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Lucid dreams of a place
That seems unfamiliar,
But it feels like home.

I perform a barefoot ballet,
Sinking my toes like anchors
Into the soil.

Orchids and sunflowers
Stand guard like soldiers, giving
An aroma as strong as gun smoke.

The wind whistles its tune
As the leaves tango, resembling
Lovers brushing fingertips.

I reminisce days where
The garden was the universe
And words came easy.

Today I am speechless and
Amazed by all this vast
World has shown me.
Inspired by Monet’s painting titled “The Artist’s Garden at Vètheuil”
Star BG Apr 14
As fog covered my outside landscape I sat,
relaxing and aligning with poetic ideas
to scribe at later date.

The air was warm, as a faint scent of lavender entered nostrils. My human eyes couldn't make out anything more than a shadow but; my inner senses knew I wasn’t alone.

The being whispered adding fog to the room. With deepen breath it now made sense of my visitor recalling my art background. Remembering, my prayer just days earlier how I longed for a great maters of art to flow through me.

As moments passed, the blur became more distinct. There he stood before me adorned with painters hat and smock. With a smile as he held up a brush and made like he was painting my form.

I giggled with air of breeze. My third eye exploded with an image of Monet. He began to fill my mind with picturesque visions.
Flowers entered my eyes as I felt a creative power serge.
Fields of afternoon strollers adorned with paroles entered mind. And birds rustled in trees, as a flowing brook traveled within.

More scenes manifested. I could almost taste the sweet air running down my throat. When I was filled to capacity, he stopped and I understood. He was providing me with fuel for thought. Scenes to transcribe into poetic jargon.

As he bowed, and I whispered gratitude, he disappeared. I was again alone with my keyboard, dancing hands and vivid imagination tweaked with his talented light.

I now was ready to create on canvas screen and of course my new curator of verse, Monet.
Here is something different. Was thinking of Monet all day today so my story unfolded in mind.
Steve Page Mar 15
Lichtenstein crashed into Monet's garden under the mistaken impression that a pulse of pop would compliment the oil on water, but instead his WHAAM missed its target and his POW wept hot, bleaching the aqua white with noise and ripping the lilies to shreds.
'Oh, Claude,' he cried, 'it's a masterpiece!'
Prompted by a friend's painting which looked just like this.
Yuki Jan 10
We are all museums
of anger and discontent
and we feel obligated to
show our artworks
to the world.
She Writes Nov 2018
I awoke to a sunrise so beautiful
Monet himself dare not
Attempt to capture its beauty
Balkus Apr 2018
People love Money,
and I love Monet.
(And no, it's not a typo,
I'm just being honest.)
Balkus Apr 2018
I would't mind
being Monetised.
I love Monet.
rose Apr 2017
There is more beauty in the steam
coming out of my coffee machine
Than there is in a Monet
At least with my lonely eyes
it seems that way
When the sink drips its drops
To me it is art
Maybe cause my world
Is falling apart
I tend to find beauty in odd things
John Benjamin Apr 2017
It is not some dusty frame,
            hanging rusty nails;
                        chaotic mess.

            No es amor solo amar, to you,
                      just some language you,
                                can't comprehend.

Distraught, despaired, disheveled,
                a dystopian novel notion,
                                     romanticized.
        
                     There's no need;
you don't need to patronize.

Cold hand upon cold hand;
       lifeless smiles colluding.

                                 And as if you were a Monet sunrise,
my impression of you is that of drunken brush strokes,
                                                        ­                   dull blues,
                                               and angry orange hues,
Left on display within a rotting, wooden frame.
beth stclair Mar 2017
i.

the grey ghosts
water to the sky,
pond to the
breaking air,

the blues are
cloudy
islands and
stars, lily pad
gold-green
dream of monet-
light.

ii.

love drifts,
scurries over
the water like
a dragonfly,
her wings the light
flowing, melting
in its breathful
streams

falling
falling
in the delicate
colours of
spring with
its tide-like
ebb and flow.

iii.

i held you
close and you
were the
aching spring,
the bright
opals of the moon,

i held you close
and all i could see
where the blues of
the pond, the
snake-silver
stream of starlight
and flower,

you were the
aching bronzes
of the rivery
pools, the still
water's paradise
of blue and white.

iv.

capture me
in the cloudy
isles of
the bright
lilies,

i am the melting
light, the frail
bloom with its
zen-like peace,
church of quiet
air, hopeful stream
of ache and light.

v.

ghost-enamels
of impression,

silently, the sun
sinks and the golds
of spring blossom
like a spell.
the book is currently 20 at barnes and noble under highly rated, e book, english poetry under 5 dollars. thank you again to all those who have purchased it.
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