Poetry paints prismatic word-pictures
A cubist painting programmed in plain air
Poetry and painting prize pure features,
For centuries, art crafted with grand care
Let us journey to juxtapose the two
Both attract the primeval painters' flair
With colours in rich red, yellow, and blue
Words sketching with wise theatrical care.
Try to catch and caress the words you see
Draw sights and sounds into your fractal soul
Organic lines jotted down joyously
As fractal forms that fill Metatron's scroll
Golden spirals smeared in an author's room
Are geometry's homage on a loom.
Should I write of grand romance,
of star-crossed lovers tell?
I've not known enough of that
to really do it well.
Should I write of torrid sex,
hot and steamy affairs?
I'm old enough now to see
that there's no meaning there.
Should I write heroic tales
full of daring and lore?
But what tale could I tell you
that you've not heard before?
Should I write of politics,
get mad and take side?
But most people won't listen
if you're not of their tribe.
Should I paint a word-picture,
delightful imagery?
There's thousands of small poems
on sunset, dawn, and trees.
Should I write a Limerick,
give you the best one yet?
But who could do better than
that man from Nantucket?
...hmm...or....
Should I write of chicken wings?
A bar food mighty fine,
all those great dipping sauces,
but not too hot with mine...
Too much heat buries the flavor.
Her mind accumulates oddments and curios,
contrivances with strange linkages,
attachments that bolt unlikely parts together;
the mechanics of metaphysics.
Pieces of something she is sculpting or
assembling, or just waiting for,
a glimpse of a word-picture
too intricate to be entirely recalled
as a whole canvas.
She discovers these odd figments
on the leeched rim of vision,
where shapes are nameless.
Part of her mind
burns with the light of a kerosene lamp,
the other blazes too brightly.
Slowly she feels the inconceivable
creep upon her, imagines discovering
the last transcendental piece
of a scattered poem, the keystone.
Senses reach for a nexus
there are endless connections,
too many to grasp.
She realizes that her whole life
she has been building images
that can only be seen once,
once before their time, after that
they are just
writing.
Mirror image
Word picture stage
Lines casting art
Verse cryptic start
Tale touching time
Word picture rhymes
Sketch subtle say
Wonder wit plays
Glimpse deeper then
Do you know when
Mindmap mulls steps
Sense a proud gap
Beyond hope here
Stange good cheer
Proud petty peel
Can joy claim thrill
Make sense of time
Word picture rhymes
Leon Enriquez
09 November 2018
Singapore
Mind like a canyon:
Both colorful and changing,
A channel for thoughts.
Mind like a canyon:
Both colorful and changing,
A channel for thoughts.
Feel surge of verse
As ink stains brush,
Words fill my purse
Like surge of rush.
I feel and cite
Here on the verge,
Work on swift write
As feelings surge.
Word picture etch
A moment's feel,
Thoughts reveal sketch
Of genuine thrill.
Lines in sure strokes
As heart feels trance,
Watch words now yoke
Splurge of deep dance.
In just a while
Words craft bold art,
Soul fashions style
In fragrant start.
In words laid plain
Watch feelings sum,
Beauty knows gain
As the light comes.
Leon Enriquez
31 May 2017
Singapore
Ask words to come to shape fine writes:
Work then pure zest as poise frames voice,
Rich strokes move sum of profound cites;
Ink poignant fest in visual choice,
Touch and feel ease in flow that shows;
Explore the truth that knows the way,
Rouse vibrant peace in glow that knows.
Bring ample proof to motive play,
Yes words can heal life's hurts and pains.
Glimpse vivid plot where ideas screen,
Reach with goodwill word-picture plain;
Apply deep thought to field within,
Charm fits pure style with clear insight,
Etch lines worthwhile as muse spurs flight.
Leon Enriquez
09 April 2016
Singapore
Abstract poetry in a word picture
Hear me recite from my 4000+ PS anthology on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro..
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Traditional poetry has rhyme and metre
Which determines the way it is composed
These features make it a simple matter
In distinguishing such poetry from prose
A lot of writing now is in free verse
Where the main focus is on the content
The thing that now really matters the most
Is true capture of the poet's intent
Some free verse strive for a sense of metre
By carefully managing line layout
Some focus on painting a word picture
For that's what their poetry is all about
Prose rich in sentiment and imagery
Can also be rewritten as free verse
Would it then be described as prose poetry
Or should it be labelled poetic prose
What new poetry forms will the future grow
It's time alone that will give the answer
For poets may come and poets may go
But poetry shall continue forever
The very first time I got in the mood
and had a intercourse with my pen,
nine blank verses came to pass
before my thoughts spoken,
and I bear witness to the birth of
deep poetry verses back then.
I fathered these verses as they creep
until they mature to stanza then walk.
shortly after the silence of my writing
pad fill with potent word picture art.
Art that entertain the reader and
stitch the fabrics of many torn heart.
Why do you write?
To give birth to beauty
To decorate a drab wall
To splash color on a canvass
To entertain and enthrall
Why do you write?
To become immortal
To capture fame
To heal a wound
To become sane
Why do you write?
To produce magic
To invade a heart
To be someone’s passion
To create a work of art
Why do you write?
To take a word picture
To weave a poetic tapestry
To build imagination’s castle
To write your own history
Why do you write?
You write because
You're confused
You’re overwhelmed
You’ve been abused
You write because
You’ve been shortchanged
You’ve been neglected
You’ve been enraged
You write because
You have a need
You crave passion
You want a creed
You write because
You are in pain
You carry baggage
You have tasted rain
You write because
Like every poet
That has come and gone
Of will ever be
You write because
You are searching for
The rhythm and rhyme
Of your life.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
With this napkin as my canvas
A word picture I paint
While he drowns out his sorrows
Until he finally faints
The best works he weaves
Are when unconsciously drunk
While sober and thinking
He writes only junk
While he flirts with the barmaid
Thinking about the sword in his pants
The sword in his right hand
On this napkin words plant
When he wakes with this poem
Stuck to the side of his head
He’ll read it and conclude
He’s the genius instead
Instead of getting credit
For these words that I write
It would be more correct to say written
By Jack Daniels last night
So why are the words
Not slurred or mistyped
Because while the lush was all trashed
His pen was alright
So barmaid pour another
For this bum who holds me
And let’s pray he uses his other hand
When he has to go pee