Love this one Bloggie - great imagery throughout. Welcome to the thread BTW

Vincent van Gogh

For early pictures he'd study drab peasants,
Observing rural poverty alone,
An artist with a solitary presence
Who captured every melancholy tone.

From colours on the palette see his hand shape
Through oils becoming bolder all the while
Old wooden fishing boat and harvest landscape
And woman at a table with a smile.

Night café where the customers are drinking
Outside beneath a sheet of twinkling stars,
A vivid orb of orange slowly sinking,
Bright sunflowers that graced a china vase.

Despite the talent shadows always tainted,
A bandage soaked in blood, an angry snarl,
He had to go away yet there he painted
The courtyard of the hospital in Arles.

The home portrayed with walls of brilliant yellow,
The pipe he loved to smoke and chair for ease,
The cypress trees so deeply green and mellow
I almost hear them rustling on the breeze.

A cornfield painted like a raging ocean,
That meadow was a sign the end was nigh;
Mad crows above it caused a great commotion,
Predicting what would come in hot July.

O Vincent with a gun you chose to sever
The loneliness and pain your mind unfurled,
Quite unaware we'd celebrate forever
The way you saw the beauty of the world.


©

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Like an old beloved pet
I love my country yet
With all her defects
Or how bad it gets
I even love her with affection
For reasons that for others disaffect
Whether some hate our crazy weather
I'm a man for all its seasons
Rainy, cold or hot, whatever.

For some like me in England it's swings
And roundabouts from staying indoors springs
Growing hope and throwing off of overcoats.
I even love my own fortress fastness
Concrete oasis in a city's built up vastness.

I love the visiting robin,
The British seasons bring
I love to swallow bitter beer
I love to hear it sing, the bird that is
Not the drink which would be rather queer
Even love our weather dear old thing.

You love the things you love is all
Despite the blemishes that sometimes pall
Like partners in life who no others
Can see the attraction of or, why they ever stay
Together, true loyal love like a mother's
Uncritical, unjudgmental, never losing sway.

(Ealing, London, May Day).

Great, great write Frank I know exactly what you meant in this poem, it really resonated and the last verse is very moving. The lines I've quoted made me laugh too

I do too Biz

Thanks for the rather instant feedback, sorry I don't always extend the same Musty. Ta ever so anyway and spotting the joke poet. Frank (all the best for thousands more by the way).

No problem my friend

Fine capturing of the method employed by the great artist in and out of madness, some great artistry of word by you in your poem, so well done, excellent as usual. Frank.

Waves

I'm running, pacing,
Staying afloat in the tsunami of war
Keeping my head above the wash of blood.
Trying to push against the flood
All in the brutal wave of battle.

I'm struggling, battling
I'm submerged, submerged
I'm failing, failing
Overwhelmed by the gush
The gush that threatened to crush
All in the bloody wall of battle.

I'm grappling, grappling
With predatory bullets to the left
Flying fragments of black of the right
And obscure oblivion in the middle
I look to the sky,
hoping, hoping,
to be saved, saved

Thus God wants to punish me
Punishing, punishing
I won't be saved...

I'll be left to rot in the sodden earth and clay
Like the scum of the earth.

The Spud

The spud looked sheer perfection
Upon a farmer's patch
Yet that ensured selection,
The spud was quite a catch.

Dug up, placed on a lorry,
The road out of the farm
Made it and others sorry
And anything but calm.

This vegetable survivor
Heard brakes, it's not much fun
To sense a forklift driver
Unloading everyone.

It rested in a storeroom
Among so many packs
Of spuds that needed more room,
Stuffed tightly in dark sacks.

The most uneasy feeling
Preceded the next scene -
A wash and after peeling,
Fast slicing by machine.

Off to the cash and carry
In pieces it was sent
Until a bloke named Barry
Whose van contained a dent

Took ten lots to a venue
Which seemed a little odd;
The spud saw how its menu
Included rock and cod.

Annoyed at being cut up,
Though never could it roam,
What's worse than being shut up?
A freezer isn't home.

Soon came a fate so dire,
The worst potato test:
That plunge towards the fryer
To drown with all the rest.

But oil made it embolden,
The spud matched Nelson's ships,
Emerging crisp and golden
And transformed into chips.

Like treasure from an ocean
They glittered in the sieve,
Delighted by promotion,
For sale and hot forthwith.

When someone bought a portion
A bag they went in fried,
Devoid of fear and caution,
Our hero felt such pride.

Contented to be swallowed,
It tasted just the job,
The spud's tale we have followed
From farm to shop to gob.


©

Ta Frank


Wow, I felt a rush reading this one! It captures the urgency of war really well, with bullets and random debris flying everywhere. The last two lines pack an immense wallop. Thanks for posting it Allthings

May a rainbow's light array your path,
May that path rise up and meet you,
May lairds of fortune and their staff
Come out in smiles afore to greet you.
Dryads may strew flowers at your feet
With birds a-twittering all about you.
Imps and nymphs too shall gaily greet
And delight in your royal procession,
It’s May you’re queen above all today,
So begone to this current depression.

What a fine page. It's full of gems, if I may be so trivial. From Vincent's sad story to The May Queen, with Waves from allthingsuk and the wonderful tale of The Spud. Which actually made me laugh out loud at the last line.

You've all brightened yet another dismal day for me. So thanks again.

Meant to mention, I can totally hear Pam Ayres performing The Spud.

Marvellous stuff Frank - a seasonal signpost with a sprinkling of magic


I take that as the greatest compliment Archiver We can't post the works of living poets here but Pam's A Tale of Two Settees ( brilliant punning title ) is a really good laugh

I'm glad you're enjoying the thread Archiver - hope things pick up for you soon

Silbury Hill

Have you witnessed Silbury Hill, immense against the skies?
Yes, indeed I've stood nearby
And seen its mighty size.

Did it make you the glimpse the past and cause your heart to sing?
Yes and then I wondered how
Man ever built the thing.

Did you know fools drilled for King Sil's hoard beneath the lid?
Yes, and nothing could they find
Save what the ancients hid.

The treasure left in Silbury contained no solid gold
But gave thanks for our Mother Earth,
Not something to be sold.

And still today in Wiltshire changing times it does resist;
A hill of chalk enclosed in green
That floats within a mist.


©

To answer the original question.

Yes poetry is a dead art.

In its heyday, it was mind-numbingly boring...in essence poncy prose by people who thought they had something to share - an early Facebook 'look at me' kinda writing.

It still is.

If you want to write, produce and sing a song go for it.

Blithering verses of what someone perceives to be eloquent, important or such like..is fine - so long as it's not taken seriously. If you got something to say; then just say it; and stop being a Jessee

Nothing rhymes with orange

Nothing rhymes with orange
But parts of a door -
Knocker, cat flap or 'inge
Solve this poetic flaw.


©

lozenge

That nearly rhymes with orange doesn't it Sandy? You may have blown the whole premise of my poem - well done though

Comparing apples and oranges
Both types of fruits but analike
Is like likening a market stall
And Gorringes department store
Or, equating a Rolls Royce (both
means of transport) with another:
a kiddy's trike.

Ten out of ten given to the efforts to find a rhyme for orange on the thread

Kurious Oranj rhymes with orange.


Onward.

My skin and I are thicker now
I couldn't care less.
It's not important anyhow.
Truth can not confess.

So on with dreams of better times
and memories forgot.
Disregard the warning signs
while running on the spot.

Contemplate no panic state.
Fear not for life and limb.
Compensate your empty plate
with some new piece of flim.

Manufacture more shit
to clutter up your room.
For all there is no stopping it.
Onward then, to doom.

I enjoyed Onward a lot Archiver, thought-provoking as ever. The second half of the poem seems like a swipe at the emptiness of too much materialism, I do hope it is

Well done for citing I Am Kurious Oranj. It really rings a bell Despite all the airplay John Peel gave them I could never get into The Fall - I much preferred the Smiths