The Great Artist and Poet
Many many moons ago
great poet and artist
Italian Michelangelo
mastered the sonnet
and the madrigal,
writing them for his
'poetess rose'
Vittoria Colonna,
whose bright light
still glows.
Artistic achievements
remain high in glory
'The Last Judgment'
tells a virtuous story.
Having lived a long life
his sculptures are rife.
In Florence and Rome
tourists may view,
and the privilege is
theirs so to do.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Greatness Overflowed
Many many moons ago
A great Poet and Artist
Italian - Michelangelo
Mastered the Sonnet
And the Madrigal,
Composing them for his Rose
Vittoria Colonna... whose
Aura of magic still glows.
Artistic achievements
remain high within glory.
'The Last Judgment Painting'
Reflects his holiest story.
Having lived a long life
Poems and sculptures were rife
For interested tourists to view.
A pleasure for the literary few.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Italian Renaissance is that cultural and artistic civilization, which had Florence as one of its main centers. "God, make me want more than I can get" Michelangelo Buonarroti.
quote by Camelia Oprița (6 March 2017)
Submitted by Alexander
Vote! | Copy!
To God Give The Glory (Monchielle)
To God give the glory
Is a treasure to read
Christina R. Jussaume
Is great poet indeed
Her poems vanish gloom
To God give the glory
Her love for Christ is pure
It reflects thru poems
Her words are wise and kind
Uplifts the soul is true
To God give the glory
I'm glad I got a copy
You'll enjoy what you see
She writes witty and nice
Happy her book I read
To God give the glory
Poet tells some funny jokes
She writes of God and life
Of Christ and all she knows
Poet shares loves and strife
November 25,2009
Author's note:
'To God Give The Glory' is a wonderful
and very uplifting poetry book written by
the great poetess Christina R. Jussaume
poem by Dorian Petersen Potter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Today... 'Light
There is a Light, an Uncreated Beam
In which the Glory of God can be seen
A pure and holy and an Eternal light
It is seen in Jesus shining so bright
A light brighter than the noonday sun
Shines from the Lord, the Righteous One
And beneath His feet all men shall fall
The King of kings and Lord of all
Great mystery of Godliness none can tell
How the fullness of the Godhead could dwell
But the glory of God came shining through
There on the mountain before their view
There is a wondrous light that shines so bright.
All darkness is banished before its' sight.
This uncreated Light on earth did shine
and our life is enriched by the Divine.
With glorious beauty His life unfurled
blazing out holiness in this dark world.
The Shekinah glory comes shining through
as the light of life reaches out to you.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
Writing Poetry Is A Cosmic Trip (Italian Sonnet)
Writing Poetry Is A Cosmic Trip (Italian Sonnet)
Writing poetry is a cosmic trip
There are infinite possibilities
Its like sailing a ship upon the seas
You never know what will roll off your lip
There are times you have to shoot from the hip
It's easy to write about birds and bees
Its hard when you write about ticks and fleas
People want to read what's modern and hip
Most cultures change as time goes rolling by
The arts are constantly evolving too
The artist must always be flexible
He must be like the fox cunning and sly
A poet is a master of word cull
He should not think can I he must just do
Edwin Tanguma (10/06/2011)
poem by Edwin Tanguma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Today... 'Glorious Lord
Glorious and majestic is the Lord
Mighty God by Heaven and Earth adored.
Enthroned in Glory and bright light is He
exalted on high for all men to see.
In heaven beholding the wondrous sight
all will tell of His Majesty and Might.
For the Lord Jehovah in His Glory
writes each page of salvations story.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)
Every Walk Of Life
From every walk of life
One a child just wanting to play games
And making funny faces to make everyone laugh
One a young adult maybe of 20
Showing her beauty to the world
With every stride of her black high heals
One a gentlemen writing of his charismatic ways
Passing the miracle of poetry on to
Anyone his words color the taste of
a magician which he surly is
The other a bit more aged and
Seasoned within life’s steak
Trying to teach the children even at
The bottom of her pool of life
That without an education you are nothing
Will be noting and can be nothing
Not only in her eyes but nor in any one else’s
Each telling a story within their unique way
Maybe in the innocent smile he brings to your face
The drawings of chalk that will just be erased in the rain
Maybe in the way she walks along the path of ambition
The gliding motion that clicks with every impulse
To have all the world desires her to have
But knows she has only what she has
Her black high heals
Or maybe in the writing of an unselfish poet
That writes for his many readers not for himself
And the filtering needs of his overflowing mind
And maybe even someone that shows us in a very different way
Within the lines on her face
The stories we long to hear that she tells
Each giving something to the world
One his future so brightly lit
With fresh colors of innocents
But only a dimmed light shows the path he will take
One with her black high heals to guide her
Gives only the flicker of an eyelash to the world
With an empty mind and careless soul she tells no story of wisdom
Another his words of wisdom and self assurance
Float onto the golden paper to welcome his wand of mystery
He shows you are more then what everyone sees in you
You are his reader and without you he would just be a man
With every walk of life there is
A beginning and an end
A start and a finish
A story to tell and one to listen to
Something to give and something to take
The proof is within the wrinkles of an old woman’s face
Because every walk of life has
A start to start and a finish to finish
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The poet and poetess
(a poetical exercise with Menime Soul)
The poet:
Oh..is it just a strange illusion..?
I feel love knocking on my door.
I know..and this is my confession..
I always loved you from my core.
The poetess:
My love is like a darkness fire
It's like a subconscious dream
It burns to kill any desire
Even you hate me and you scream
But I'll make you be completely mine
And you will feel so much alive
And when in dawn the sun will shine
you'll be yourself and you'll survive.
The poet:
Oh great..this is not an illusion.
This is love in its perfection.
Hard to believe but I know my dear..
This is true love's resurrection.
The poetess:
My love for you is complete and strong
I feel we met in other life
And love of a life time is one song
We sing it as husband and wife.
The poet:
I waited my whole life for this night
No matter how cold it is out
You changed my day, you're the dawn of light
Your love keeps me warm, it's no doubt.
The poetess:
When we can feel our love inside
And maybe it is more than love
It's our everything, it's our flood tide
A new world of time, a rock dove.
And I feel this need deeply within
And our dawn entwining the souls
By inspiring breath and touching skin
At the moment we become whole.
poem by Marieta Maglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Every Face Tells A Story
Look at the man in the corner, hes sitting all alone
His blankets are made out of cardboard,
His pillows are made out of stone
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
See the man walking on the water, see the light in his eyes
He came into the world with a message to tell,
He came into the world to die
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Youre always telling stories, youre always telling me lies
Youre always telling stories, why?
So think of yourself in the water, seeing your days flashing by
Its too late to see what you wanted to be,
Youve spent all your time, you must die
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Step down
And make it work out right
Im trying to get to you with my warning
Been there
For nearly half the night
Look its nearly four in the morning
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Today... 'The Architect
The universe declares Your great glory
and each star tells out the wondrous story.
The heaven in splendid harmony sings
praises to the Architect of all things
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)
A Little Poem Story
A little poem telling a story about the poetess who were falling in love
A little poem smiled
She knew that the poetess was writting love words shyly
One..Two..Three.....Seven.....a lot of love words she wrote
They were beatiful, they were mysterious
A little poem felt the poetess’s emotion
The poetess was loving an awesome man deeply
A man who had filled in her absolute majority life
Like a candle in the dark., he lighted the poetess’s days
A little poem knew the poetess’s feeling
And the awesome man had to knew too
A little poem waited for that special day
One..Two..Three.....Seven...a lot of days passed
But a little poem never leafted from her place
The poetess never allowed a little poem to talked to the awesome man
The poetess leafted a little poem in her drawer
The poetess leafted her love words and nobody knew
A little poem had the blues
Love is about braveness
Love will become love when it expressed
“May be the poetess didn’t know about it”, she thought.
poem by Deasy Anggraeni
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Stocks and Life
I wondered why;
Promoters create wealth.
While down the drain goes;
My stock’s health.
Doesn’t he own the same stock?
Which, I crib on round the clock.
I wonder why, they couldn’t build
Rome in a single day;
Why couldn’t I be a graduate?
On my first Birthday.
Just as Rome, the businesses too;
Can’t be created overnight.
They take time to flourish and grow
Through the times, dark and bright.
Stocks and life have a lot in common
Both reward the ones who hold on
The ones who change their view everyday
Are deprived forever of hay
The joys of stocks and the greed rife
Aren’t too different from life
One needs to take them in stride
AND
Put the seat belts on
To enjoy the ride.
poem by Nikunj Sharma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The poet and poetess II
The poetess
The night I met you something special happened
It was like a fusion of two stars in blue
They made the shivering nature to brighten
A concealed window opened and I saw you
The poet
It was a rainy day the clouds cried so hard
Until I felt my fire sparking inside
And you dashed my sadness when you crossed onward
I waited you all my life, please be my bride.
The poetess
I felt I really met you in before time
I knew you are my love when I touched your soul
This interchange of feelings is so sublime
As aurora borealis in North Pole
The poet
I'm all lost on the way your eyes swallowed me
When they drank my love thoughts you reached my whole heart
To be your lover is all I need to be
I reached my destination, I'm safe, sweetheart
The poetess
Without words you reached my heart and swallowed me
You're the one that I want, you're hungry for love
I feel secure with you, here I need to be
With closed eyes I followed your dreams from above
The poet
Your look is so soft as petals of the rose
I touch your red lips for long awaited feast
There I want to finish our poetic prose
Inside your deep elation I beat my beast
poem by Marieta Maglas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Old Poet And The Young Poet
a young poet complains
the life of a poet gets too boring
when there are no readers
or hands clapping
perhaps he is searching for
fame or honor
the old poet believes otherwise
the years of silence
bury him into oblivion
he had those hands clapping
in the passions of his youth
the summit of fame is the mountain
he worked for
he once lived on top of the hill
the naives think he is the cloud king
it is when you still love to write
even if no one is listening
that the life of the poet becomes
a perfect volcanic cone
on the day of the eruption
red magma not lava flows on the river
no one screams
there are no more hands
asking for help
no one no one
tells any story
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
All The Poems Remain Written Where They Once Never Were
ALL THE POEMS REMAIN WRITTEN WHERE THEY ONCE NEVER WERE
All the poems remain written where they once never were
The grass and the skies of Whitman form lines in the mind of Baudelaire
The trees and dark cities of the distance form single sounds in the heart of the poet who cares
Night is more than darkness and day more than an early setting out
Each thing influences the other and calls back its own origins and end
We are going somewhere we will never know whether we write eternal lines or not
Over everywhere can be heard in the morning light the selfsame sound that through the heart of Ruth burned the alien corn
Keats is not dead, and Borges is not dead and Kafka is not dead and Wordsworth and all those who wrote great lines are not dead
Poetry is the last first eternity of the living word
And those who can hear the sounds of others greater than themselves in their own lines know
We are all writing down this last poem for ourselves and no one else
Though as we go to pray each morning the minyan tells us secretly
All our prayers together are more than any single poem can be alone
In the grey long distance where no one hears any poem at all
God writes and rewrites for us all the book of the stars in which dread is no longer a name
And beauty bright bright beauty is heard and reechoed as more than we will ever be
God is the only Poetry in the End
God is the Only One who never will be dead..
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wife to Be (Petrarchan Sonnet)
I stroll along a fragrant country lane
With honeysuckle perfume on the air -
And feathered crooner's warble to revere -
Then cross a golden sea of flowing grain
In empathy - it seems to sense my pain
Of knowing all was done with my affair -
Her empty meaning now the solitaire
She cast away - betrothment all in vain.
But oceans team with many fish to catch
So I must up and hoist another sail
And seek the one that really waits for me,
For soon auspicious breezes will prevail
In guiding forth to find a truer match:
The one to take my hand as wife to be.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
ma rriage
marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage marriage sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet
sonnet
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Stanzas Written On The Road Between Florence And Pisa
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
O Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
Sleepless in Portugal
Late night television, a group of middleclass people
discussing art and its funding, they are so very polite
but only listen to their own voices; people, who make
a living writing about poetry which sells better than
writing it; nevertheless they are my only company this
long night, one of the men tries to control the erection
he gets when looking at the nice woman in red dress.
I have turned the sound down no need to hear what
they are say, gentlefolk but I do wish there had been
a scruffy artist there as well, to livening the proceeding
up, but often artistic people are not nice they have
no patience, not really in a group of bright people who
have gone to university, have a degree in something or
other, and work in the talking industry.
Commercial break, I turn the sound back up, a smooth
talking man has a cure all pill, tells us the medical
industry tries to ignore his wonder drug because it will
make it redundant. Artful mendacity there is an absence
of shame; his sidekick, a woman, who wears so much
make-up, feign to interview him. Soon it will be morning,
and the talking and pretence on the TV will be forgotten.
poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Artistic
Artistic
It's artistic
Grace in your movement
Is artistic.
Artistic
It's artistic
Sweetness in your voice
Is artistic.
Artistic
It's artistic
Gleam in your eye
Is artistic.
I'm filled with inspiration
In my dormant artistic pursuit...
With brush in hand
I'll paint your every move
With hidden treasure of words
I'll weave poems of what you say
And I'll move as you command
By the gleam of your eye.
poem by Tirupathi Chandrupatla
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Poem Is The Poet
THE POEM IS THE POET
The poem is the poet
It tells his story even when he does not intend it to-
It bears his signature even when he forges it-
The poem is the poet-
It reflects his mind his soul-
It cannot be written without what he is
Though he denies what he is to himself-
The poem is the poet
And the poet's contradictions-
It is the mask of his self - expression
And his ultimate definition in words-
When he writes he becomes himself
And when he finishes it
He leaves a part of himself in it for as long as it exists.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!