"monet" poems
Golden calm flows through me as the glittered dragonfly's frame and fairy wings buzz over pooled Monet oil.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
A small skiff drifted in the harbor
guided by the eazy oars of a fisherman
standing in the hull to better view
the shimmering reflection
of the orange circle hovering overhead-
dancing with the gentle waves
in the morning mist.
Monet had to name it something
so he called it what it was:
"Impression, soleil levant."
A critic, wanting poison for his pen,
seized Monet's title to squeeze
a lethal dose into the radical veins
of the artist and his fellows of the gallery
(Renoir, Pissarro, Cezanne).
With scathing indignation
he dubbed the lot of them,
"Mere Impressionists."
The label endures (minus one word)
but how many recall or care to know
the righteous critic's name?
November, 2011
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
i.
monet's passion written in
whispering tears.
the still lake smoulders
in ripples, all shadows and smoke.
a dragonfly presses the air
into whir, memories in my
pocket saddled to fire.
ii.
the air murmurs with death-shouts.
is this to sink, deep in a dungeon
of opulent blue
or to shimmer, iridescent
like a moon-lamp, empress
of ocean green and river blue
beyond the stilling light.
iii.
this is a bed of decadence
drowned moment of golden fire
in the sipped leaves that trumpet
to the clouds, that this is their day to
die.
iv.
water lily, white light of the pond
following the drowning dark,
flower of drifting quiet,
flower of dream.
v.
root treading past
the stillness of dusk,
utter existence,
daughter of the moon,
daughter of the silence.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
She walks down pavement
She makes the government’s infrastructure look like beauty
Her beauty turns away the rules of the snooty conservative government
The constitution loses its soul
When she bends over to check the hood of a car about to roll
Her boyfriend accompanied by other boyfriends who hit on her
I stand on the sidelines
Problem is I murmur
You probably thought a stutter was worse
She’s such a high class gal
Despite her sultriness and I’m not judging
But I must mention she goes to Church
So you might still mistake her for being an uptown sister
She dances to rock music
Her head doesn’t even sway to the EDM that the plebeians surrounding her play
She’s an anachronism
But she just needs me to introduce her Monet’s impressionism
I bet her cultural values force her to mould Picasso’s Cubism
Even though I’m not a man’s man
She without influence is not enough
Because influencing is love
And I hope it is to this cute rebellious dud
I suppose from her house she ran
When she looked morose in school during period nine
It was English Drama and suddenly she couldn’t seem to remember the line
With her friends flanking her she walks and talks
She’s on the phone while she’s wearing her socks
She’s on the prowl she’s an active girl
That women is close to my heart
And I hope to treat her like a clam treats its pearl
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
Impressionist colors rising out of chocolate brown,
stretching chartreuse necks upwards.
Intertwining vines clutching each other in a desperate rhapsody of life,
all waiting to display their Creators’ palette of pure color.
Orchid and yellow chalices hold the morning dew
as all are christened in jeweled morning light.
With blue and white snow you carpet the ground
blanketing hillsides with hope of Monet.
Orange tongues of fire licking up towards the sun
while jade blades battle as new growth crowds in.
Blossoms hang full with a living harvest of yellow,
awaiting transport to another.
Stalks of dried grasses stirred by the August wind,
dancing to the rhythm of the warm stirring breeze.
Summer now ebbing away in aged colors muted with brown,
returning to the muddied ground once again.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
When she told me she loved me
I didn't believe her.
So i killed myself instead.
A fairy came to me & whispered enticing secrets in my ear.
He outlined a closet upstairs
where I live alone inside my head.
Tidal waves of white roses grow in & out my of spine.
Suffocating the fishes prancing in a field of raving vines.
Lunar Lullaby plays hopscotch in a cloud of flies.
She licks cherry red ice pops & sings bird hymns to oak trees withering in the wuthering skies.
Swarming dragon-lies fly in lakes upon Monet's canvas.
There he paints a beauty of Thumbelina whose grave resides in the darkest corner of my empty heart.
A red cape looms above & flutters without wings.
My cave is growing vaster
And so I sail amongst its seas.
This Psychosis is no more wearing thin than Rigor Mortis can begin.
I'll live sedentarily as a maid serving rotten apples to men chained as apes.
A lotus will float on by down this bloodstream & into the night.
As a crater on the moon your corpse died suddenly as when fruit bloom.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
I show the world my flowers,
daisies flowing from my fingertips,
smiling with the brightness of tulips,
and leaving a trail of poppy footprints
with each step I take.
I present this spring-themed Monet masterpiece,
careful to conceal the chaotic overcrowding
pushing, building pressure beneath the surface.
This rootbound torture belies the floral illusion,
and if you peer closely at the pretty pastels,
you'll see they're nothing more than
brush strokes and broken hopes.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
Surrealist Cut-up
boatman Purple haze
contemplative pouring
the sky as lone
rides the horizon.
islanding
into the lake,
Cubist
Arc to the horizon
apparition, brooding figure,
a form rides in twilight haze
junction of the worlds
into a slither of light.
Literal
Purple haze islanding the sky
pouring into the lake,
as lone boatman
rides contemplative
into the horizon.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
Monet was painting up my vision
while the droves were driven out.
We stepped out to the derision
of a tenor waterspout.
The town outside is dancing
in the ruddy neon hues
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.
And a cap was shaking coppers
in an out cove by the way,
where instruments and owners
had begun to play.
The bar stools are all swaying
whilst the festival ensues,
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.
With the rhythm of the rimjhim
and the stamping our feet
we sing our drunken-whim hymn
whilst we stagger down the street.
And we had sunken five; still sinking
Im strung out, slammed, and stinking
Four sheets to the wind and freaking
about what I had to lose.
so that’s when I got to thinking
had an inkling to the linking
between my errant drinking
and the slam-dunk cognac blues…
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
Surrealist Cut-up
them of drooping
perspective them blue water lilies,
branches boughs, the blue wavering
illuminated that window is causing These the stars
in moonlight, to shiver; late in
a ripple, then, blooming
The clouds, sky, tither.
Figurative-Literal
These the stars then, blooming
late in the blue sky,
a ripple is causing them to shiver;
The clouds, perspective
branches of drooping boughs,
that window them
blue water lilies, illuminated
in moonlight, wavering tither.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
I was told (once) that if I could only make up a perfect story, that, that woman, who stole almost everything from men, would fall for me; would, maybe destroy me and leave me for dead. Would, maybe, ship me off without my pen and belt, and force me to paint her with no training. She’d want something that resembles something by Claude Monet; Do you know how difficult that is? That’s the fun though; she’d cut me off so many times; she’d remind me how many others could paint better; she’d explain, in beautiful detail, just how useless my hands were. Well, I hope she’s satisfied with my work; I’m sorry I finished early; I’m really no man; Goodnight, goodnight, I hope you’re sleeping; so I can finally leave.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
To Marianna
When blue night mattresses
cover the city
Schizophrenia , depression , deception
they all cross the avenues
or rather swim in redness
the green rain stagnates
in the brothel's garden
the cat leaning on the stair
landing shuffles the deck of cards
a sweating Eros slides on a female
yet so manly river his signature
Monet .
Giorgos Vlachos
10.11.2008
Translation : Christos Rodoullas Tsiailis
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
*"I call people creatures sometimes
That may not
Be a good sign"
-mikecccc*
I can't help but wonder what the writer's trying to convey,
And in my mind I picture one of the creatures who say;
"We're much more like people than humans are anyway,
As proven by Jean Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet,
Inheritance played a part in changing human DNA,
Which caused you to view every creature as prey,
So next time you blurt out a line so passé
Remember it's us you're insulting today."
And with that the fair creature returned on it's way,
Whilst the humans returned and lined up for their pay,
Earned from the torn earth and the creatures they slay.
I ask my fellow writer a question if I may;
Was it your intent to insult creatures that day?
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
Rain falls on the windscreen
in shades of grey brown and fogged-up blue,
car become boat in the rain-clogged road
floating away like in a Monet,
into the evening mess.
Frayed nerves, rules break, as dangers lurk.
The wiper slow tells its tale own.
Irrelevant discourse, irreverent songs,
the FM trend for DJ fame.
And we have two 'rivers' in our city,
swelling in refuse, bolstered by the rain;
And we have two beaches in our city,
soak in the surf, if you can ignore the rubble;
And we have many parks in our city
where litter garlands our heroes daily;
The last patch of green, cramped between
rising heights all around, accursed of
dump and construction junk,
steals a dying look at the moon late.
A walk in the woods, by the mist, by late evening.
A stroll, warm, through a field covered in snow.
Nice paintings on my concrete wall.
I'm told, the money plant is good for one's health.
Trees, a luxury for our wealth.
These are all good developments.
Hyper malls round the corner.
Home prices, soaring to Kepler.
Please pour in more investment into my country.
Guaranteed, riches grow in multiplication.
The markets are all about manipulation.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
Sometimes half asleep, scribbling words
or waiting for the morning sky to deliver birds
I fall off the edge, leave this tiny bed
float on rainy streets, there is no one that I meet
only a corner vacant house, where precious paintings hang
I am staring in the window, at flowers yellow, blue
this must be the room of Vincent Van Gogh, this starry night
with lily ponds so beautiful, fields of flowers
purple iris, Monet meadows
brown skin woman, hibiscus flowered
island scenes of Paul Gauguin, so brightly colored
there are pastel Degas dancing ballerinas
Marc Chagall, blue indigo people
without legs, they smile surreal
this museum of the mind
minutes like hours
turned sublime
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
i swirl in van gogh.
i am charcoal stains
on blue,
a smile of barbed wire
for the painter,
i am mona lisa, true.
monet, he paints me
calm waters,
water lilies floating
in solitude,
he doesn't see
the fire sprouting
in my veins.
picasso cannot stain
my heart with colour,
magritte cannot
create a masterpiece
out of my eyes.
to be immortalized
i beg in pink
lick the brush
and paint myself
alive.
end my days
in escher,
sketch myself
out of the stairway,
into the globe.
throw myself
at deaths eye,
kiss the canvas
rotten, ******
pretty.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Surrealist Cut-up
lotus pond lonely on the bridge
verdant in spring still in the garden
Literal Figurative
Lonely bridge on the lotus pond
in the still garden verdant in spring
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
The poet’s quill scribes a vision of the debutante
as she rests amongst the bluebells
Scattered like jewels over the meadow.
The delicate voice of the robins
Echo through the valley,
Where the gentleman tells of his ardor
As they shelter amongst the weeping willows.
Curls tumble from the confines of her hat,
Parasol tilting to hide girlish blushes,
Careless of her silk skirts
they are crushed, lying as broken rose petals.
She glows with the joy of an un-chaperoned picnic
Scent of cinnamon scrolls tempt her senses,
as her beau offers cider to moisten their suddenly dry throats.
Dapper in his impeccable finery,
Coat tails trailing, crisply starched shirt points lifting his chin,
Top hat tilted at a rakish angle.
Dark eye’s glinting with the thrill of his endeavors.
Sunshine silhouettes the glory of the lovers,
whom the poet has sewn together
as an artist creates a masterpiece.
Each syllable as a brushstroke on canvas.
A Monet made not of oil and brushes,
But ink and parchment.
Every word scribed by the care of the poet,
Transformed within the mind of the reader
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 21, 2009 at 12:59 AM UTC
en la hora de monet tus ojos me arrullan
mi cabeza despejada me da un sorbo de realidad
mientras tus ojos me acarician
en la hora de monet los ojos me duelen, pero veo mas claro que nunca
absorbo la luz, y los olores de las damas hermosas que se cruzan en mi camino, busco en sus ojos un rastro de los tuyos.
mientras el sueño me acorrala, otro dia de pesadillas y llamadas funestas
pero todo brilla aun en un cielo de monet, con tu hermosa mirada en el rabillo de mi ojo.
asi en la hora de monet, tus ojos brillan mas, y la soledad pesa menos quel corazon funesto de algun creep
en esta hora la cobardia del mundo pesa menos, todo es menos ******
tu actitud de pato feo contraste con tu belleza de cisne
en un cielo de monet, con la vista hermosa en mi cabeza, todo se aclara
la realidad ya no es funesta, en un dia claro la realidad me golpea
el pasado ya no pesa.
LA CALIDEZ PERDIDA EN LOS OJOS EQUIVOCADOS
ENTRE PERDIDA Y DESEO ME FUI DISOLVIENDO, COMO LA LUZ DEL ALBA FRENTE AL SOL DE LA TARDE QUE GANA FUERZA
EN UN CIELO OBSCURO, EL PASADO VOLVIO, ROMPIO EN DOS EL DESEO HERMOSO.
asi en un cielo de monet la realidad me golpea la cara, tus ofenzas y el desden borraron el deseo, que se deshizo como arena entre mis dedos.
EN UN CIELO OSCURO VOLVIO LA FARZA Y EL CAPRICHO, LO QUISIERON TODO, Y OTRA VEZ CON TRAMPAS BORRARON TODO RASTRO DE BELLEZA.
EN UN CIELO DE MONET EL DESEO SE VOLVIO UN PESAR, Y TU MUNDO FUNESTO SE VOLVIO A METER EN MI CAMINO.
PERO AHORA LA REALIDAD NO ME PESA, SE VUELVE HERMOSA.
EN UN CIELO DE MONET ENCONTRAR UNA MUJER HERMOSA DARLE PLACER Y DELEITES MIENTRAS EL MUNDO MIRA, Y LA CALLE RUGE, LA DROIT MIRA Y LADRA POR ALGUIEN QUE PERDIO POR DEFENDER BASURA .
BAJO LA BOVEDA ESTRELLADA , TODO BRILLA AHORA EN LIBERTAD , CAMINANDO ENTRE LA GENTE COMO UN LEON QUE CAMINA ENTRE CORDEROS OBSERVANDO A LOS OJOS , ESPERANDO A MI LEONA O MI TIGREZA.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
~
A lone mist drifts in feathered shadows
where footprints are soft neath a robin egg sky
Hushed sentiments flow on cool morning breezes
as dreams bask in the light of dawn’s shining,
heaven sent beams caressing our skin
The warmth of a new day embraces us,
sitting quietly on the veranda, two cups shared
with tender glances and sweet kisses as I drink
in your beauty among blooming hibiscus and
hummingbird whispers seeking the nectar of our love
Morning glories yawn in watercolor brush strokes,
painting the landscape in Monet swept patterns
while effervescent dragonflies hover nearby
I take your hand and tell you I love you and
watch as your smile becomes my morning...
your love becomes my life
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
Beaumaris,
carnival of soft pastel tones
of damp evenings
of tramway cars
with small orange lights
distracted bystanders
the empty bridges
the silent horizons
pale lace on a parasol,
light sepia dreams
of a particular Monet,
forgotten, unseen
before the rains came.
Many years later,
I found her
so tenuous, so subtle
in what little was left
yet there it was, her soul
all new shades
of melancholy.
Now I just swim,
every now and then
in that blue ocean
of her blueness,
the Sea of Oblivion.
In the glimpse
of bright reflections
of sunshine
on the water,
of salted afternoons
in a country
where it no longer
rains
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
i.
impressionist,
where the grey
clouds and the blue
ice of winter
gather their ghosts,
winter, too cold,
too white, the
woodland hollows
dent,
summer love
discarded in
the frost,
the sky oaken,
the moon’s forget-me-knots
silvery dream.
ii.
clouds like wintery steel,
sunken, in a night pool,
the golds of my heart,
the lodestar gathers
moss and rook,
glimmers in a sky
of woven cloth,
her leaves, the trees
of winter,
her leaves, the dark
breath of the storm.
iii.
winter and quiet stars
brooding emperor
sleeping in the twilight
hour,
winter dreams of
strange ice caverns
where ice ghosts
dance with twisting
hair.
iv.
pond of ice,
snow bear,
snow dream,
sleep unwraps
wide avenues of
trees,
sleep, the dark girl,
the falling tide.
v.
twig breaks under foot,
earth’s thrones
settle in the lizardy light
the moon rises in the sky,
soft centuries of sky.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
HelloPoetry Blessed us all , no matter where we live.
I am truly Blessed by each and everyone alike here.
There are so many here on this here site that I am thankful for.
Sally Bayan, Mike Hauser, Iamdaisie, Olivia Kent, Wendy Ronshausen,Brandon Nagley, Earl Jane, Rachel Sia Jane Lloyd, Lydia Monet,Neil Aranda, Mark Cleavenger, Ann Marie Johnson, Melanie Wilson-Herring, Mike Essig, **** Paz Its Gonna Make Sense.
PrttyBrd, Vicki Bashor, Kripi Mehra, Willyam Pax, Poetess Bhumi, Kelly Rose.
Elizabeth Burnettge, Toni Pugh, Paul Champman, David Lewis Paget.
Ryn, Sean Scibbles, Aurelia, Kim Johanna Baker,Yasaman Johari.
Lady RF,Crazy Diamond Kristy, Weeping Willow, Alyssa Underwood.
MydstopiA,adhi das, South by southwest, Petal, soulsurvivor.
reformdancerecover,Ashly Kocher, Mack, Travler, Randolph Wilson.
Plus many more whom are very special indeed whom did not make this poem love you all in Christ.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
There's a moment when everything accelerates
And there's no questioning, things just are.
Madly. Frantically. My mind gyrates;
Playing wildly, dancing upon each single star.
Blurred vision precipitates the tears
As I freeze, knowing in my heart of hearts
That each word falls upon belligerent ears,
And takes second place to your townhouse art.
What pain could Monet paint when floodwaters
Rise, and it becomes clear that the clearest
Understanding lies in the theatre's
Eyes? The curtains fall to the finale's dearest
Friend, and it's there I pretend that it's just a natural disaster,
That this is a craft I still find hard to master.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC