Long Oeuvre Poems
Long Oeuvre Poems. Below are the most popular long Oeuvre by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Oeuvre poems by poem length and keyword.
Were it not a thing impermissible,
I'd take handfuls of all these silly bits of
Simulacra, and detritus, dross and debris:
The minutiae and impedimenta that are all these
Constricting, confining rules and bylaws, codes and regulations:
And toss them aerially, and burn them with flaming arrows.
For mine is an unfortunately anarchic style of poetry,
And undisciplined, wayward and incorrigible;
Yet free and full of the most veritable sort of life.
It moves here, it reposes and takes its leisurely ease there.
'Tis like unto the wind: variable and unknowable:
Incapable of the charting of windy cartography,
Unable to be predicted or supposed.
Unknown and unknowable, that is what my ilk of poetic oeuvre is like,
It is a free soul, yet ancient, imbued with the great power of the immortals of
Most current and archaic poetry....suffused with the life eternal surfeit in the
Breath and breadth of the words of the poets of the times past.
It locomotes and translocates to that where it will,
And I have no hold over the little anarchist, yet lovable.
Such is my poetry, and it and I will not brook the slightest imposition of the
Lightest controlling word or binding law on us.
We do as we wish, as we must.
I do not call all people to a freeness far too free, but only do I cry out
For the manumission of their works: Of their poetry.
My poems are often without the burthen of the rhymed,
Which I, except in sparing amounts, abhor.
All rhyme schemes are a thing detestable to me,
As to all truly apt and adept poets.
There is no profit in the silliness of utterly contemptible rhyme.
Rhyme is the province and realm, the bailiwick of children, of
The simple-minded.
It is for writers simple of mind, and readers idiotic and apish.
Powerful poems do not encumber themselves with the dread onus of rhyme.
Neither do solemn, serious poems.
For a poem to be real, it must, to indulge momentarily in the hated thing,
Think and feel.
Only those poems that are free and free of rhyme are worthwhile.
All else be a tale told by idiots, full of resonance and furiousness, and in signification, naught.
Form:
i took her riding
this time my venue, not hers
she loves horses, i am no equestrian
i am beyond saddle sore now
trail rides where every bird is identified
a short illumination of the species
mine are in this little park
where we would steal away
paddle boats thru the geese and ducks
she would always pack up bread
i always gave her enough notice
so she could buy the better bread
the day-old the bakery dumps cheap
it is healthier she will tell you
i always considered myself educated
until i found her lips
Robison Crusoe washed ashore
an island of magical moments
an oeuvre in my captivated heart
my magic is in the carousel
horses that go round and round
back in line to do it again
holding onto the bar i lean in
to steal a kiss, keep her in laughter
as the music and horses dance in a wonderland
the Wurlitzer organ fills the air with a bewitchment
we join parents and children in the magic
later we retire upon a bench
from her bag appears our humble offerings
every morsel approved by the minister of health
every grain is explained by lips i so adore
the ducks and geese beg at our feet
she delights in each morsel she throws
the happiness she wears on her face
i see Mother Goose in the crowd approving
drakes and hens galore with ducklings
the beauty of joy fills her eyes
to love her is to share her
caged birds are a sad lot
such a small price to pay
ride the carousel hand in hand
the alchemy in whirling horses and music
from an age long gone now
my treasure, a moment all to myself with her
to dwell in the magic of sharing loaves
those adoring eyes watching her
are a chorus i share
the bird of paradise has no price
master of her every dream
that is the labor of love
surrounding those dreams
with the magic life holds
3/2/19 Lufkin
Brighter than the most powerful star
At this time of the clone of the day --
The night in which children want to play
On streets where nothing would ever mar
The excitement in patintero*.
Your borrowed light keeps them stop and go.
Your being's mystified all the world
Since humans began to ask questions.
They each had contrasting conclusions
About what you are made of and hold:
For a blurry eye, you were a star;
Curiosity sees plainly the far.
'Til some laws speak of you and the tide,
The amount of bleeding of a wound,
The Earth's sun-centered merry-go-round,
An all the principles you abide.
Silent are they in the woman's womb
And about how the hill's spring could climb.
Dexterity let the rockets fly
And told them to land on your surface,
Leaving footprints nothing can erase
But the wind of doubt and rain of lie.
They should have carried a long, long strand
And left the one end where I stand.
Your shape is malleable to sunlight
And the place in the path that you take --
New, quarters, full for calendar's sake.
Your absence is a meaningless night
For an artist wanting your crescent
In his oeuvre with a black content.
At times you affront the Sun you owe
The magnificence you have at night;
At solar eclipse you seem to fight
Or, like a large serpent, to swallow
The burning and benevolent Sun.
A pagan would loudly beat his drum.**
I am afraid that you will be lost.
Our children will never play at night.
Some small islands will be out of sight.
The unborn will choose to be a ghost.
The Earth of life will miss its best friend,
Walking the path with chaotic trend.
* Patintero is a local team game in the Philippines.
** According to some folks, the Sun is being swallowed by a large serpent during the solar eclipse.
quick figurative brush stroke drawn out character sketch
(serendipitous verisimilitude)
i stand in awe
(with mouth agape) at elegiac, fantastic,
and graphic idyllic Kinkade magic
leaving breathlessness from craw
at such artistic talent oozing
spellbindingly, whatever
aforementioned noteworthy craftsman
doth paint or draw,
and chanced to comment
about sad affairs leaving flaw
in regard to questionable business ethics -
where press hee haw
contradicting, maligning, undermining, and jaw
boning sans said late talented mortal
engaging in sketchy traits of south paw
city when contrasted with a dog given gift -
ooh...such rah...rah...rah
when he first appeared on the scene,
where most viewers saw
utmost dynamic, fantastic, and harmonic convergence
displaying such prosaic, rhapsodic,
titanic art show events
hum...and perhaps not surprising
his illicit in dull gents presents stark contrast,
staring hypnotized as imagination invents
experiencing peaceful, restful
and tumblerful joie de vivre espying
honorable mentioned nonpareil oeuvre
that placidly rents
craving to disappear into bucolic landscape whence,
splashed upon canvass,
attempting to bat
presumed "FAKE" rumors aside as nonsense - fat
chance prevailed constituting:
deceitful, immoral, unfaithful sly kat
nocturnal antics, despite scathing attacks
(cut him down to size), niggardly praises spat
out for me, I maintain cult of personality (his)
setting Mac Book Pro wallpaper
with exemplary landscape, either authentic or copy cat.
How So Humdrum...
Being A Nonpartisan Author
One path of literary renown striving
to craft belles lettres
versus another aim
ming to inject castigation,
fulmination, and intimidation
(unlike tours truly) into
hers/his epistemological dogmatic claim,
would exemplify the twofold tactic,
I matter of factly exclaim
as an aspiring August author
(foremost poet emeritus - ha),
downplaying fortune and fame
aye attempt to tread within
figurative noncontroversial guidelines,
yet nonetheless game
increased readership remaining
safely shy of steering
clear away NOT deliberately inflame
ming the moral majority, and/or
being soak halled politically incorrect,
yet absolutely aware trite neutral,
tis well nigh impossible
towing thru tranquil waters
subsequently inadvertently pitching
smoldering embers sparking acquiring
(even accidentally)
fiery Machiavellian jobname
though methinks expressing
notions, opinions, perspectives,
would contradict advocating viewpoints
incumbent within
creative arts whereat lame
duck role would essentially be
antithetical to general rubric maim
ming necessity to stoke thought
provoking oeuvre of work name
lee poetry and/or prose sans,
this scrivener to (dirt) poor
to afford a penname
aspiring all the same
to experience even pocket change
keeping my liberal
minded material tame.
Hackneyed breath of words and the clichés hit the wall,
A stream of summoned nonsense bounces off of me like superstition,
Benevolent limits of indulgence, on the other hand, - oh, well!
The oeuvre of life, I live, leans towards the attraction,
Sprinkled over with the droplets of avant-garde, and hedonism.
But the intentions engender balance between born, and unborn,
Between an eternal shadow of uncertainty, and a seeker
Who is standing at the poetic juncture of scherzos and nocturnes,
Unguided, eternally lost, in the timeless world of imagination,
In the wonderful world of desires, dreams, and the best version of self.
My prevalent muse resides in the realm of sins,
Full of ardour, with a good measure of boundless torment,
Experienced throughout the past and the present,
In the midst of unrequited adolescence of love facing uncertainty
As laurel leaves would face each other in a wreath
For the glory, victory and power.
But it’s not these that are sought after. It is love, she seeks,
Until last dying breath.
So, where does a painter start with painting?
Perhaps in the realm where allusions are divided into sequences,
Where olive branches evoke the logic, and reality is burned at the stake,
Where melisma echoes throughout the Vox, as nothing more than a pastiche.
Or who knows? I don’t. She doesn’t. We? Well, that’s another tale to be told.
gratifying grand PooBah gnashing happily. How envious
eye feel. This generic guy hallucinates (walled within his
lovely bones) incredulously, jealously, knowing lackluster
marriage never ordained plentifully, quintessentially, royally,
satisfying throbbing testosterone undulating vibrantly within
xman yawping zen. Ah know this phallus fantasy tubby
merely a whet pipe dream, yet no logic can extirpate
frenziedly gyrations glum husband images. Just kindling
lasciviousness massages nude oeuvre provoking quaking,
rip-snorting tooling uniting Venus, with xing yummy zone,
absolute beauties, bunnies cozying dear Emir, fathering
Hugh's illustrious joys, keeping libido murmuring, nesting
on papa's queued rocket ship, thrusting uber vintage weasel,
*** y zapping adroitly buoyant consecrated dick, Ernst
found Grafenberg hallelujah, injunction jerking like mad
naturally oiled pussy, quivering red redoubt stimulated
the unavoidable Vagina, whereat xyz attainment brought
******** delight eventually fomenting gusto, heavenly
induced juiced Kung Lee masterfully negotiating ******,
penultimate quest regarding sexual torquing, ululating
vocalization wailing women XCI yogi Zorro
absent, bye Casanova, deemed expert ******** great Hefner,
honorable Hugh invictus, joyousness kept legacy maintained,
now...only phantom quietly rubs shoulders, thighs, ubiquity
vibrant viz World Wide Web.
Written: August 20, 2023
______________________________________________________________
As dawn brightens the morning skies,
A gentle hand brushes the lambent horizon.
Shades of gold and soft hues arise.
With a touch of blue, a blush painting dawn.
Cobalt night beckons, as day takes its rest.
The naked moon rises, in the amber light.
Lacy veils of light float in the air in the west.
Teases the swelling tides with a gentle sight.
Night light, a lover's secret affair
As dawn brightens the morning sky.
A kaleidoscope of hues, joyous treat no compare
The hand of nature, a divine artist, is high.
Creating a jewel of art, such a radiant scene.
The dawn light chases away the cobalt night.
unveiling a previously unseen fictional ravine.
The sun bursts, bathing all in its warm light.
The birds' melodies form a halcyon choir.
The urge to live is reawakened from higher.
In the wind, leaves rustle and trees sway.
Whispering stories of a pristine, raw day.
As the sun rises and lights the morning sky.
Ample promise and hope in each fresh day.
It's a shift, a transition from darkness to light.
An aesthetic oeuvre of art, a breathtaking sight
The finger that paints the lopsided sky
creates a burst of vibrant hues to imply
From mellow pastels to gold hues.
Nature is an endless fountain of the muse.
ART, MY PLATFORM
I art, therefore, I am
Let your life be your Art
Something you paint with your heart
Taking care to make every part, a symphony of colors
The way your feet lovingly graze the earth
Like paint stroking on the canvas
Sketching the soil, each step with prudence
You were born with this Craft, this inner beauty
You don’t need to collect praise
For that Art fills up from inside
Let your life be your Art
Moving and being moved
The totality of mindful moments
Continue to paint your actions unexposed
For it to be, a masterpiece to share and behold.
Can I believe that these feelings can turn into a beautiful thing?
That after the storm, I can see the rainbow glowing again?
Just melt into grace
Cry, scream and laugh
This is where you begin, again
You’re strong enough to let love in, so don’t let it go
Running gently, Screams of laughter
Dancing stars, my golden heart
My sands of time will bring about inspiration
Using all that God has gifted me with
To recreate the promised
I hope my life is never desolate
That it lacks art
That would be the only poverty
I would find intolerable
La vie est une oeuvre d’Art
Un reflet de toi, et un voyage que tu dois suivre
Shopping day today and my supplies are low.
I plan on inviting everyone to a cook out
so I better make a list of what I will need.
I will need tolerance – sure I have some, but
there will be many showing up and I doubt
they will bring their own – for my crowd
will be many and varied.
Humor, humor, humor. I had better stock
up on that. If these people don’t
just get over themselves
and learn to take a joke, then I’m afraid
they are in for lots of very preventable aggravation.
Common sense. Now, I know it’s not
the most sought out hors d oeuvre , but
it is the most important. If more people would
help themselves to generous helpings of
common sense,
I do believe things would be much easier.
Some charm, civility, manners – good God, yes –
intelligence wouldn’t hurt, and we could
have us a real good time.
Unfortunately,
most people like to pig out on the
jealousy, envy, pride, prejudice on the
other tables. Scoop me some helpings of
rudeness, guile, back stabbing and pity while
you’re at it.
But, not at my cook out.
You only get served tolerance, humor, common sense,
charm, civility, manners, intelligence …
Come join me, but be prepared to join in.