"klee" poems - Hello Poetry

Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem: Painting a Function Different I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic Beyond the porch-floor Minerva hangs her wash making the invisible visible Eighty two and three quarters deaf she doesn’t notice But this is, in fact, reality Has always been this way— Bent and bird-like existence Balanced on two twigs—always busy— Her task, is the *********** of space Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing The three phenomena which I must.... Things no one notices— climbing on the abstract surface of a picture Switching the curtains God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…! It figures that— Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune I try to fix them— Her ankles now And she curses at accidental quality from the corner of her mouth which has only one form Clothespin or cigarette? Long johns and animals and men in heaven and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities surround us translucent, contained I decide what to get for her birthday— We are good friends through painting a function different For me? Predestined necessity. Minerva? forgets her manners and eats like a survivor— Thanks going without saying.

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Oct 7, 2017

Oct 7, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

Painting a Function Different

Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem: Painting a Function Different I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic Beyond the porch-floor Minerva hangs her wash making the invisible visible Eighty two and three quarters deaf she doesn’t notice But this is, in fact, reality Has always been this way— Bent and bird-like existence Balanced on two twigs—always busy— Her task, is the *********** of space Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing The three phenomena which I must.... Things no one notices— climbing on the abstract surface of a picture Switching the curtains God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…! It figures that— Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune I try to fix them— Her ankles now And she curses at accidental quality from the corner of her mouth which has only one form Clothespin or cigarette? Long johns and animals and men in heaven and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities surround us translucent, contained I decide what to get for her birthday— We are good friends through painting a function different For me? Predestined necessity. Minerva? forgets her manners and eats like a survivor— Thanks going without saying.

39

. I looked Thru the glass at a trembling lil thing Beady eyes of a worried gerbil In a worrisome place The Petco by my house had Everything you could have -almost Rhino's, Daffodil's Lynx's, Gecko's & even Alaskan Klee Kai's Wrapped up in Saran wrap Or in little glass cages With little bobbly water dispensers And kindly placed dishes Holding nifty pellets of tasty food That fits their Specialized Diet Plan They don't have elephants yet We'll have to ask the manager to order some of those

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Nov 11, 2012

Nov 11, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC

dev

Petco

. I looked Thru the glass at a trembling lil thing Beady eyes of a worried gerbil In a worrisome place The Petco by my house had Everything you could have -almost Rhino's, Daffodil's Lynx's, Gecko's & even Alaskan Klee Kai's Wrapped up in Saran wrap Or in little glass cages With little bobbly water dispensers And kindly placed dishes Holding nifty pellets of tasty food That fits their Specialized Diet Plan They don't have elephants yet We'll have to ask the manager to order some of those

20

Josteen Yazzi said the Critic should ask his thought on the matter of great art and literature What do you know of art and literature, Uncle? Nothing, he said, I think about what I do not know. I do not know why people don't like Norman Rockwell. Norman Rockwell painted the American Dream, with Indians in it, some times. I like Norman Rockwell because I know how he felt. I saw my people live in a good world that vanished. Magic or other wise, I remember mine, the way when I see Mr. Rockwell's America as he imagined he had seen it. Or maybe he painted what you should have been able to see, but for wars and Spanish Flu and cattle barons and reaping machines and steam and electricity. Olaf Wieghorst coulda painted America ugly, too. But he didn't. Literature. I have nothing left to say, Norman Rockwell, maybe he needed a mentioning for some reader anchored reason. We have to deal with that more these days. People with big old dish antennae out there, rusting after Direct TV got a satellite to see the res, Some o'the kids build a radio telescope, outa them three meter models, so we are connected. Norman Rockwell painted the Peaceful Kingdom, just like Mr. Hicks and Mr. Kincaid, not mr klee or mr picaso, they could image hell. My ma liked That drippy guy, said she could see the swing of things in he's paintings, What's-isname, Jackson, damshame, Jackson Pollak right? but the message is in the medium, that's what my Shicheii yoosto say. Art must sing. So I can play my drum. And she can dance. When we think nothing about it.

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Nov 6, 2018

Nov 6, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC

kenpepiton

The Art Critic from Santa Fe

Josteen Yazzi said the Critic should ask his thought on the matter of great art and literature What do you know of art and literature, Uncle? Nothing, he said, I think about what I do not know. I do not know why people don't like Norman Rockwell. Norman Rockwell painted the American Dream, with Indians in it, some times. I like Norman Rockwell because I know how he felt. I saw my people live in a good world that vanished. Magic or other wise, I remember mine, the way when I see Mr. Rockwell's America as he imagined he had seen it. Or maybe he painted what you should have been able to see, but for wars and Spanish Flu and cattle barons and reaping machines and steam and electricity. Olaf Wieghorst coulda painted America ugly, too. But he didn't. Literature. I have nothing left to say, Norman Rockwell, maybe he needed a mentioning for some reader anchored reason. We have to deal with that more these days. People with big old dish antennae out there, rusting after Direct TV got a satellite to see the res, Some o'the kids build a radio telescope, outa them three meter models, so we are connected. Norman Rockwell painted the Peaceful Kingdom, just like Mr. Hicks and Mr. Kincaid, not mr klee or mr picaso, they could image hell. My ma liked That drippy guy, said she could see the swing of things in he's paintings, What's-isname, Jackson, damshame, Jackson Pollak right? but the message is in the medium, that's what my Shicheii yoosto say. Art must sing. So I can play my drum. And she can dance. When we think nothing about it.

35

You say there is something great about rocketships and The lack of oxygen or gravity, I mean Who needs firmly planted feet or Even to breath when there are still Saturdays and rain clouds? I would make you triangles you could fill you house with only I’d like it to be my house too. Not now, just, with a dog and a yard. I am drawing you a sonnet but it is in crayon And I don’t know if you will like it at all. Not as much as a Monet, or a Klee, but it Still had rainbow colors and it is abstract and Beautiful maybe. It will lead you to that place (sonnets and maps are what we make) You know Where we will grow up in a few years.

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Jul 15, 2013

Jul 15, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC

lizz-parkinson

The Geometry of it all.

You say there is something great about rocketships and The lack of oxygen or gravity, I mean Who needs firmly planted feet or Even to breath when there are still Saturdays and rain clouds? I would make you triangles you could fill you house with only I’d like it to be my house too. Not now, just, with a dog and a yard. I am drawing you a sonnet but it is in crayon And I don’t know if you will like it at all. Not as much as a Monet, or a Klee, but it Still had rainbow colors and it is abstract and Beautiful maybe. It will lead you to that place (sonnets and maps are what we make) You know Where we will grow up in a few years.

15

Eddie had a print of A Paul Klee painting On the wall by the door And when he brought ***** home from a night Out hoping to get her into Bed for a good night’s **** And maybe more she staggers In stares at the wall and Klee Print and says who painted That? Did you paint that? Yeah sure Eddie lies pushing Her forward along the hall well You sure paint **** I hope you Make love better pretty boy or I am out of here before you can say Jack Johnson yeah sure Eddie says Giving her a little shove I will give you Plenty of *** and love but did you Really paint that ***** asks pausing In the hall the stink of ***** on Breath and ******* yeah sure Eddie Lies once more trying to get her Through the bedroom door well You’re a useless painter I’ve puke Better colours in the pan and do You know what? She pauses and Leans against the wall and stares Into Eddie’s eyes and says is your Name Paul? Yeah sure Eddie sighs That’s me the painter guy Paul Klee However ***** closes her eyes watching Inside her head the room go round With a queasy sound and doesn’t make It to the bed but pukes a flood of Pretty colours on the floor instead.

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Apr 28, 2016

Apr 28, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC

TerryCollett

NOT PAUL KLEE.

Eddie had a print of A Paul Klee painting On the wall by the door And when he brought ***** home from a night Out hoping to get her into Bed for a good night’s **** And maybe more she staggers In stares at the wall and Klee Print and says who painted That? Did you paint that? Yeah sure Eddie lies pushing Her forward along the hall well You sure paint **** I hope you Make love better pretty boy or I am out of here before you can say Jack Johnson yeah sure Eddie says Giving her a little shove I will give you Plenty of *** and love but did you Really paint that ***** asks pausing In the hall the stink of ***** on Breath and ******* yeah sure Eddie Lies once more trying to get her Through the bedroom door well You’re a useless painter I’ve puke Better colours in the pan and do You know what? She pauses and Leans against the wall and stares Into Eddie’s eyes and says is your Name Paul? Yeah sure Eddie sighs That’s me the painter guy Paul Klee However ***** closes her eyes watching Inside her head the room go round With a queasy sound and doesn’t make It to the bed but pukes a flood of Pretty colours on the floor instead.

36

With gaps between each other, so slim that only essentials Pass through unquestioned, dunes develop before the shoreline. Scenic transformations containing apparitions of Gaia. An Unaccompanied portrait. Ultraviolet, not claret or tangerine, Actively grays the skeleton beneath salinized feet. All sizes and shapes Continue on, north or south. Sometimes pausing in place to View courting gulls, klee-ew klee-ew, initiating aeronautic affairs. Ballets of gusting lust; then continue on, north, or south. Our feet pay no mind to the calcified construction; we know Without knowledge how delicate it remains. Seasons whisper Motherly instincts, natural as Picasso's Spanish brush, tangibly Colorful. Cerulean and further from known sensual perception, the Distant shoreline witnesses tides climb and fall with the moon. Carrying Foreign bodies, forgotten treasures, and newer apparitions, She stood Naked between pillars of limestone and ash. Unwavering in her gaze, Seductive with her emerging gait. Certain on death; certain on life. Birthed Atlantic body, unabashedly **** and rightfully so. She held life, She held death, above the frothing coast, beneath the graying skeleton of Unquestioning gaps. Her eyes remained agreeably blue, contrasted by the Objective red, dripping from her left and right. Remaining motionless, her Outstretched hands offered the reddest rose with thorns and cleanest Blade of stainless steel, sharpened with her kiss. She had no words or Need to use them. I reached for her ****** rose and sniffed its tempting Scent, leaving our fates in her hand. Certain with life; certain with death. Our fortunes sealed, her life or mine, gulls klee-ewed with defining Knowledge. They know her Atlantic, the tide, the current, the cresting Waves. She does not answer for her actions or apologize for what she is. She remains unpredictable and weaponized. I have scars as proof. Beneath the greyest skeleton, aside the ****** shore, lies knowledge of Delicate ends. Where lusting gusts blow apparitions and courting calls. North or South, we continue on above the dunes. Splintering planks Kiss our salinized souls, reminding us of our mother's whisper, "these bones do not crack with ease".

0

Mar 1, 2017

Mar 1, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC

fern

These Bones Do Not Crack With Ease

With gaps between each other, so slim that only essentials Pass through unquestioned, dunes develop before the shoreline. Scenic transformations containing apparitions of Gaia. An Unaccompanied portrait. Ultraviolet, not claret or tangerine, Actively grays the skeleton beneath salinized feet. All sizes and shapes Continue on, north or south. Sometimes pausing in place to View courting gulls, klee-ew klee-ew, initiating aeronautic affairs. Ballets of gusting lust; then continue on, north, or south. Our feet pay no mind to the calcified construction; we know Without knowledge how delicate it remains. Seasons whisper Motherly instincts, natural as Picasso's Spanish brush, tangibly Colorful. Cerulean and further from known sensual perception, the Distant shoreline witnesses tides climb and fall with the moon. Carrying Foreign bodies, forgotten treasures, and newer apparitions, She stood Naked between pillars of limestone and ash. Unwavering in her gaze, Seductive with her emerging gait. Certain on death; certain on life. Birthed Atlantic body, unabashedly **** and rightfully so. She held life, She held death, above the frothing coast, beneath the graying skeleton of Unquestioning gaps. Her eyes remained agreeably blue, contrasted by the Objective red, dripping from her left and right. Remaining motionless, her Outstretched hands offered the reddest rose with thorns and cleanest Blade of stainless steel, sharpened with her kiss. She had no words or Need to use them. I reached for her ****** rose and sniffed its tempting Scent, leaving our fates in her hand. Certain with life; certain with death. Our fortunes sealed, her life or mine, gulls klee-ewed with defining Knowledge. They know her Atlantic, the tide, the current, the cresting Waves. She does not answer for her actions or apologize for what she is. She remains unpredictable and weaponized. I have scars as proof. Beneath the greyest skeleton, aside the ****** shore, lies knowledge of Delicate ends. Where lusting gusts blow apparitions and courting calls. North or South, we continue on above the dunes. Splintering planks Kiss our salinized souls, reminding us of our mother's whisper, "these bones do not crack with ease".

23

Not the heart that beats in the heat of desert milk! Not the milk that duplicates and does not sink into searing sand! Please! I see it now! The Pale Sun rising above Klee Temple— inspired by lines of dread. The maddening has begun! We shall rendezvous with the camel spiders, those who pince at the moon within chambers of the dead.

0

Mar 18, 2024

Mar 18, 2024 at 10:59 AM UTC

Isaace

A Rendezvous With Dreaming

Not the heart that beats in the heat of desert milk! Not the milk that duplicates and does not sink into searing sand! Please! I see it now! The Pale Sun rising above Klee Temple— inspired by lines of dread. The maddening has begun! We shall rendezvous with the camel spiders, those who pince at the moon within chambers of the dead.

5

I'm not good at keeping Radio silence. Pink little friends Help me stay senseless. Eternity's furnished For little people, Drawn loosely in crayon In nineteen thirty nine On blank piece of paper. I'm venting the anger, Devouring time, Run thoughts in a circle, Hordes, herds of joggers, Clouds of lime. NO MORE EVENTS In my agenda Nothing Demands my attention No one's requesting Immediate presence Not even Your Majesty. A flurry of worry Gone with the gong. Paris, le 06 mai 2016

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Jul 4, 2016

Jul 4, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC

andrei-sredni

Klee

I'm not good at keeping Radio silence. Pink little friends Help me stay senseless. Eternity's furnished For little people, Drawn loosely in crayon In nineteen thirty nine On blank piece of paper. I'm venting the anger, Devouring time, Run thoughts in a circle, Hordes, herds of joggers, Clouds of lime. NO MORE EVENTS In my agenda Nothing Demands my attention No one's requesting Immediate presence Not even Your Majesty. A flurry of worry Gone with the gong. Paris, le 06 mai 2016

25

This is love as you will Always know it she said You will know no better Love than this this is as Good as it gets and you Wonder once she’s gone Off to make coffee and Looking at the Paul Klee Painting on the white wall If this was really love at all Whether she had other lovers Tucked away other men or Women whom she told the Same thing to in that breathy Voice of hers that deep eyed Stare and feeling for the first Time in your life that maybe Love wasn’t that great after all That maybe it was the last big False note before the symphony Of death’s first chord struck and You were out there on a lonely Limb holding onto life’s last ****

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Apr 20, 2016

Apr 20, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC

TerryCollett

IS LOVE. (OLD POEM)

This is love as you will Always know it she said You will know no better Love than this this is as Good as it gets and you Wonder once she’s gone Off to make coffee and Looking at the Paul Klee Painting on the white wall If this was really love at all Whether she had other lovers Tucked away other men or Women whom she told the Same thing to in that breathy Voice of hers that deep eyed Stare and feeling for the first Time in your life that maybe Love wasn’t that great after all That maybe it was the last big False note before the symphony Of death’s first chord struck and You were out there on a lonely Limb holding onto life’s last ****

23

Entice us with the future Move to the music Livin in the past is done and gone now I want somethin new You call it eclectic I say that's it electric Aint got time to lie and hate that's why imma get elected. Weekend doesn't end when you with the crew- Hit the street, cruise the strip and let the air in your lungs. This is the life you always want and but never took, the one you always bordered I say its just what the doctor ordered. Bull by the horns Aint got no time to get caught up in the thorns. Movin past you, movin up this quality of life I left the traffic now you late to work History is written by the winners its sad for you that you're still missin them chicken dinners. I move on authority that's how I was raised just to keep individuality. The week is here and home is where the heart is, its why I march to my own drum much like Tommy Lee is . I spray paint freedom on a wall make a mural out of self expression only way to fight through this depression. Left the mark sayin Kilroy was here Expressionist like Klee Marxist like Groucho I don't wanna rant so I''ll leave that to Harpo.

0

Aug 2, 2018

Aug 2, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC

TheJester

Spray Paint Manifesto

Entice us with the future Move to the music Livin in the past is done and gone now I want somethin new You call it eclectic I say that's it electric Aint got time to lie and hate that's why imma get elected. Weekend doesn't end when you with the crew- Hit the street, cruise the strip and let the air in your lungs. This is the life you always want and but never took, the one you always bordered I say its just what the doctor ordered. Bull by the horns Aint got no time to get caught up in the thorns. Movin past you, movin up this quality of life I left the traffic now you late to work History is written by the winners its sad for you that you're still missin them chicken dinners. I move on authority that's how I was raised just to keep individuality. The week is here and home is where the heart is, its why I march to my own drum much like Tommy Lee is . I spray paint freedom on a wall make a mural out of self expression only way to fight through this depression. Left the mark sayin Kilroy was here Expressionist like Klee Marxist like Groucho I don't wanna rant so I''ll leave that to Harpo.

27