Long Stucco Poems
Long Stucco Poems. Below are the most popular long Stucco by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stucco poems by poem length and keyword.
6/5/22
Underneath the night sky
No more Mr. Nice guy
My my, how time flies
F*** all these white lies
To you it seems out of this world and Sci-Fi
To me it's natural like a hippie wearing tie-dye
Another high tide
Rarely on the sidelines
Hardly feeling likewise
Much to accomplish in a lifetime
Took some tumbles
Held on didn't fumble
No longer puzzled
Disgruntled
I often mumble
Liquor I guzzle
Then smoke some diamonds or sugar, f*** crumble
Around the corner is often trouble
Feathers easily getting ruffled
Leading to a rumble
We'll see who is the king of the jungle
And who is humbled
Go ahead and chuckle
But how quickly you'll struggle
Then buckle
Before seeing double
Me and a bucko
Finished the job with stucco
Just know
Can't afford to be a Dumbo
Need to do it with gusto
House needs to be jumbo
Bank account needs to be Mutumbo
Got to keep it a hundo
Or I'm donzo
We’re all just Scattered splattered rainbows on Skyscraping Walls.
That’s some graffiti, the graffiti is the name.
There’s graffiti with some face paint
Looking out us all, with eyes on everyone... peeking thru city walls.
A palette of colorful dots mixing with the stucco.
MIssed it, turn arounD. I know it's there for sure, Bucko.
My naME captures my eYe. (peakin thru) There I AM! I see it Now.
Flashback-wards. I'm closer still. In a second's flash it can be gone
But there it is before my eyes my gigantic great BIG sign
In BIG GIANT RAINBOW letters high up in the Sky. Squeezed in Between.
Brick and mortar are its seams and frame. Take-a-left. I see it Now.
I AM everywhere as I meddle through this traffic madness.
Almost missed it but there YoU ARe tiMINg it just RiGht.
City sounds: horns cursing, sirens screaming, an overhead plane roars, tires screeching!
There’re splattered rainbows splattering all over Earth’s walls!
“Are you an Art Meddler?” ARt MEdDler wonders.
Graffiti can be food. Eye candy for the soul.
Graffiti can be paint that paints the world with color.
Graffiti can be playful to keep us young at heart.
Graffiti can be sprayed to mark your spot.
Graffiti can BE A LIVElihood. Expressing ones meyend freely.
Graffiti can be words, use your words, then act. But always think first that
Graffiti can be whole universes from a Universe of curves.
Graffiti can be music to those who cannot hear.
Graffiti can be poetry that lasts for years and years.
Graffiti’s on the subway walls where there’re no rainbows cast at all.
We’re all just splattered rainbows casting shadows on the wall.
Art is meddling in the arts.
Art is being there and true.
Art is doing what art does best
When Art is really you.
Flora
Season of love and natural propense,
In youthful exuberance with wholeness of innocence;
When Flora casts off her wintry shroud and bursts into flower,
Screaming to the world, “I’m alive; I can’t hide any longer!”
Intoxicated by her aroma and the beauty of her aura,
That pleases one to follow her traipsing upon the clover,
Where birds chirp wildly and bees buzz frantically—
A portrait of living reality in a today of eternity.
Captured in the moment, the artist painted the stucco
Though Vesuvius roared like a lion and covered the fresco.
And there she lay, entombed, hidden and forgotten.
Ages hence, by a stroke of perseverance, to be uncovered.
***
Note:
In the year 79 AD, Mount Vesuvius (a volcano near the Bay of Naples, Italy) erupted and buried the Roman city of Pompeii (located 16 km away) and the surrounding area with volcanic ash, dust, and debris. Years later, in 1759, archaeologists unearthing the city to reveal its treasures, history, culture, and art uncovered the fresco Flora (Greek Chloris), the Roman goddess of flowers and spring, in a bedroom of the Villa Arianna in Stabiae (4.5 km from Pompeii). The fresco dates back to around 15-45 A.D.
Foreign Travel- Portugal
It is all that is unspoken that gives a place its atmosphere.....the endless turmoils that come from living....peaceful Celts conquered by Romans
after centuries of resisting. The conquerers monuments still dominate large paved squares .....wide mosaic walking malls with outdoor cafes set a carefree atmosphere. Cobblestones retain the ancient tone of busy roads.
Teal seas sweep out to weathered coastlines ....white buildings jumbled over low hills. Resilient vineyards, olive orchards, cypress and eucalyptus trees, impervious to wind, dot the stony landscape. Dusty green foliage that triumphantly survives between rains.
.....And then there are the people- proud gracious and friendly. A cuisine that is complex but simple in a mind boggling variety. Delicate pastries filled with rich custards, endless varieties of savory pies. Earthy rustic dishes of meat,fish, beans and colorful salads. Buffets crowded with hearty breads, fragrant croissants and inviting desserts. A gastronomic adventure.
....next came the discovery of nesting storks at Comporte, a small coastal,resort town, one hour south of Lisbon. We encountered them in giant stick nests high atop tall chimneys on ancient buildings.
After that -was Casa Palmela ...our most treasured find. A regal, historic residence turned five star hotel. Grand in an old-world style.
Set on a vineyard with low white stucco walls, tall conifers and palms-low-growing with thick sturdy trunks. Who could describe the relaxed balmy atmosphere, the evenings discovering new delicacies and fine wines
in the warm glow of sunset. All too soon we had to leave
But then, why did we leave? To return again, I'm sure.
9/24/17
Foreign travel
Contest Judged: 10/7/2017 1:16:00 PM
Sponsored by: Thvia Shetley
Honorable Mention
Pink flamingos prance with Hooper cranes
high above a vaulted mall ceiling,
a China-blue sky paints fluff upon stucco clouds.
I hold your hand playing hide and seek,
intimate inmates in our open cage,
we are concealed inside a crowd of glitter tramps.
There are rampant plaster angels,
there are neon rainbow fountains,
there are screaming cherubs.
Eyes mob shop windows.
I lose you in the crush and crowd.
Jewelry dazzles on blue velvet carousels.
Spied you on the edge of a mirror,
you’re seeking my fractured reflection
yet too many fake diamonds impede.
Murals crumble under a thronging press,
exit doors spin, spun by a midday sun
no one but I can see the ghost riders.
Found you under a plastic palm.
I thought you carried a child in your arms -
it was just my love that you held so tight.
Robot with a Heart
Would you stop and think,
and see a robot blink,
or shovel a bolt or nut
into a hungry gut?
Have you a heart or not?
Signed, your loving bot.
Me and My Shadow
Me and my shadow made quite a pair.
Only he would always be there.
Someone I could to tell my troubles to,
as the day wore on, his presence grew -
but when the sun went sinking down,
he packed his bags and he left town.
Cold and Dark
An image stark,
cold and dark -
I see only
an old man, lonely.
Would warmth and light
make it alright?
Funerals in Season
Funerals in season -
We know the reason.
We don't have to be told
we're growing old.
Today's Snail
Today's snails act differently.
One crawled up my stucco wall, you see.
Wouldn't it be a surprise
to see a snail roll his eyes?
Classical infusion, Beethoven’s “ode to joy”
playing on blaring audiophile speakers annoy
purposely looped to destroy vagrants with electronic music
blends of subversive elements and anxious acoustic
the solution to loitering the bodega doo dropping
spicy Shiitake broth smelling pissy store front,
jaded daily stunt, at midnight wino corks popping
abruptly segway into a film from one music scene
to a melting hallway, a lipstick alley with animate occupants
disconnected unmoored, appearing eerie and dormant
fluorescent lights unleashing a hum buzz in duress
hissing sizzling hornets’ nest of unsettling unrest
illogical levels of unease, an iniquitous den
such madcap absurdity is beyond my ken
not a shack, mall, nor a Holiday Inn,
a queasy Quasi-Moto mood which lies within
backrooms filled in with discarded filets
of fishy maceral that have no place,
frolicking pixella's in a glossy abyss of liminal space
plump puce brushed lips affixed
swollen browns and purple mixed
deep maroon and dusky rose,
make-up art is what they pose
I wish I may I wish away what is unreal with blinky eyes
I pray not to awaken one more inky surreal surprise
Crescent shaped moon portions mounted in pseudo walls
mounted upon the glare in unpleasing patterned halls
side by side quagmired half discs dawning a contorted face
in a half dazed-half-moon crest loon’s invisible phase
not unconscious but in some in-between state
bored while in transition and abandoned as they await
whimsical moldings who see me try not to take a peek
an exit to this madness is what I and they seek
maybe re-evaluate my sleep number, for gravity defying rest
What insight imports this encounter and what test?
what it means for a doomed generation Xer or baby boomer,
tacked in stucco, Silly Putty it seems, in a warped sense of humor
I wish I may I wish away what is unreal with blinky eyes
I pray not to awaken one more inky surreal surprise
wind wisps dark locks
from her brow
green eyes gaze
across
saguaro spiked slopes
over
sticks and stucco
where once was a river
and corn grew tall
her mama's native blood
her dad's rugged heart
she belongs to this land
pushed her baby
up this mountain
where two centuries ago
sentinels kept guard
now come here to see
sticks and stucco grow
and watch her generation
manage water
(Meade was full last
the year she was born)
see her nurse her dream
graduation
career launch
marriage
money
pay too much for
sticks and stucco
raise above average kids
walk them all
up this mountain
on Thanksgiving
while today
her baby's stroller
chases grandpa
down the hill
so full of giggles
tomorrow grandbaby
stands on this peak
on the brink of her
sticks and stucco
and I pray
grandpa’s here
too
The church I went to as a teenager
was full of sex.
It seeped through the worn wooden pews
into the pours of our hands.
It sluiced around the stucco walls
and fake stained-glass windows.
The aroma of young girls at prayer
was overpowering.
On the surface older people
seemed oblivious to this sea of sensuality,
yet when I looked closer
peeping over the edge of my hymnal
I saw folks with closed eyes,
backs arching, many
holding onto some unexpected
yet well-known arousal.
A stirring gravity enthralled us
as we orbited a magnetic divinity.
That day I knew intuitively
that the holiness of life was a passion
gifted to us by an even greater passion -
one that loves us.
Indigenous woman—rarely accompanied by their
white sisters—or their men enter
through the side door
of St. Peter’s Church.
Here they are boxed in cool stucco,
and stained-glass. A flock of Mexican
Madonna’s shift today to encompass
their fairer sister:
Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo.
Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres. Y bendito es
el fruto de tu vientre:,Jesús.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is
the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros,
pecadores, ahora y en la hora ...
drones on—and on—and on
within the heavenly heights of gilded frescos—bleeding—
rainbows prism the room in false light, kaleidoscoping upon
the walls—murals of brocade, gold-threaded catch random rays.
Woman anchor the pews with their desires—
Pliant and pleading these mothers beseech Mary to intercede:
for first class citizenship (inside and outside the Church)
for work, for health, for a better life for their children.
Voices of the lamb bleating; dinner for the wolves, they pray.
SHORT SHRIFT-little or no attention or consideration