sad song
Slightly she moves in with the new barren breeze,
A maze in disguise, no way out
A feeling so good, you hate
The naming of names, that won't escape you
Your eyes of lust, imitate PD's sweetest touch,
Destruction, with pleasure
A new day, killed by the morning after pill
Everyone gone, shadows remain
Where, has she gone?
A feeling so good, you hate
Your unmatched precision wobbles your stability
She'll give you a taste of rays, despite your low self-esteem
Happiness turns to sadness, making every jaw drop
Where has she gone?
She's not the painting of Mona Lisa,
However, it does not stop you from spending your cash-
-To see a picture painted with a frown,
Look what you've done!
Never to return, what was, what is!
You say you love her, then you run
A dry barrel, an empty gun,
Never will the enemy be number one,
Nothing but a shadow, a rug for PD,
Like a dream, her imagery is haunting
Love her or leave her, her pen name remains
Poet O' Poet where are you?
An advocate of smiles, enjoy her copy-paste kiss
Trace her silhouette found in the midnight mist
Blindfolded, indulge by the wind
Breaking, the Texas Hold EM' Hand
Her freedom, her land
Gone insane, she laughs,
Untouched she remains, she lives
Inside of me
By; PD
‘Nappy’
They call my curls a mystery,
An enigma to unwrap -
They feel the need to touch,
Then laugh when I get mad
They call it a crime scene -
‘How nobody could love that’
They call her wild and untamed,
My hair is not to be shamed
They treat my hair like a game -
‘Guess what hairstyle she has today’
They question the growth,
As if it’s one size only -
A black girls hair created the word diversity
The intricate pattern of curls,
How we are not restricted to one pattern
My hair is not an exhibition,
It’s not for your eyes to consume
My hair may be art,
But just like the mona lisa -
Touching is not allowed
i remember you;
giddy little child
with the mona-lisa smile
and sun-burnt hair
as it brushed against
your ivory skin
you were so innocent then
i never saw the sadness
that lingered in your eyes
the depths of green
seemed to pull others in
that hypnotizing glare
hid your pain well
they laughed with you
yet in silence you cried
muffled voice
echoed on walls
where darkness
subdued your soul
i heard you sold your soul
on the corner
of fifth and main
for a small bag of pleasure
to escape the pain
momentarily
again
a lonely cat
cried by your side
he has nine lives
you've already had ten
yet there you go again
unafraid, stained
with your own blood
the band
still wrapped tight
against your flesh
needle tip
still feeding your veins
as you close your eyes
and rest in shallow breaths
i remember you;
still as the air
that august day
that sunlit hair
against grey skin
blue lips without smile
closed eyes pulling others in
to the depths of your pain
their cheeks stained
with tears
that bore your name
as muffled cries
echoed
by your grave
June 28, 2019
First Place
Best free verse 2019 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
Copyright © Sandra Adams | Year Posted 2019
I have to admit, I was perusing Broken Wings page and saw what she had written for a contest about Michelangelo vs De Vinci. I was taken by the photos she posted, and inspired to write this ditty. Thank you for reading
David looking insecure
He stands there, cast in stone
At that Chantress Mona Lisa,
On the canvass all alone
He wishes he was like her
Formed by brush in ash and oil
Labored on with timeless sweat
And nights of endless toil
He sees the color of her hair
And dreams, it were his own
The richness of each brush stroke
Blended hues with softer tones
She sees him standing there
Silky white, white as bone
His muscles shapely tight
With a stare, as still as stone
His coldness, lack of color
Does not make Her turn in fear
But kindles a desire,
To have cool white marble near
She likes the man she sees
Young and strong, there's no denial
With one muscle under cut
It's no wonder that she smiles
I once saw a soul hold a brush—
when my eyes first fell in love
with the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
Michelangelo, with the sweep of his hand,
took me through space and time,
into a cathedral of bliss
painted upon the heavens.
When I dreamed of the Mona Lisa,
and tasted the silence
of The Last Supper,
I woke asking—
Was Leonardo da Vinci a man,
or the myth the gods paint
into our dreams?
Time unrolled its canvas,
and 1889 wrapped me in its swirling night—
The Starry Night.
I whispered, “Is Vincent van Gogh gone,
or has he only moved into the light?”
In Spain, I searched for Pablo Picasso.
They brought me Guernica—
its cries frozen in fractured forms—
and Cubism leaned close to say,
“Some men are too vast
for one dimension.”
I wandered further,
until Claude Monet stood before me.
No words—only a gift:
Impression, Sunrise.
Its breath still warm,
its light eternal.
Raphael appeared,
soft yet unyielding.
For five centuries, he said,
his art has been a pillar in the temple of beauty.
When he placed Madonna in the Meadow
into my hands,
I wept.
The Venetian school bowed low
and whispered, “Titian.”
Before Bacchus and Ariadne,
I turned away—
fearing my heart might shatter
beneath such beauty.
And so I called out
to the gods of talent:
“To all the artists—
you who bend reality to your vision—
you have made the impossible breathe,
and turned the world’s imagination
into something we can touch.”