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Terry Jordan Apr 2017
It’s not that big a surprise
How much I adore Amsterdam
Like immigrants long ago
So welcomed here just as I am
In the historic Lloyd Hotel
To witness a wedding so swell
I’m glad I’m here in Amsterdam

Canals and bikes aplenty
Whizzing past on every street
The Keukenhof gardens amazed
VanGogh’s Museum made me weep
I’m glad I’m here in Amsterdam

We walked for miles & took the train
Our flight home I made not a peep
It must have been that Space Cake
We ate it and went right to sleep
A fond farewell to Amsterdam
Just returned on a 10-hour flight from Amsterdam to Miami, after witnessing a magical wedding of my niece Karen & Fabian, her now Dutch husband, who shared their vows on a boat ride to the Skinny Bridge where they kissed to seal their love. The' Space Cake' made the plane ride back less painful!
I was feeling pretty good after a few ***** tonics,
to the point where I felt comfortable enough to converse
with this vaguely familiar, lovely lady sitting next to me at the bar.
I leaned over and quite brazenly asked;
" Do you like ghost stories?"
" I happen to love ghost stories" she replied.
I began by telling her about the ghost that tried to suffocate me
by burying my face in a pillow at exactly 3 am
the night after I saw my name appear in large black letters
on the television screen while watching a movie.
She ordered a double and asked me to continue.
I told her about the lady I work with who advised me to answer the phone
because it might be my Mother, knowing all the while that my Mother
was deceased.
Well, the lady on the phone just happened to have the same last name
as my Mother's maiden name; Joy. Not Smith or Jones...Joy.
Her husband's name was Edwin which just happened to be my Dad's name.
Then I told her about the time my sisters and I were visiting the grave site of my parents.
We were in the wrong area and searching when I stumbled across a section of headstones with the family last name but no relation as far as we could tell.
There she lay....Mary E. Owens...deceased 1951, the same year and day my sister; Mary E. Owens was born.
I must say she was a bit startled when she came over to have a look.
"Shall I continue?" I asked.
Without hesitation the pretty lady replied; "By all means, continue."
"Okay, this is the kicker. I attended a VanGogh exhibit a few years ago.
I was compelled it seems by unknown forces to his work,
but had never viewed it in person.
On the day of the final viewing I knew I had to go.
I was sick with fever from an active kidney stone
but decided to take the trip downtown by subway.
When I arrived there was a very long line. Tickets were free, but limited.
A man approached me trying to scalp tickets he had obtained.
I declined, placing my faith in destiny.
I got my ticket as did 3 or 4 people behind me and that was it.
Hundreds were turned away.
The viewing of VanGogh's work was a moving experience.
I was exhausted by the end and my fever had risen.
It was all I could do to remain standing.
While I viewed the final piece of the exhibit; 'Wheatfields Under Threatening skies',
someone spoke to me from just behind my right shoulder.
" I want to thank you for coming my good man. It means a great deal to me."
I turned to answer, but before I could reply I was stunned to see that the likeness
between this man and VanGogh himself was astounding.
I turned to look at a self portrait on a wall nearby and back to the gentleman again but he was gone.
Hallucination due to my fever...perhaps, but I'll never believe that.
"That is quite the story and you are quite the storyteller.
Now it is my turn to tell you a story before I go.
Do you see that lady in the mirror next to you?
The one captivated by your lust for life?
Look real hard, then slowly close your eyes and slowly open them again."
When I did, she was gone, but in a brief instant it was as if the entire room went quiet
and I heard a whisper that echoed as if it were inside a church,
"I loved posing for you, Vincent."

Author's note: This is a 'Ghost Story' I wrote which is a bit unusual in that it contains actual events wrapped in a ficticiuos setting (the bar). I wrote an article for the on-line publication; 'Wordcatalystmagazine' detailing my run-in with the ghost at 3 am. It's called 'Ghost Story' and it's in the Dec.2007 issue.
Flower Scent Nov 2010
The Poet is the language,the mystery of Monalisa's smile,

the brush of Caravaggio and the finest painting of Vangogh.

The Poet is the sonnet of Mozart anf the symphony of Bach,

a tragedy of Shakespeare and the saddest verse of Pablo Neruda.

The Poet is the blue Danube in waltz and the Swan Lake in Ballet.

The Poet is the renaissance of passion and the remnant of life,

the dilemma of morality,the shadow of deed,and the ombra of sin.

The Poet is the fantasy of each Sunrise and the illusion of every Sunset,

the wave in tide of wishes,carried in a bottle to  dune drunk shore.

The Poet is the believer, dream lover in a hot passionate crazy affair,

the magician who creates fables and fairytales from a deadly reality.

The Poet is the worker who works and works to survive,to cope in this

demanding,sophisticated,stigmatic  concrete hypocratic world.

The Poet is the thief of time,with eyes flutterin on late nights,

Still loyal to the pen,His thoughts  in verse,bleedin fragranted words.

The Poet is an Omnipotent servant,with a will to ask and crave to learn.

A Philosopher,whose always an amateur in the pursuit of wisdom.

The Poet is an eternal slave of His Muse,the beverage of inspiration,

the spouse married to literature,adulterer of lyric,deceiver of prose.

He Knows no lapsus in all that is scandalous,royalty or sacred.

He is the artist, musician, actor,the clairvoyant  of destined paths.

He is the cheap clay's mold,carved in the sculpture of the next century.

The Poet is the unfinished book,the chapter in yesterday,

He is the Nobody of today and the bookmark  of tomorrow.


                      T  H  E        POET     IS       YOU    ! ! !
Abigail Sherry Dec 2014
'Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse
Little Amelia Pond asleep in her bed, with thoughts of a raggedy doctor
floating through her head.
Outside her window, there came a bright light,
'twas a light so bright that it lit up the night
And the sound of the TARDIS woke her up with a jolt
and with an excited smile she heard the thing halt
She ran through the house, past the mouse, past the tree
and she saw her old friend and greeted him with glee.
He was happy to see her, but there was sadness in his heart.
He brought her rare gifts, like VanGogh art.
They ate fishsticks and custard as the doctor told of tales never heard.
As the night went on the fun wore out little miss pond
The doctor tucked her into bed and told her more stories that danced through her head.

'Twas the morning of christmas
and the best gift of all
was the night full of memories and for years she recalled
her raggedy doctor until they met once more
But thats a story for another time, and then I shall write more.
Have a merry Christmas and a Happy Holiday
From The Doctor And Amy
This is a poem that I actually wrote for a friend for christmas and it made her cry a bit. This is based off of characters from Doctor Who.
Terry Jordan Apr 2017
Of course it was the wedding
Bringing us together
With Fabian and Karen
The best wedding ever!

Historic and surprising
In the old Lloyd Hotel
Pre-wedding preparations
For a boat ride so swell

Such patterns and colors
Bricks and concrete so define
The old Lloyd Hotel with
A more modern Dutch design

Our Indonesian dinner
That whirlwind tour by Tor
Through shopping streets-The Nines-while
Sharing his family lore

I stood in line for VanGogh
2 hours of rainy skies
All worth it for the time there
His story made me cry

Splendid gardens on display
Row upon row I gazed
A cacophony of TULIPS
The Keukenhof amazed!

We walked for miles & learned the trains
The week flashed by so fast
I wish that Rose and I took time
To take a yoga class

I'd like my morning coffee
Once more before we part
Finished off with Dutch detail
A great big creamy heart

Loving those calming canals
I might go on the lam
Escape from America
I think "I Amsterdam"
A love-letter to Amsterdam, inspired by giant letters spelling "I Amsterdam" outside the airport there.
Some say I reflect only shadows
only darkness
only fear
am I to be negated for this
perhaps
accurate observation?
did Poe write of whimsical romps
through flower gardens?
did VanGogh paint in colors of glee?

balance
the dusk
the dawn
the unwitting pawn
the king who holds court
the peasant who merely survives

view from my pulpit before you judge
stand in my shadow before you declare
that I am without light
wordvango  Jan 2017
Am I myopic?
wordvango Jan 2017
just wait one minute
the theory of art
can it be like VanGogh's
stars be monumental
for the sake of drama ,
is the winsome guitar in my favorite song
just  a prop in this play
of a rock opera?
Can it be art is just a
short way of saying artificial?
Does my heart sing her song
play a song of ethereal  longing just for a
effect?
And does art
in her theory stand for artificial , is my sight
so shortsighted?
RabidPoet  Apr 2010
Drifting
RabidPoet Apr 2010
I drift among the spheres
Sipping coffee
Colour swirling
Like a VanGogh
here
in the battered chambers
of this once vital heart
the uneven echoes
send signals of it's impending failure
the body relaxed in the haze of morphine
the mind alone in the dreamscape before death
a magnified tapestry of color
Sun and golden fields from a VanGogh painting
move within my thoughts
swaying and quelling the offbeat of distant drums

a lone leafless tree
a branch holding lines of crow
awaiting the rain
turn to see me
'follow them'
a voice whispers from beyond the wheatfield
they take flight
as do I
towards the darkest of the ominous clouds
'this is so worth it' I thought
just before the lightning snaked it's way across the blistering blue sky
releasing me from my mortal coil

I had to smile as I hovered there
watching them zap me again and again
bless them for their perseverance
brandon nagley Jul 2015
Tis whimsical yes?
How the pariah's of old
Such as Picasso
Poe
Vangogh
Egon schiele
El Greco
Oscar Wilde
Emily Dickinson
John Keats
michelangelo
( all poet's or artists)
All were the relic age nobody's to quote (popular society.).....
And they went broke pushing their beauties,

Yet now look at them
Millionaires in their graves....

Bet their looking down thinking
Really????
Pariah is pretty much a loser lol thanks wolf for telling me this so I used it as title lol
Inspired by Wolfie
there are no dreams here
they are but fragments of thought
dismissed and abandoned to the wilderness
of our imaginations
to intersect or collide
perhaps hundreds or thousands at a time
to create some kind of patchwork mosaic of
tossed millisecond ideas and flashes of imagery
that have nowhere to go
these are not dreams
a vast wasteland of connected disconnected energy
of the mind

last night we walked together
and discovered our shared love of art
and ghosts
while the world slept
while I slept
I later met you in a book store
where we paged through Vangogh prints
and discussed the peculiarities of  'The Smoking Skull'
I awoke to a beautiful Sun and for a few joyous seconds…thought to
call you

there are no dreams here
Leah  Oct 2019
Yellow Paint
Leah Oct 2019
Yellow wasn’t always my favourite colour, but I once read that Vangogh swallowed yellow paint in an effort to know happiness;
      so I chose to be that for people.
You could chew me up and spit me back out and I’d still shine for you.

But when the skies are overcast,
and the clouds weep;
and you hear the thunder roll in,
I’ll be the yellow paint you swallow.
Only this time, the happiness stays,
and you don’t have to cut your ear off
in order to win my heart.

I may be my own yellow now, but I’ll be the colour of sunshine for you too.
Star Gazer  Aug 2016
Last night
Star Gazer Aug 2016
Last night I wished upon a shooting star,
And in a hazy dream, I saw everything alive,
As I sew the seams for every wish to survive.

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed",
And if 'tis a fate upon myself, I shall hope to avoid
like the eye of a hurricane in an eye of a needle.

Last night I wished upon the light of a bright star
and I stumbled onto one with brightest hue
who gave me a sense of happiness I never knew.

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed",
And if 'tis you that proposes my mind to be void,
In no longer than a heartbeat shall I bear you my mind.

__
Last night I heard Einstein recite a poem, saw Edgar Allen Poe paint and danced with Vincent Vangogh in the moonlight, yet none of it was as interesting as the opportunity to meet you.

— The End —