Long Monet Poems
Long Monet Poems. Below are the most popular long Monet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monet poems by poem length and keyword.
My name escaped me just this summer past,
In crispy twilight air with lilac breath;
Soft Monet breeze discovered, beauty’s last,
A hollow season now, vanilla death;
An unrhymed Shakespeare sonnet wintry still
Whose lines compare me to a fallen sun,
Not William, though, appears, nor even Bill,
When I do look upon where should be one;
Leapt through an open window near my bed,
While slumber held me under dreamy weight;
A nightmare heard from voices quickly fled,
Un-chased ‘til Autumn stirred this dreamer late;
But more than all and why now I’m ashamed,
Is fear which keeps away my love so named.
Written on my 34th birthday
9/24/2016
BORROW MY FINGERS’ VOICE
. . . . .` ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ . . . . .
could you, Monet...borrow my fingers’ voice
as my desire runs through your pastel bones?
and in your artist’s blood i mix...by choice
the oiled smudge of me in these dusking tones
through joys and moans, is there time to rejoice,
to sketch love’s hand, though inks plummet as stones?
on canvas, a trace of me will remain
i am the sky, the elements, the crane
ottava rima
all rights reserved
©
--for Brian Strand’s Any 2,4,6 or 8line form—
-- by nette onclaud
I was brought up believing God is an artist…
that she has an artist’s eye.
How else can you explain how every day
she paints the land…the sea…the sky?
I love never knowing what painting I will see
because each day of every season she paints so differently.
Her winter colors are muted…
peace, serenity and solitude…they convey
She paints like Whistler and Picasso
when they dabbled in white and gray
In springtime she paints in greater detail
as buds on the trees and flowers appear.
She begins to use more lively colors
and paint like da Vinci and Vermeer.
Her summer hues burst off her canvas
as the number of her pallets increase.
Diverse colors show up everywhere
as she paints like Van Gogh and Matisse.
But my favorite season of her painting
as each day I look out and am enthralled
is when her unique colors of summer
blend into impressions of the Fall.
I picture her in her heavenly studio
constantly mixing colors deciding on this day’s motif
surrounded by her brushes
as she paints…then repaints each leaf.
I love when she paints Like Whistler and Picasso in Winter,
Like da Vinci and Vermeer in Spring
And when she paints like Van Gogh and Matisse in summer
I love all the colors she brings…
But I prefer the Fall….sitting among the trees
as the sun illuminates the day…
and watching how her colors blend together…
as she paints the season like Monet.
I oft shooed thee as bird of barest brain,
No, ye do hide behind some talent rare,
Should a rare hand nurture ye to train,
Thine sense of shades I doubt any may share.
It is thine knack human commands to heed
That makes thee a bird of a choicest breed,
Thou ‘lone, O angel, canst call a Monet
From a Picasso, Peace pigeon, prized pet!
It was when I saw a huge flock of thee
Taking off from the ground at a command,
Swirling soon in a formation to be,
Showing off skills in flight, and to soft-land,
Thence to trap birds of rival fleet—what treat!
I know ye deserve discerning diet—
Of dry fruits and pure Indian ghee— a bit
Rich may it look — a long-corn and millet.
I never knew doves could be trained to tell
A human voice or whistle, and many
A hand gesture to return safe and well
To base, until I did thine talent see.
Thou hast the measure of magnetic field
Of Earth, to have a sense to know at best
Thine place in space with the power ye wield,
And to return spot-on to place of rest.
Those eyes hast more colour cones than us,
That thou canst see three times as many shades
As humans, making ye a bird so precious,
A pigment marked seldom from thine mind fades.
O thou, a perennial guest of my house,
I'd not shoo thee away- now that I know
Thou art not like that pesky pest, the mouse;
Yet hygiene's good habits ye ought to show!
And ye make every corner, every niche
In my house, and thine nesting place, a rage,
Thine maternity home all so hellish,
But, pray, a house is no home of garbage!
It's odd, we call thee a common pigeon;
Such rare credentials can't make thee common.
For nesting home, O thou a homing bird:
What made ye leave trees to like human herd?
______________________________________ ________________
- Reflections | 03.01.12
I love art museums with any kind of art…big or small.
I love to see the abstracts, the portraits, the landscapes hanging on the wall.
I suppose that’s why I love nature so much…
It’s also filled with many kinds of art…big and small.
but nature’s museum is unique…for it has no walls at all
In fact a simple walk in nature…looking around at all its wonders of creation
and you get a good idea where human artists get their inspiration.
From landscapes, sculptures, portraits, trees, flowers, animals- art so realistic…
to when the fog descends and that same world becomes art…impressionistic.
You stop and wonder at all the art and the more you cogitate…
you realize you are walking through what artists only re-create.
Take the paper wasp for instance…they mix wood fibers and plant stems with their instinct, saliva, talent and heart
And not only do they build a nest but…they create a work of art.
If you look at paper wasp nests…you too will come to know
how wasp artists are as creative…as say…Michelangelo .
Some of their nests are impressionistic- like Monet, each a treasured piece
Some are more surreal like Dali…some more abstract like Matisse
Yet paper wasps are only one school of artists in the nature that surrounds…
What’s fun about nature is all the other artist waiting to be found.
What makes nature’s museum unique however…is not only her wide variety..
that she contains every kind of art you want to see
but with no walls…nature’s museum is always open…
and even more amazing…she is always free.
Coruscating gravitas
imbibed algebraic
cerebral tranches
to spark
alacrity defiant
material manducation
deployed tangibly
phlegmatic
whilst
begetting manifest
miraculous meteoric
innovative impulses
when
penetrating bailiwicks
of tongue-contortion
cerebrum
eidetic retention
straddling juncture’s
poised gateway
as
baton weaving
catalyst triumphant
for
pumped ensemble
virtuoso visionaries
who
taproot trajectories
cocoon emerging
brainchild unfettered
obsessing
magazine mandarins
artistic
archetypal Monet
lavish lavender
lily pond
with
balsamic brushstrokes
galvanising
similar maven
budding Einsteins
blazing trails
of
original contrivance
boosting beneficial
health domain
of
wellspring weal
integrating impactful
slants
gearshift gargantuan
narcissistic nadir
repetitive
regurgitations rampant
abjured by
polymath prodigious
whose
appalachian peak
of antecedents
an avalanche
tintinnabulation
enunciated showpiece
heralds harvesting
gilt-edged prodigy
in fields
belletrist
nimble-fingered
experiential
Old leaves glow bright before my eyes-
cascade from trees 'neath windswept skies
to twirl and swirl to earth, unbound;
weave colored quilts that warm the ground.
Like a chameleon, leaves turned,
from verdant shades- to saffron-burned.
With brushstroked streaks of marigold,
bright, speckled landscapes did unfold.
Throughout the cool and crispy days,
rich copper and soft pumpkin haze
paint growth along the country lanes-
to fields of harvest on the plains.
And as Monet used stippled hues-
Fall gifts its canvases of views,
as nature's artistry of dreams
unfolds its grand, most brilliant schemes.
Storm dusts of end summer dusk disappear
north wind whistles winter footfall is near
ginger sky dons the silk attire of blue
bent boughs of stripped trees shine with amber hue
Gold gilded leaves forget they were once green
paint finesse of Monet on sizzling screen
from air of fall drizzle dazzling colors
on rustling foliage turned to flowers
Summer swan song ushers autumn romance
in dawn’s glow with jade grass gleamed dew drops dance
soaring fleet of cloud sails in sapphire sky
on mirror lake strands of satin mist lie
I whisper tempting tunes of autumn air
joy of shimmering sonata I share
The flotilla of the climbing clouds slowly slides away
across the smoky screen shifting from the twilight sky.
The beguiled birds bathe in the dome of the blushing bay,
in the flushing gleam of ambiance to their nest they fly,
as the fall arrives with crystalline splendor on the sly.
The transparent threshold of the halcyon horizon
splits the spreading sunbeam in the spectrum of hued spray,
sparkling shades spilling from its palette paint the dawn.
Bowed down slender blades of garnet grass sway
on the lap of maroon meadow in rippling air drifting away.
The pasture wears the ornate diadem of diamond dew,
flickering with the finesse of dulcet dawn’s chromatic glow.
Lining the sun-burnt cinnabar garden path paved anew,
dry trunks of defoliated trees stand on the soil fallow,
the gilded leaves rustle with the steps of hot days departing slow.
As the setting sun sets fire at the fringe of the serene sky,
making surreal celestial collage of vermillion ember bright,
under its crimson radiance my saturated spirit soars high,
as it perceives the mellow day drown in color cove out of sight,
the painting of Monet suffuses me with the aura of delight.
My hibernating heart,
frozen in the arctic archive,
wakes up enlivened
in the dulcet dawn,
the yearning brush soaks
the sunburst colors,
paints a Monet garden
of blooming lavender love,
unfurls the facsimile
of your floral face,
adroitly appealing.
The luring luster
of lilac rose petals
lines your luscious lips,
quivering with the cadence
of the dancing dew,
turning to diamond
for you.
Rhapsodic ripples
in my mesmerized heart’s
pictorial dunes
trail the mirage moments
in dormant dream,
migrating in the deserted time,
shimmering in euphoria,
endlessly enchanting.
In the velvet vale
of satin passon,
my fascinated mind
fashioned by fervor,
carves a charming channel
of longing to reach you.
The drifting ebony clouds
of my desire
come down in a torrent,
makes my melodic love
a meandering river,
etching an exciting template,
the enticing design
earnestly enthralling.
In my pensive pasture
the panorama appears
alluringly contrived,
apparently alive
in the recess of sanguinity,
where I wait
to take you
to the valley of flowers,
entrance you
with my animated absence,
eternally eluding.