Long Renaissance Poems
Long Renaissance Poems. Below are the most popular long Renaissance by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Renaissance poems by poem length and keyword.
A long-lost painting uncovered. Morning spills light on canvas.
An undisputed masterpiece! It's brilliance is astounding!
No novice could have painted this. Look how the light is portrayed.
Yet no signature marks the corner. It's just Beautiful- It glows!
No history reveals its origin. Each brushstroke catches life..
One scholar dates the canvas, Swallows arc in soaring flight.
Testing linen, varnish, pigments. Spider's silk catches mist drops.
"The hand is obvious," Salmon are caught leaping in air.
"Late Renaissance - 17th century." The forest is lush green leaves.
Another studies brushstrokes, Look a bee is there in a flower.
Form of shadows, balance of light. Every color dab breathes harmony.
"Impossible," she smiles. It balances and captures motion.
"Those techniques much later. Life is portrayed as truly alive!
Early 18th, maybe Baroque?" Showing its complexity and form.
A third simply admires the piece, The colors swirls and intertwine.
watching the color breathe. The depth is captured so well.
"You are both mistaken," he says. It's so wonderful and beautiful.
"The true master lies elsewhere. Can I take it home?
Trust me. Believe me. I know." Who cares who the artist could be?
The arguments grow louder. Signatures are so crude and ugly.
All agreed a true masterpiece! The wonder fills the entire frame.
None agreed who the master was. Its brilliance is astounding.
The wonder of a masterpiece is enough - the need to know or not know
the Artist, takes admirers on different paths
that both begin and end, with wonderment.
Hi there, the lady in chartreuse green
I'm on display, a performance to be seen
Glaring eyes and a sculpted body
A handsome charm my features embody
If blood flows in me, I'm the man of your dream
Second only to the sculptor who created me.
My name is David, a favored Biblical hero
Created by the young, artistic Michelangelo
A masterpiece of ancient Renaissance
Standing naked in the aura of splendid ambiance
Exhibiting strength, art, and romance
Bearing each advance and timid glance.
Ladies and gentlemen please keep moving
In the public square there is another me
Though I am the authentic, the original
The copy, a replica, looks almost identical.
The lady in green let me tell you something
You look beautiful, quite smashing indeed!
I'll hold a private showing just before closing
The guards can't see us when I flip the switch
We'll have just enough time to steal a kiss.
August 4, 2017
Artwork--sponsored by Lewis Raynes
As you start to walk out on the way,
the way appears.- Rumi
Tonight, I speak to the moon,
lunar verses echoing the piercing
lyrics of an aching heart.
Its crystal wings softly
kiss the sea line in silence,
releasing silver ripples
of renaissance,
while the sun awaits another
dahlia dawn, graced by
delicate symphonies of
fairy-feathered fantasies.
Time is a treat ribboned
with truth and testaments
of melted monsoons,
left as souvenirs of the past,
on shimmering shores
of fragile flowers.
I was once a broken ballad,
bruised and battered
like an ornament left
on a haunted island,
where every breeze felt
like the seething sounds of sirens,
awakening demons within
my chrysalis psyche,
to cloud the horizon
painted with pigments of peace.
Trust was an ink blot
I spilled upon oceans
of blue-black pearls,
oblivious to the cracks
and faded glows of opalescence,
for I was a naive target
of narcissistic daggers,
caressing my skin with
pestering perceptions.
As I wore my wounds
like corsets crocheted
with crooked compassion,
too eager to embrace
wrathful winds~
bursting forth infernal flames,
while drenched in the
subtle dews of raging rain.
If I were to tell the world
the person I used to be,
could I write without
my fingers trembling,
without the weakened words
of weariness that weighed me down?
For I knew not what love was,
and I knew not
dreams of strength,
runes of resilience, or the
unbreakable gravity of forgiveness.
Yet I rise, beyond faceless ghosts,
soaring above nameless streets
of pointless thoughts.
I am now everything I was not;
I am both shadow and light,
seeking and waltzing to
the music of my own magical fight.
So remember,
the furs and claws,
the water and fire,
outlining the garnet~
aura of my ambient existence.
Brown – Your Eyes
Dark and rich
As nature
Color of the trees and soil
A hue of luminous browns
A blend of shadows in the sky
The color of your eyes
Gazing brings me deeper
As I descend into colors so rustic
Shades of taupe fading at dusk
Taking me deeper into your sight
Like twilight
Chocolate coffee
Galloping horses from Renaissance
Embroidered in a spectrum
A gallery of browns
Cover me like a gown
The colors of the earth
As in the chestnut tree
Where we sit
Your eyes find me
I surrender
To the splendor
Of your eyes
Margaret Franceschini (March 17, 2014)
Venice, the daughter of the sea
Winding paths, waterways or cobblestones roads
Rulers of the renaissance, noblemen would be
Her navy full of conquests, her triumphs all would see
From nobility rose, a woman fair
Her life a whirlwind, with her share of despair
Banished from Venice, for daring to speak
Her desires and wit, did many a man seek
The golden rose the pope did give
As she fled to Florence, so young and deceived
Her strength in spirit and a mind so refined
Her friend Marco, the captain, with whom she dined
He parted his wisdom as best he could
He sailed victorious, for Bianca he should
His secret was safe out on the seas
Which is why he and Bianca, could never be
Her royal blood would keep her in stead
As nobility in Florence would turn their heads
Francesco indeed would commission a palazzo
For Bianca his mistress, in waiting, his queen
The Grand Duchy of Florence, all powers bestowed
A seeker of knowledge, of wisdom composed
His Austrian wife, alone, cold and barren
Could not compete, with his love yet to be
They danced, they confided, in each they held
A love of intellect, beauty and lust to be feld
And sadly, one day, the enemies of Venice
Plotted and schemed to bring about a demise
The poison was swift, and an era did end
In a villa in Florence, Francesco was dead
Bianca his love, her beauty unblemished
Fell by his side, and whispered to thee
My dear, my love, it was meant to be
Bianca Cappello (1548 – 17 October 1587)
Note: OK OK I invented 1 new word, that's what poets do
They couldn't have chosen a nest-bed more complex, or vaster.
I lauded their industry (toiling through Sunday, no qualms!),
and almost felt guilty for loitering by their pilaster.
My wife was the hold-up. Those scanty straps were a disaster,
her shoulders cold-shouldered! Here, there's no right to bare arms.
Basilicas don't come mightier, or more splendid, than this one:
Saint Peter's in Rome, High Renaissance, wide-fabled by poets.
The great Michelangelo crafted this Christian Aswan:
they've gathered its glories in guidebooks, so no-one need miss one.
Those frantic ants scampered on legend, but they didn't know it.
And isn't that rather like us? As we hurry and scurry,
accomplishing little, accounting ourselves oh so clever,
ignoring the story (except our immediate worries),
deploring as boring whatever creates no quick flurry,
we miss the magnificence dwarfing our petty endeavours.
...Even those who see ‘the future,’
will see it in past terms,
since the past is the reference from
which all mankind must learn.
That grand, utopian future
of which so many dream,
is defined by what it escapes:
a past brutal and mean.
It’s shaped by what it doesn’t have,
compared to ages gone,
a vision based on past eras
stripped of all that went wrong.
And the sad thing of such visions,
I think it must be said,
is how quickly the all look stale,
how soon they look dated.
Look back on all the old scifi
from back in the fifties,
the future they imagined them
now seems quaint history.
It all seems such a waste of time,
trying to think like that,
much better to just see the truth
and lessons from the past.
The endless wisdom that was gleaned,
just waiting to be used,
and half the time we learn from it
we create something new.
Remember that the Renaissance
was folks looking at Greece,
thinking that they could learn from it,
soon after culture peaked.
Remember the Founding Fathers
we’re looking back at Rome,
a republic, no need for king,
from that so much has grown.
The truth is undeniable,
so long as we may last,
every single human alive
is living in the past.
The unicorn horse,
With a horn on its head,
Is just a mythical animal
who runs in the forest,
The unicorn myth,
shall always live on.
A legendary horse,
next to legendary man.
But through times of greatness,
the myth lives on.
While grazing the grasses.
and roaming the lands.
The unicorn's exsistence,
extraordinarily lives on.
A shimmer of hope,
he has brought to the masses.
a symbol of purity and grace,
throughout the Middle Ages,
The Renaissance horse
has written the pages.
The Unicorn's horn,
was used for defenses,
The Unicorn's legs
could jump many fences,
Across the lands,
and down to the sea.
The Unicorn's exsistence,
was as rare as can be.
Strong as an Ox,
he could never be captured.
By the grasp of the virgin,
the horse could not flee.
The Virgin Mary herself,
would not let the horse free..
Unicorn Poetry by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2014.All Rights Reserved.
We star it off with Ben Franklin,
American renaissance man,
whose industry and sharp wit
made him the richest in the land.
Lived out an American dream
before the country ever was,
entertained with his writings and
helped discover scientific law.
Pushed hard for independency
and helped form the Declaration,
then served us diplomatically
to get help for the new nation.
His writings still offer wisdom
that is useful to this day,
a man quite worthy of study,
even spoke against keeping slaves.
Then of course there is John Adams,
an irascible, difficult type,
but a bulldog for our freedom,
no matter the British might.
Maybe his greatest contribution
came after his reelection loss,
he didn’t war, cling to power,
Adams honorable went off
into a long retirement
where he wrote down wisdom sage,
his letters to Jefferson
are a gift to every age.
For choosing honor above power,
founding a family that served,
I think learning from his example
is something that he has earned.
Jefferson is also in the ranks,
the Declaration his finest feat,
a mind that truly understood
what it took to make men free.
Not a perfect soul at all,
he never did free his slaves,
but his words of ‘Life and Liberty’
began the countdown to that day.
The Louisiana Purchase
opened a new and vast frontier,
he said to fear a church and state,
wisdom that we still hold dear.
The man’s massive book collection
became the Library of Congress,
now the largest in the world,
I think we all can learn from this.
James Madison we owe so much,
the Constitution’s driving force,
foundation for a nation that
would known tyranny no more.
A brain that recognized the need
to put great limits on power,
would come to push the Bill of Rights,
our government’s finest hour.
What he wrote in The Federalist
is studied by serious minds
for setting out firm principles,
applicable to any time.
And though his time as president
was a checked span at best,
he’s the Constitution’s father,
to that fact we should all attest...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
He left the church and solemn stage,
To catch the breath of Tudor age.
No more he drew the saintly ghost,
To lecture to a weary host.
He turned his pen to common men,
And brought them laughing from their den.
The priest and friar stepped aside,
For human hearts and foolish pride.
His works for courtly halls were made,
Where brief and lively pieces played.
These interludes of Tudor days
Brought spoken voices to our plays.
Four clever works bear Heywood's name,
As witty verse debates for fame.
They mocked the masks of our pretense,
With sharp and biting eloquence.
From o'er the sea, French farce took hold,
While Chaucer's tales of pilgrims bold
Inspired the warmth and human wit
That made his comic staging fit.
Yet though he laughed at human plight,
Each ending sought the true and right.
A gentle lesson, kind and clear,
To guide the listener and the peer.
He drew the proud, the vain, the loud,
The vibrant, chattering, daily crowd.
He showed how normal neighbors spoke,
And turned our flaws into a joke.
These tiny scenes of fun and play,
Prepared the great and golden day.
They paved the road, they lit the spark,
Before the Bard and his high art.
Beyond the stage, his clever pen
Caught living speech of working men.
He gathered proverbs from the street,
Where life and common language meet.
He warned to "look before you leap,"
Lest heavy errors make you weep.
"Rome wasn't built in just a day,"
He wrote to help us find our way.
"From frying pan and into fire,"
We climb from trouble up to higher.
And "better safe than sorry" stood,
To keep our daily choices good.
When burdens grew too great to bear,
"Two heads are better" than a pair.
"A penny for your thoughts," he’d buy,
With warmth and laughter in his eye.
When loved ones walk "out of your sight,"
They soon are "out of mind" by night.
But "many hands make light the work,"
When none of us our duties shirk.
These old expressions, sharp and true,
Are spoken still by me and you.
The present day still holds his phrase,
Born warm and bright in Tudor days.