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.
Let’s start with some rhyme..
I started the morning microdosing iced coffee
and scrolling the endless Internet sea
Similar to Odysseus’ travels in the Odyssey,
my sales were swelled by fashion amenities
and I was waylaid by sirens of curiosity
enough of THAT..
Ok, I have regrets. Last night I was talked into going to an after-party, when honestly, I was ready to go home. Why does Peter let me do that?
We were having enough fun where we were.
So, in this group of 10 or so, on foot, we tottered into an elegant restaurant where tiny plates that cost €40 held 4 actual bites of delicious food. We were sharing (with 1-3 other people). So, picking up the tab, I paid €400 and got what? Two bites?!
Still, with the energy of a club after midnight,
we finally got to the after-party and it was a delight
but with absolutely no food in sight.
Except two olives.
This morning I’m as ravenous as a Cyclops.
My order, placed early, would fill a triceratops.
For room service I’m toe-tappingly waiting
because the staff’s moving as fast as a Monet still-life painting.
.
.
A song for this:
Beauty and the Beast by Jump5
and if my heart is flawed ~
a muse-less manipulator,
it is because
it has known the murk
where nymphaea drift
through green grief
of algae blooms,
yet still m e l t s
in mauve muteness
to feel love’s rhythm
in merciful melancholy,
whilst the air
ripples like fractured light
on a liquid edge
dreaming,
drawing
somewhere
between silence and sacredness,
as mind mimics migrating birds
blissfully bruised
but never broken...
for I am the essence
of an aquatic-blossom ~
soft yet strong ~
patience my pulse
kindness my dignified design,
when coldness finds
its cruel coherence...
O beloved,
feel me
beyond the sighing pond-mists.
I am your mirror
in shallow reflections,
interpreting your
quivering quietness
into unbreakable
laces of light
that float and breathe
as mindfulness
frames the placid pixels
in oil pigments ~
an aura of an artist
can refine to redefine,
where lilies linger
and the water reminisces
its own sun's
luminous f l o w ...
My hibernating heart,
frozen in arctic horizon,
wakes up enlivened
in dazzling 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 pearls
for you.
Rhapsodic ripples
in my mesmerized heart’s
pictorial dunes
trail in dormant dream
the mirage moments,
migrating in deserted time,
shimmering in euphoria,
endlessly enchanting.
In the velvet vale
of satin desire,
my fascinated mind
fashioned by fervor,
carves a charming channel
of longing to reach you.
The climbing cloud
of my craving
comes 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 recess of sanguinity,
where I wait
to take you
to the valley of flowers,
entrance you
with my animated absence,
eternally eluding.
Why did you stop selling your art? Because
no one loves it as much as I; no one else
can look at the girl with the orange, purple
and pink hair and remember how much fun I had
working on her.
Why did you not think you were a poet?
I truly did not know, or care. All I knew, was that my
soul required me to pick up a pen and begin to write.
Some said it was poetry. I do not care because
I am unconcerned. I am the Monet of myself,
creating and re-creating, over and over and over,
never getting it quite right. I paint the same
thing a hundred times, and I shall not stop,
for I have not satisfied myself yet,
Satisfying me is what my art is about.
When I have written or drawn or painted
or danced that which thoroughly fills my soul self
and takes me to the next level, I shall stop.
But not a moment sooner.
So step out of the way,
you are in my light.
"Monet's paintings are best seen from afar than close up," ... by Poet.
Faraway the figment, like Monet the pigment,
the brother so gallant, how he flaunts his talent,
he paints at a farness, like a horse to harness.
On art, less than tasteful, funds spent a bit wasteful,
hence, see he a crackpot, three prunes be his jackpot.
The other, quill--fountain--built a tidy mountain,
first bees in a bonnet when he wrote a sonnet,
then that which was timeless 'twas wrote poems rhymeless.
Mom gave, 'twas none cheaply, had pockets dug deeply,
both brothers did cherish, their sinful ways perish.
Mom was not devious, planned she thought previous.
saw her boys sinister, she aimed to minister,
The Word generated, the cloth, venerated.
Conformed beautifully, her sons dutifully,
tale of our brotherhood, as she vowed motherhood.
There is a picture on the wall that looks like an old vase
It has winery floating in the sea and a mountainous landscape staring at thee
The picture on the wall has been there, but no one ever seems to care
Its eyes are growing dim, the lines are fading and the color has bled out of the frame.
I am falling asleep not because I cannot sleep
I am falling asleep because the sun has dried the moisture out of my feet
The traffic is running slow and the people are getting ready to go
Everyone is going somewhere but they are not going anywhere
When they reach the stop, the universe instantly reverses the clock.
And they end up in the same place
that they were a minute ago before the start of the show
There is a picture on the wall that you must see
for it will explain the universe to thee.
There is a picture on the wall that you must see
For it has a profound message for thee
It has been there for more than a century growing dust
And keeping many people happy, the curator knows the history of it
And the legend that surrounds it, it has a magic feel to it
and a sensual appeal that evokes the ancestral spirit.
The author is unknown for it was painted before
Queen Elizabeth the second ascend to the throne
Lenardo da Vinci Pablo Picasso, Vincent von Gogh,
Claud Monet is part of the Mystery surrounds the painting.
The painting is real and it is protected with a seal
it has no connection to the story of the Da Vinci code
its value is not known but it cost more than what is sitting in the louvre in France
and half of what the British museum has, it's nothing like a tapestry, it is a painting
that makes people happy; the precisions are clear, but it's covered with dust and you
must take it out of the rut.
The picture on the wall is laden with mystery; the picture on the wall is embodied
with history; you must bring it back to life so that the human race can survive
It has a profound message for you, and it will help you recover your lost pair of shoes.
peering out the kitchen window
you are on your knees working
afore the roses are a border
of smaller annuals
you know their names
intimate knowledge of their needs
hands that care for thee and me
so often i find myself
in this domain where your touch
permeates every aspect of existence
while i see only the beauty in color and form
i am not so devoid of this picture
as not to recognize
the touch of Monet therein
i have been given a moment with a masterpiece
that only i will ever have
one that will forever grace
the gallery in my heart, where are your portraits
where i go when life takes you momentarily away
and i am missing you
1/4/19 Kismet
Storm dusts of end summer dusk disappear,
ginger sky dons the silk attire of blue,
north wind whispers winter footfall is near,
boughs reclined on trees shine in amber hue.
Gold gilded leaves forget they were once green,
from air of fall drizzle blazing colors,
paints the charm of Monet on vibrant screen
with rustling foliage turned to flowers.
Summer swan song ushers autumn romance,
soaring fleet of cloud sails on cobalt sky,
in dawn’s glow with jade grass blades dew drops dance,
on mirror lake wisps of satin mist lie.
I whistle enticed tunes in autumn air,
joy of shimmering sonata I share.
November 28, 2019
Contest : New Fall Sonnets
Sponsor : Emile Pinet
I escape to my brilliant fantasy island,
Whenever fortune comes my way.
And if I was given half a chance,
I’d be there every day.
You see, on my island there’s happy and clear,
I’m a free, fun sort of boy.
No one judges, rants or argues either,
It’s a place that I enjoy.
Sometimes fame escapes to visit,
And I meet Hendrix, de Vinci, or Monet.
We talk about our depth of feeling,
A sexy talking little ballet.
Other times my most beautiful women,
They visit without their clothes.
But that fantastic little adventure,
I’d rather not disclose.
I escape to my brilliant fantasy island,
It’s the place I can fantasize.
I go there every single night,
When I lay in bed and close my eyes.
written 6th June 2016
For the Nayda's Fantasy Island contest.
These people, they’re not worth much,
They think they are more liquid than water,
They shine before those who envy them,
They wear beautiful expensive watches,
These people think they’re better than God,
Better Than hedgehogs, seagulls, trees,
But they don’t have their qualities,
The choppy lake makes me forget them.
These people, they’re not worth much,
They despise Montaigne and La Boétie,
For evenings at the village restaurant,
They mock the villagers of Tarascon,
They have arguments on every boat,
Sail when the sea rises suddenly,
They shine only to humiliate people,
To satisfy their sense of vanity,
These people, they’re not worth much,
They take you away from distant lands,
They take you away from the genius of Claude Monet
Meditation in front of blue landscapes,
They take you away from the goodness of the trees,
From Time that stops on Lake Como,
These people, they’re not worth much,
They keep you away from the people you love.
Ces gens-là, ne valent pas grand-chose,
Ils se croient plus liquides que l’eau,
Ils brillent devant ceux qui les jalousent,
Ils portent de belles montres couteuses,
Ces gens-là se croient meilleurs que Dieu,
Que les hérissons, les mouettes, les arbres,
Mais ils n’en ont pas les qualités,
Le clapot d’un lac me les fait oublier.
Ces gens-là, ne valent pas grand-chose,
Ils méprisent Montaigne et La Boétie,
Pour des soirées au restaurant du bourg,
Ils moquent les villageois de Tarascon,
Ils ont des arguments sur tous les bateaux,
Appareillent quand la mer monte soudain,
Ils ne brillent que pour humilier les gens,
Pour satisfaire leurs sens des vanités,
Ces gens-là, ne valent pas grand-chose,
Ils vous éloignent des pays lointains,
Ils vous éloignent du génie de Claude Monet
De la méditation devant des paysages bleus,
Ils vous éloignent de la bonté des arbres,
Du temps qui s’arrête sur le lac de Côme,
Ces gens-là, ne valent pas grand-chose,
Ils vous éloignent des gens que vous aimez.