Long Sistine Poems
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His
love fell over
her like
bath water
His sighs
were the strum of the acoustic guitar that followed the rhythm of her heartbeat
they shivered together
under a blanket of bubbles
He kissed the condensation off
her cheeks....
and his words..................................
His words were
Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel Ceiling
Painted across her Eyelids
Enveloping her with beauteous kindness
His
Arms were
the
Key to the Kingdom
of her
Life's Solace
Sometimes life is just but a masquerade................
I press a half moon mask over my face
And I ride on the high of the Orchestral Waves
Souls illuminated by the moonlight
restlessly sway
as they await for
the Candle light sun
The ONE
air in your lungs when you have none
The ONE
who hears your song when it is unsong
The Wolf cries for the
Moon
Helplessly he howls for his mistress
Envious, he cries
For he wishes for your gift.
You
Breathe life into a woman’s heart
That was once wilted
Beaming with love,
She blossoms into the essence of a tiger lily
Breathless,
Intoxicated by
Her heavenly Glow
She is
The antidote
For
All of life’s tragedy.
There are so many things in life I can't do and it makes me sad. I will never know the Zeta function on the f line. I will never win a noble prize. I will never retain the entire dictionary in my vocabulary. I will never go to space. I will never be Bruce Lee. I will never change the past. I will never travel faster than the speed of light. I will never be Lenny Cravits. I will never control the weather. I will never slow time the first time I see a lover. I will never leave my own mind. I will never be you. I will never paint the Sistine chapel. I will never invent the lightbulb. I will never see gravity. I will never be a child again. I will never call the one I loved when I was young and thought it was love. I will never stop nuclear reactions. I will never be a super hero. I will never eat a dodo.
What have you two done,
I can see the age in your faces already,
oh you're so bold and smart
you silly and naive creatures,
sure, I sheltered you
kept you away from violence, jealousy, and pain,
do you have any idea what happens
in the raw evolution of life,
have you ever witnessed death
can you even conceive it, huh,
you're gonna feel the fire of rage
and the panic of embarrassment,
you're gonna wake in the frost of depression
and age into the shadows,
you're gonna fight for everything
that you need and love
and sometimes even that won't be enough
you and your children are going to hurt and be hurt
in ways that you can't believe,
my darlings, I love you,
but your natures have been changed
from roses to razors,
you will become grotesque gods unto yourselves,
however,
in the wilderness,
you will be able to create, to care, to love
but it will be so hard for you,
so hard to keep your hearts alive,
I'll be with you always,
your eyes are open to judgment now,
go on to the other side...
J.A.B.
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.”
Heaven is a place where only through the eyes of hope,
can it truly co-exist !
Heaven is a special place where innocent children,
become Angels !
Heaven is a journey for those who believe in
the after life !
Heaven is at the center point of every loving being who
longs to find their loved ones once again !
Heaven is the venue of those who believe and trust
that we will,...one day return !
Heaven is Michelangelo's Last Judgement at the Alter wall
of the Sistine Chapel !
Heaven is a whereabout, a location vaguely represented
and understood only with the heart
Heaven is a place of Salutation for the rich and the poor
everyone is welcome in heaven !
Twice I have taken in the delights of Paris
And on one of those occasions
I visted the Louvre
And strode the hallowed vista hall's
Besieged by an insurmountable
Pieces of Historical works of Art
In order to eventually kneel before
The very feet of the Classical Mona Lisa
And I wish I could tell you I was moved
But sadly I regret I was not
As it resides at the end of a very long tour
Of many more impressive painting's
Expressing the futility of some or other foreign War
Pestilence and Famine
Raping and Pillaging
Of Villages and Bare Breasted Women
Portraits of Royal Kings and Noble Men
We were taught about in History Class
But could for the life of us name
While the rest of them are dedicated to God
Like those i found in Rome
Emblazoned on the Dome
By Michaelangelo
Opon the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
I fear I must admit when it comes to art I grapple
To feel what others see as somehow supernatural
I place more faith and love
In the structures and architecture
They are now kept beneath
And whose Beliefs they were built upon
And how they were paid for ?
And at what Human Cost?
Maybe the Art my Soul and Heart has craved
Resides inside the gates of the Holiest of Holy City's
Maybe there I shall experience
My New Jerusalem
By Dawns early light
Amen
In the Sistine chapel where frescos peep,
away from watchful devote eyes that weep,
a conclave gathers in reflection deep,
to choose a shepherd for gospels to keep.
Amidst partisan whispers, day and night,
behind closed doors, their sacred task in sight,
as God’s intercessions arouse their might,
where truth and faith commingle to shed light.
Alternate hues from chimneys rise profound,
an opera of prospects missing sound,
a scribble in silence heavenly bound,
in black or white, the church fate is found.
But, between the creases of priestly robe,
a shadow loiters, an ominous probe,
where the past rekindles under a strobe,
when hearts were shattered all over the globe.
The culprits’ scandals stain the sacred ground,
where trust and honor should always abound.
Yet, once these hidden horrors are unbound,
distrust will rile and redemptions compound.
So let the papal smoke ascend on high,
while prayers for their penance fill the sky.
In black or white we stop to question why,
and in God’s faith we find the strength to try
For ‘midst these tribulations there’s a ray,
a bright beacon of hope to light the way.
For the church leadership we kneel and pray,
for redemption to dawn on a new day.
06/04/2025
Pope Leo XIV has been elected 05/09/2025 - American Robert Prevost
I suppose the usual suspects,
should fill up this poem,
City of lights, ancient pyramids,
colosseum in Rome,
To be honest I seen all these places,
sitting playing the slots,
Yeah we’re talking Vegas baby,
sin city, I’ve given it a shot,
Been up the Eiffel Tower,
Bellagio fountains down below,
Viewing the Sistine chapel,
in Venice along the same road,
Look across main boulevard,
I see Caesars palace all lit up,
Just outside on the strip,
Elvis sings through a begging cup,
Passing the cosmopolitan,
New York springs into view,
Must go by the crystals first,
still looks sparkling new,
On second thoughts cross over,
go shop the miracle mile,
Planet Hollywood rises above,
looking a bit retro in style,
Outside it’s baking hot,
have you felt that Nevada sun,
Cool vapour blows from
roadside bars, I do not shun,
Next day into the stratosphere,
ride the big shot atop,
A thousand feet over Vegas,
screaming will it ever stop,
Later up or down to freemont st.
cannot tell I’m totally lost,
Craziest place I’ve ever seen,
little sleazy by default,
So that’s my bucket list,
everything’s now crossed off,
World under one roof, pretty sad,
yeah well! go ahead and scoff.
By
David Kavanagh
What Have You Kicked Off
On Your Bucket List Poetry Contest
08/11/2020
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Sandro
Mastering his skill of painting, diligent to detail, color, and Frescos (Sistine Chapel)
Born in Florence, Italy, apprenticed as a goldsmith, then later with a master painter
By 1472, he had his own workshop where he created most of his works
Painting his Early Renaissance and Gothic Realism art plus doing church Frescos
He feared marriage saying it gave him nightmares, so he never married or had children
However he did love a married noblewoman and asked to be buried at her feet and was
In his later life, he was accused of "keeping a boy" but he was dismissed of charges
Yet he died in disgrace. His art remains in churches and galleries forever beloved
Botticelli
________________________
April 3, 2016
Poetry/Bio/Sandro Botticello
Copyright Protected, ID 16-774-483-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
(Real name - Alessandro di Mariano Filipepe)
I used to write like
Jack Kerouac.
Words
crumbling down
paper.
Stark thoughts
marked
by dots
and dashes.
Flashes of schoolyard brilliance
The hill I would
climb over
to be
someone different.
I never saw life
through a dot.
LSD.
My father
was on mushrooms,
when he and my mother
created me.
Psychedelic sperm
meets
bitter weed
infested ovum.
BANGED
into existence.
Transient spirit
sloughing off
afterbirth long
after I hit
the cold.
I have chased
paper
ever since.
Dipping my bones
in ink.
To paint a
masterpiece
of you.
Broken, homeless, loveless,
privileged, safe, warm,
sheltered, shattered
reconstructed.
All in a backdrop
of perfection.
An abundant Earth
housing an
ungrateful patient.
Most of us,
doctored
unconscious
sedated.
Waiting for
something
to wake us
up.
My own words
often
broken and
falling off.
Leaving only
snapshots.
I get ties and
sketches
along the
road.
I would bargain
my dreams
for pious acceptance
and my revelations
for wicked
indulgent
self
flagellation.
I have been
bound to my
vision
of exclusion
behind an
iron fence of
history.
Trapped
in pages.
Tapped and
wasted.
I used to write
as if I didn't
I would die.
On my knees
shattered
under
that perfect
silent sky.
Head bowed
shoulders cowed
frail and pasty.
Screaming
raging
breaking pages
with my pen.
Attempting to bring
black and white
to color.
Now I write,
because
I die.
A thousand times
with you.
Its glorious!
Over your
unfinished portraits.
Your shortcuts
your detours
your ache
your lust,
and your mindless
wandering.
Beautiful
and championed.
I pray to make
my prose like
a Sistine Chapel
after all,
you deserve
it!
Only to fall
very far from
grace.
At the
Inadequacy
I have
at coloring
your face.
I used to write
like Jack Kerouac,
jotting a shot
of you
in between
heaven.
But I figured out
that I would
rather capture
my own
splinter.
And be satisfied with
a sliver of you,
than die like him
at forty-seven.