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Renie Simone Feb 11
Dear, Pa –
it’s your once-son
Danny – or better known
as Sandy, or Annie or;
Ann-Marie and to some
folks on 19th Street,
I’m known as a sinner, a ******!
My life is a movie, like
a catwalk model; and
I play a very special person, who’s got
no-one to lean on, no mommy to hold, and;
Wait, I know her. She’s familiar to me like,
I’ve known her since the beginning of time, but
right now, in physical form, she stands
in front of me in the;
mirror, Pa. Yes, I am her reflection, no
I mean she’s my reflection and I realize
that; all along, this whole time, I told myself
a big-fat lie; as a child, hatred and anger
were the tears I cried. So –
this one’s for you, my king,
my liege; this one’s the promise
that we’ll keep; this one’s the bond
between our sheets; but this one’s the
one that’ll point at you; before I lift
the middle one, to say, “***** You!”
But hey, Pa – here I am. A
woman, not a man. A bonafide,
sophisticated lady in minx
with, real diamond earrings and
fierce wings; those nails, my nose
and my lips – make me feel like I’ve
power at my fingertips.
Tonight is my show – it’s my time
to shine. And I’m going to **** it
like I know I can – so thank you Pa,
and thank you, ma’am. For giving
me the strength to be who I am.
Brief Explanation: This is an ekphrastic poem which was inspired by a particular photoshoot of Himmel Reyes, of which I unfortunately can't seem to source. This is a fictitious response to some darker sides of the glamorous life.
Susy Kamber Oct 2020
The sound of the leaves written primarily by trees.
As such was the beauty heard plainly with ease.
Up mountains, round rivers.
A song for the birds.
For the people that fly there.
Across valleys was heard.
Now what be the mention of this, you may wonder,
Alone to unravel the blur from down under.
A song can be sung from the language of trees.
I heard in the sky and then carried to thee.
https://www.susykamber.com/
Ekphrastic Poetry Explores Art
I wasn't on earth, not anymore
I wend one's way to a tranquil ambience whilst transcending my divine self
to a higher Cosmic Celestial being
at the time of eternal halcyon...
the Lacuna,that's what they called it in this time (Space was highly praised)

Suddenly life was unending
I guess that's why they use
light years here
it's counter intuitive

A cosmic pilgrim,
in a buoyantly state..
I peregrinated my way to the place in space
I seeked to fill my existence or of it to fill its existence the aftermath resulted twins

My burning hanker being doused with every feeling of passing an atom, I began to feel more drawned to my destination

From a distance, a visual perception of my terminus appeared before me

Jupiter

The third realm to the
East of my origin with
the four daemons seated in
an aligned parallel order manifesting themselves before my eyes..

Ganymede the colossal daemon
The ancient of them all

Callisto the Cherry blossom
the most alluring, artistic and gratifying in sight of all daemons.

Io the Sun's sister

The last daemon, Europa
the soft Pearl

The sight juxtaposed one's eyes for God's
I never felt so alive before
this was the cream of the crop
of the peacefull atmosphere in space..
sending an aesthetic tsunami tide to my soul's core

I belonged
Happy holidays  y'all
Kevin Castro Dec 2019
(in heavy breath)
my eyes take her in
her body lying prone.
her smile, smothered in her pillow.
back arched,
she releases a moan.

(moaning, quite sharply)
my hands stroke with her cadence
staggered gasp
and with a click
i lock my screen
as her moans send me to space.
my own fluids are now
the fluid for stimulus,
for an eye rolling **** numbing high.

but in thirty seconds
i crash.

i am tasting myself now
with desire
with disgust
like raw eggs mixed with salt
like water laced with crushed paracetamol
exactly *** mixed with spit.

i sink into the dark musty scent
of stale air, *** and sweat.

and i awake
and once again
my eyes do hunger
and so does my ****.

Eshu, end your tricks now
it’s not funny anymore.

my gaze ***** everyone it meets.
it strips them bare
of their skin
of their flesh
it turns them into meat.
it grinds a person into produce.

these eyes are battered and harmful.
may they now rest, please?
(ekphrastic poem for Eshu by agnes arellano)
Sydney V Dec 2019
Here, in this village,  
I, am unpigmented canvas  

my suburban skin,  
unfamiliar.

Where the trees
bleed colors of resurgence  

into the vacant
and vibrant damp,  

dark, earth below  
to begin and paint again.
If I could attach the photo I took of Avalon Village I would... Once again, dabbling in the realm of ekphrastic poetry and making use of extended metaphors.
Sydney V Nov 2019
As I stood,  
on the wet street  
in solitude, behind
the external lens  
in my hands,
I could hear the passing  
of painted, ticking clock hands
as they whispered and waved
through static noise  
from precipitation  
around me–  
        I wondered,
if a past soul  
of mine, contributed  
to a time of white flight,  
when a financial crisis  
sprawled like a crack  
on a windshield, from a chip  
in glass, created  
by another battle  
between politicians.
My present soul,  
              resides,
in Heidelberg,  
where  
stories of others
become painted dots  
on buildings  
climbing walls  
like spiders,  
their painted eyes
against the stark white,
doted house
seeing all.
Inspired by trip I took to Detroit back in October... it's a work in progress.
Sydney V Nov 2019
There is a melody that sings,
of a dream lost in time, with music
that fits the space  
that can’t be filled.
She is as real to you,  
as the wood in your hands
and at night, beyond the timbre of your guitar  
that murmurs melodies about a world
too many understand.
What once was elegant boulevards
in Madrid, are now  
a melodic strain  
of fleeting moments, trapped  
in colorless discontent.
This is an attempt at ekphrastic poetry, which I based of the X-ray version of 'The Old Guitarist" by Pablo Picasso. I highly suggest looking up this image, as it speaks differently than the one that is commonly known, and it may make the poem easier to understand.
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
In a wood by the river's edge,
flat and very full of trees,
with banners flying
and no misgivings,

brothers Thomas and John
and gallant Aesop,
at song, in praise—
"Good pillage!"

Their fleet— their raft,
a sail of a biscuit sack.
An afternoon, idle
near the water's side.

Because all that way
is full of woods
and therefore very
fresh and cool.
.
An Ekphrastic poem.

Source text for all words used in creating this poem: Drake's Raids on the Treasure Trains: Sir Francis Drake's Raid on the Treasure Trains: Being the Memorable Relations of his Voyage to the West Indies in 1572. Edited by Janet & John Hampden 1953. Published by The Folio Society.
Kevin J Taylor Jan 2019
The photograph hangs on the wall by the window,
Three judges appear (one carries a folder)—
A tarot card reader, embalmer, engraver,
Without much to say and not much of it said
About the boot in the crib and the tire in the bed
The round faced man and the *** on his head
Painted with flowers and chipped on its edge.
And the cat near the door with its collar and bell
Flailing and airborne and mid caterwaul.
And the three-leggèd dog with her leash on
And sweater, jubilant, leaping— Mon Dieu! Grand jeté!
And the crow— O the crow! In its cage cawing “Fire!”
The crow crowing “Mayhem!” and “****** most foul!”
The dog and the cat and the crow and the tire
The cage and the crib, the *** painted in flowers;
All in a frame with a sign alongside—
“Self portrait. Around the Ides of July.”
A ribbon is clipped and then hung for its owner.
It bears the word “Mention” and then the engraver
Makes a note on a form he hands to the embalmer.
The tarot card reader turns— She and her hat,
And addresses the room, “Ain't no card made for that.”
.
An ekphrastic poem.
sparklysnowflake Nov 2019
there were golden forests
and skies like seas

feathered magenta sunrise
floating on silver breeze

and under rosy ecstasy
the grass sang
"all is but a dream"


there were boundless scarlet sunsets
spidery grey trees

slender green shadows
yellow sidewalks agleam

and as spindly limbs swung quietly
the grass sang
"all is but a dream"


there were blood orange moons
seeping like molasses through
blackened open wounds

sandy-grey clouds swallow the skies
their toothy gaping mouths smothering cries

and as the sun turns to ash and steam
and dusky fields burn at the seams  

the rotting grass hisses  
"all was but a dream"
ekphrastic work written about "The Earth is a Man" https://www.artic.edu/artworks/117188/the-earth-is-a-man
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