"davinci" poems
We always talks about putting our broken pieces back together
Or we speak of mending another with tape and glue
Like stitches that won't undo
But putting the pieces back together wont make them new
Why don't we ever think about picking up each others broken parts
And placing them where ours once were
Instead of fixing a puzzle with missing pieces
Why don't we become art
And fill each other with beautiful parts?
All that you find broken about yourself
All that I find rotten within my hollow shell
Are colorful pieces to complete a work of art
If you take some of me and make it beautiful
Then perhaps one day I too could see the beauty I betray
I'll do the same for you as I collect these magnificent additions
To the masterpiece that I make of myself
One day we will become Mona Lisa and The Starry Night
Not only will we be the art we will become the artists
As grand as DaVinci, as unique as Van Gogh
We will fill this world with our broken art
And make others learn that there is beauty in every splintered part
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 11:25 AM UTC
I gaze at my reflection
in a gilt picture frame.
She has the slimmest
sliver of a smile painted
on her expressionless face.
Her perfect eyes are so
intense, so empty.
Am I this predictable?
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
Midnight in Paris
oui, oui Missour, excusez-moi s'il vous plaît,
may I take your bags, welcome to the Ritz
I am most sure, you will enjoy your stay
Paris is most happy, to see you Mr. Fitz
Paris in the spring is such a lovely sight
the flowers all in bloom, the skyline at night
bright sun shinning now, maybe an afternoon shower
plan your day well before you ride up in the tower
strolling past the cathedral of Notre Dame
thinking of the bell ringer the old hunchback
like the Philadelphia liberty, the bell has a crack
the storming of the Bastille, to relieve the shame
to the Louvre for the most exquisite art
Rembrandt and DaVinci at their best
so many things to see this is just the start
to see it all would be a fantastic quest
time for a ride down the Seine river
astonishing sights this old city can deliver
a bottle of nice Vouvray to enhance the ride
a lovely local woman right by your side
now you might ask her if she likes to dance
for the clubs in Paree are oh so fine
club Lido also a great place to dine
a wonderful time, Midnight in Paris, France
Gomer LePoet
Sep 1, 2011
Sep 1, 2011 at 2:29 PM UTC
Minuit à Paris
oui, oui Missour, excusez-moi s'il vous plaît,
peux je prendre vos sacs, être bienvenu au Ritz
Je suis plus sûr, vous apprécierez votre séjour
Paris est le plus heureux, vous voir M. Fitz
Paris au printemps est une si jolie vue
les fleurs tous dans l'éclat, l'horizon la nuit
le soleil brillant shinning maintenant, peut-être une ****** d'après-midi
planifiez votre jour bien avant vous le trajet en haut dans la tour
le fait de promener devant le cathederal de Dame Notre
le fait de penser au carillonneur le vieux bossu
comme la liberté de Philadelphie, la cloche a un craquement
le fait de prendre d'assaut du Bastille, pour soulager la honte
au Louvre pour la plupart d'art exqusite
Rembrandt et DaVinci à leur meilleur
tant de choses à voir c'est juste le début
voir tout cela serait une quête fantastique
le temps pour un trajet en bas le fleuve de Seine
les vues étonnantes cette vieille ville peuvent livrer
une bouteille de Vouvray agréable pour améliorer le trajet
une jolie femme locale directement par votre côté
maintenant vous pourriez lui demander si elle aime danser
car les clubs dans Paree sont oh si parfaits
le club la Plage aussi un grand endroit pour dîner
un temps magnifique, le Minuit à Paris, France
Gomer LePoet
Sep 1, 2011
Sep 1, 2011 at 2:30 PM UTC
You seem to know where you're needed
to whom this command addressed is a crazy me-man,
a street walking big DaVinci ibearded mumbler,
the kind you would cross the street
before the smell is close enough
to sending you running, not just
politely walking fast but a souped up
hi-yo silver away!
this guise no surprise,
you must and do
already know where I’m needed,
sealing the pact with a yellowtine post-it
writ in simple block letters ordered in a brewed cafe,
my latte arrive states my name as**
come see me
come to the time the place and the date
and prepare oneself for twenty and fours
of rigid interoperability as our systems
interface reach the pure state of 100%
ultimate wordless dialogue
communicating
in with by
perfect silence
heaven
you will write a verse,
my reciprocation
is already prepared
this terse repartee
will many spawn poems generational
for your family amazing and extended
an elephnat never forgets,
his servers are a rolling stone
with no direction home,
capacity unknown
every blade sighted retained,
and every sensate glance
a phrase seeded
departure will find me clean shaven,
pressed jeans neat,
and shod in well worn dockers,
cloaking my innate invisibility
when the children ask who was that,
you’ll sage reply
one new who knew where one was needed
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC
The poet speaks on anything
thinking their words are fresh as spring,
logical as philosophy,
and tuned to nature’s harmony
Socrates reasoned that the voice
of poets was not one of choice,
but rather was much inspired
by gods touching minds with fire
The audience finds more meaning
in the mad poet's own ramblings
than the epileptic speaker
himself will ever dare ponder
They speak first on others behalf
as if they are the better half;
fancying themselves conqueror,
fisherman, a seer, and doctor
By what means are they qualified
to serve as humanity's guides?
How do the epics of Homer
make you more than imitator?
Cicero, Plato, Lucretius
Davinci, and Heraclitius:
Rare to find artist and scholar
in the wise true philosopher
Be wary of the charms of rhyme
and seduction of meter’s time
As these are well known to allure
common fools to charleton's words
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 5:27 PM UTC
I'm a small pebble
making a giant ripple
A speck of black sand
on a coral white beach
The left foot
kicking up a storm
A hermit, a drifter
a paradigm shifter
I am a disruptive
not a destructive force
I think outside of the box because inside I'm lost
I've been Nero, DaVinci
Neruda, Dali
burned as a witch
and now I'm just me....
a small pebble
making a giant ripple
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
Come closer, beckoning
witch finger,
curling, crunching
in shade.
Summon the night
gallery, hanging Homer and Waterhouse as distorted oil
oozing into a
disappearing act.
My feet are a detached movement
upon semi-real
floor of tar-black
tile.
Scraaaaaaaaaping———
Where is the lapel suit
of my Rod Serling dulled
by bad agents of
thrills.
Have him string me
up, a hoisted body settled into daVinci
wings of plain wood and
curvature like a waxy bird's.
The pig's blood waiting
above my head,
Serling signaled
for drama.
I see the false teeth of the planetarium
twinkle, an engulfing omnitheater's
air that I am crucified.
Serling behind the casque of gauze
to young Shatner and wandering
starships of lean men and
the end of this star system into
galactic
odyssey.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Was Mister Spock ever tossed from
Olympus and forced lame in
the heart, a shell that is far
from hollow—what only
a mother could hold.
The bow figurehead, awaiting
corrosion.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
Deaf beethoven heard thy symphony
Genius Michelangelo from a rock curved thee
Blind Homer saw thy comely figure
Davinci painted thee superior to Mona Lisa
Ancient Greeks on papyrus praised thee
Today's poets on books we sing of thee
Time turn all beauty and beasts to ashes
But thou ancient lady like a phoenix rises from the dust
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
Alacrity is what she exudes,
a passion for greatness,
and she has it,
it,
sublimity,
too many distractions,
too much derision,
or she would already be so paramount,
a DaVinci with the brush,
or a Lagerfeld with the needle,
her beauty is Merovingian,
so humble it vamps me,
me,
a lucky man,
electrified by her words,
and waiting for her touch,
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 10:18 AM UTC
He paints the woman
dark hair, fair complexion, symmetrical face,
with
intricacy, detail, voluptuousness.
Her eyes, they're an expression of ambiguity and mystery, piercing through the canvas.
His eyes, young and passionate,
staring back at her,
waiting for her intimacy,
awaiting for a carnal desire to be fulfilled.
But her posture is austere,
her shroud chaste and binding,
her eyes never quite his to own and understand,
her lips smirking but demure, mocking his emotions.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 1:17 AM UTC
I'm going to dare the fates and speak openly
Julius Caesar, was a pompas ***** who consumed and never gave
A pudgy little waif of an excuse for a man
Cleopatra, wasn't a visual beauty,
She had wit, and the gift of gab
I was her hand maiden
I would know
Technology?!
We are so primitive in this age, Ha!
Nero,
History painted a vague, and awful picture of a great man of men
Indeed,
My Nero, did dance at the fall of Rome
Because we all would dance, at the loss of ignorance
He was beautiful, I loved him
And of DaVinci?
His mind was offset
He was GREAT
His was a traveling soul and mind
Leonardo, looked God himself in the face
And grinned
He was GREAT, as was his son
His son, painted a book
It resides in the Vatican Library
Check if you will
With your "Google"
Your generations wonder of mysteries,
You haven't a clue
Time isn't linear
It Is always
And I grow tired
Hoover, a Hunter
He knew of us
And we hid
Shielding ourselves in shadows
And lies
We are here
We watch
Wait....
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 11:48 PM UTC
I am not your Bukowski
I am not the Picasso of words
I am not the DaVinci of euphemisms
I will never be remembered
I am not beautiful
My insides are not pure
I am tainted blackened filth
Begging for attention or pity
Nothing goes my way
I am a failure
Bur I will do nothing to change
Nor tell another
I want to die
I know I say it a lot
But I don't feel that it's fine that some more grateful of their gift
Take their last breath tonight
While I, thoughts of suicide, running amok in my fragile mind
Take everything for granted and give back nothing
Nothing but whines and complaints and harshness
I am not Bukowski
I am not Jesus Christ
I am I
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
That dad-blamed Darwin and his evolution
We got molesting priests and civil retribution
We got a lady on a beast committing prostitution
Oh no man...
We got holy rollers with their ***** money
They rule this land of milk and honey
They pray to god through their Easter Bunny
Was that the sun god or god's only son?
Oh no man
I'm not the one
We got the DaVinci code and mother Magdalene
Look out now there's another goddess on the scene
911... was it just a bad dream
Oh no man
I'm not the one
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 8:32 AM UTC
i'm not an angry person
i'm a sad soul
with a smile that could fool God
but eyes that betray me
i have a laugh that can ****** the devil
but sobs that can awake
the earth
i have hands that DaVinci would envy
for they are magic,
creating lovely
****** creations
on my thighs
but i have a backbone
that has more cracks than
a busy city sidewalk.
just a sad soul.
not an angry person.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
dear god your voice
i have sat here for the past hour, on the ground, ruminating on my own ****** lack of emotional understanding
i sit here
my stomach infested with moths
my mind becoming entangled with vines of restlessness
confusion
infatuation
angst
more infatuation bordering on fascination
my mind is being enveloped by the somber shadows cast by the incessant, demanding, creeping leafy limbs
i no longer know how to feel
another human has seen past your facade!!
broke the davinci code!!
never once failed to be the voice of reason when you can’t even understand your own voice!!
i love your voice
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
with eyes so old seeing it all was easy,
spinning around there is nothing queasy,
in the head
but one thing yet to be seen
refreshing, so crisp so clean
that
makes knowing what to look for from the start
being so close to what is really is feel the pounding heart
dare not go closer, mistaken for the wrong stuff,
nothing tough and sinewy or even tougher,
is
this way and that way, can't find a way, even in the fog,
with the biggest **** spotlight shining out, so much light that my
silhouette is pasted to the fog, like Davinci's pointing man
the
way, fully vulnerable and exposed, wingspan equals altitude,
it would be a loss to fall from your own height,
not from the "mountains of madness" over and over an
edge
of no return, or what is the point,
of a sharp blade, for the dull witted, but what
of glory, that is the edge of glory
don't let them catch me peering
I have found it.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Michelangelo I look at your work
Davinci to and I'm in awe
Dali, Picasso saw in their own way
Blake magnificent and Turner as well
Degas, Monet, Manet to
To many to mention or view
All I ask is this half term
You go to a gallery
Help your child learn
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
That silly smile you give
With your deep red wine lips
The bubblegum chatter you oblige my days with
They craft out symphonies of mayhem incessently
The jet black ocean dreamers eyes
That blush out the moon in its prime
And once eyes meet
A smile trudges along and greet
Beneath the smooth black sheet of hair
Eyebrows sharpened and with a smiley wink
Th raging velvet satin black hair
That flow like ink out of hebe's imagination
The slender fingers you swing
Look like an aussie serpentine
The incessent wandering eyes
That twist and take you for a ride
The cheeks that radiate with hues of pink
Its like cherries perched on a rosy sheet
Your face is like a razor blade
Melts away the expression it drains
Your face reanimates and moves like the moon
As the sun goes goes only to reappear
You are eternally here
You sparkle along and shine like a precious gem
Your changing mood
Your face expresses like the phases of moon
It Keeps a little beuty
And sometimes a shimmer of mischief
Someday somewhere maybe you will see a snowflake
And someone somewhere might drown in those eyes
Everywhere you go.. You leave a little piece of yourself behind
You envy of davinci, the muse of humbert
Like a dagger with a crystal glaze
You will give cinderella a run for her fame
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 11:25 PM UTC
Yes yes yes
I have seen
I have seen and
must tell someone
yes Yes yes
and oh how they
rose up out of the
very ground that I am
on now and you must
be on also
Plato too and Alexander
DaVinci Shakespeare
and the rest,
same quality of earth
same zig zag shape
of snaking rolling
prologues and epitaphs
and it goes and goes
yes yes Yes
life on this
life on that thing unknown
bouncing bubbling
hereandthere life
good life half life
people takin' it and
running life
and the down down
down life,
yes
and don't forget the downbrother
and sister
on a bad no good
trip or trippin'
over someone else's
trip, yeah
somebody's got it in their
back pocket yeah everybody's
got it but nobody wants to
play it
oh boy oh boy
what can ya do when
everything is up and down
and down and out
all at the same time
and you've been smacked by
heaven forgetting some poor
guy down the road
dyin' for a nickel,
well I got nothin' for it
but to spill-
spill it all out
here
"I'm sorry, I really am"
but you don't want sorry
sorry doesn't taste like
dignity apple pie
fresh out of
the ephemeral oven
no
no no
sorry tastes bitter
like a lemon
in the sun,
well what's a guy
to do with that
other than pluck
a fresh one from
the fridge and try
to slow the day
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
Just finished his last supper
when he saw you fly.
The mechanics of the flight
thrilled him.
Seeing you often flit about
with minds eye.
Taking pen to paper,
he drew it.
Maybe a war machine
maybe not.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
Whats my name?
and where do i belong?
What lame
Question?
rhetorically
I asked my mirror image
Tuft of hair sprouting from my head
my thoughts spinning like a windmill
I was a different creature from yester years
i was a different shade in this hell
Around me i could hear whispers
Murmurs and even stammers
spilling hum around nature
As they tried to decrypt my identity
As a davinci's code
trying to fit me like a jigsaw
puzzle
Who am i??
The face i saw in a bowl of spring water
Made me wonder
the shadow i saw on a sunny day
left me perplexed
In how many realms do my souls exist
in how many forms do i breathe
With hazy and tired eyes
I can nolonger see my future
nor can my brain fathom what i am
Around me all is dark and hidden
far from reach
do i have an alter ego?
Am yet to comprehend
so
Who is the other me?
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 12:50 PM UTC
art isn’t dead, but are you?
we express ourselves through our clothes and shoes
in today’s society Davinci’s paintings aren’t cool
5,000 years ago and the artist is dead
aesthetics and drugs stuck in our head
Van Gogh painted the stars and the blue in the sky
he also cut his ear off and despised his life
teens are committing suicide and slitting their wrist
the blood is spewing out and they are taking pics
posting on social media because self harm is cool
when really you’re just being a tad bit cruel
splitting our veins to become an aesthetic
these kid are not art, these kids are pathetic
how dare you expect me to be empathetic
the red blood falls on the floor
we don’t have anymore razors so grab your paintbrushes and draw some more
too much blood comes out and you don’t know what to do
paint palettes and sketchbooks still have some use
art is not dead,
but are you?
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 9:10 AM UTC
trains are often silent
i think about this,
as I keep walking from car to car
between the little doors
that serve as purpose of connection
to find an empty seat
that i do
until a girl does come along
to claim the bag in the seat there beside me
silence
in a space shared
where the scent of sour skittles
is my focus
as the mechanics of this machine
so connected
yet divided
and claims DaVinci
in this book I read
"the paradise of mathematics"
in which he found and made his own
a discovery worth the while
and so music breaks the silence
as i sit to contemplate the scenic route
all to myself
unable to avoid the mystery of thought
to my left
to stay?
i ponder where to after the destination
i do not desire
rather i sit
alongside my imagination
to picture the journey
rather
and i look out this window
to see them waving
to think if only i caught this image of paradise
as the train keeps on
i picture where it is
i am going
i'm so gone
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
Words are craved from the mind
Written down on pad do bind
With flow of an ink product of thinking
Oil paint of justice, the write up made of
Sometimes is injustice bound of
Sometimes shared experiences
Sometimes deepest imaginations
Sometimes pains, hate, joy and sadness
Words of mine flow for peace and love
For happiness and liberation from bond
Sculpting like Davinci's vitruvian image
As stars light up path of truth vintage
In my heart so, I write the words on book
As readers read the words they grow
Like wild plants upon a silent brook
Hoping one day everything straightened backing way of the Crook
As the words sound, resonant they as a ****
With much roots like a hard and heavy like rock
Sculpting my words requires deep thinking
For I encrypt them like road of the gods living
Whose gifts are uncontestable
As they burn within do unquenchable
by Martin Ijir
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC