"Black"

‘Cause it hides the dirt.
The color of her old jeans.
And pitchy charred wood.

Green

I painted every
Wall green
Yes green
Not all the same shade
Of course
But green
I like green
I’m Finnish
Well my grandfather
Was
So I can be
When I want to
Finns like
Green
So I’m Told
Not gold
Green
I painted
The outside green
Too
Polish green
They said
Looks terrible
They said
But it was
Green.
My house.
My green.
I like
Green
When I left
They
Painted it brown
Yuck

Blood Red

Your blood is red,
No matter what your papa said
Your blood is red,
No matter what the facists spread,
Your blood is red,
No matter what got to your head,
Your blood is red!

War is never far away,
Terrorism rules the order of the day.
Why do we let religion divide our might?
Why do we for colour or country have to fight?
In the name of God you ask me to make a stand,
Hold a gun to the head of another man,
But don’t you understand?
Your blood is red!

Millions starving: its an impoverished world,
But our skin is thick and our hearts are cold.
And the innocence of each precious tiny child,
Is lost as it faces reality in a world gone wild.
Don’t you think it’s time you realized?
Your blood is red!

"Taupe"

They say our house
is a shade of taupe.
I don't think it's true.
I say its more
of an ugly brown
the shade of baby poo.

Atomic Tangerine

Atomic tangerine makes me think
of a highly charged piece of citrus fruit...
a nuclear disaster; on the brink.
But the point is moot
because it’s just so darned cute.
I can’t help but muse
on what Old Binney’s and Smith’s views
would have been on the naming of their colored stocks
but atomic tangerine is still the one I’d choose
out of the one hundred and twenty crayons in the box.

RED

It flows
a thread
a trickle
a river
Staining edges
on starched white cuffs

RED


Teeth and fur:
Fur for a coat to cover discovered flesh,
as flesh hides and atones for the glistening red machinery
Of liver, kidneys, heart, lungs like wings,
The sight of which is death--
Teeth for to bite.

The child clasps her leg, red with fear
Faces intrusive
Eyes knocking at the gate
Laughter of shining teeth
His face pressed into her thigh,
Red as Chopin's D Minor Prelude,
Allegro appassionato
And he bites.

The Sixteenth Blackness

Everything crashes
when a parent dies
and you’re sixteen

Brutality sends you underground,
closed off, shut down on the outside
to shyly read philosophers inside

And question it all;
sour 16, growing taller
more impatient with fear

YELLOW

Bright hot sun
in the sky,
juice from a lemon
not too dry,
a cheery, happy face
to say "HI,"
a tulip or a rose
blooming by,
the flicker of a candle
in the night sky,
or an Easter egg
after the dye;
yellow, you are my friend,
so happy am I!

Laurie K.

THE EMERGING OF WHITE
By: Hannah Bowles

Street sweepers have made they’re rounds.
Gathering all of the accumulated dirt from
the ground. They seem to have cleaned up
the garbage too, the hat someone has been
missing for most of the winter and a shoe
that has been buried that lost its mate. All
things that I can anticipate. Signs of spring
are here and I feel bad for slacking on my
yard, it shan’t be too hard. Pick up a shovel
and a rake, clean up the garbage that they
didn’t take. In the meantime pause and
enjoy the new growth, crocus’s push forth
purple and white buds, wipe dirt laden hands
on your work duds. Gaze at the blue canopy,
let your eyes follow the path of jet streaks in
the skies, like that of a falling star, meeting
It’ demise.

Fuschia

Sure it's pink but it's not
about tiny sweet babies
teen dates in fluffy sweaters
nor even the color of flesh

It's the color of I will and I know
a color you can't take away
though its paler relatives be declared
unfit to join the grey land of suits

It's the color of true wild abandon
phlox and camelias and fuschias, too
running headlong into a summer day
chiding, reminding, it's okay to just be

"Crimson"

it's 2 AM, maybe 3.
an 8 yr old boy stands
at the top of the stairs.
quietly.
he listens as his mom
and dad come in.
very drunk.
very angry.
doors slam,
voices rise.
finally quiet.
he holds his breath
as he comes down the steps.
his dad is passed out
on the couch.
he creeps closer,
looking at his old man's hands.
there it is.
the cigarette is still lit,
burning crimson.
he fashions his small
fingers into pinchers
and expertly plucks
the cigarette from between
the fingers.
he stubs it out
in an ashtray,
then heads back up
to sleep.

Mollie- That provides a strong mental picture, nice one!-Hannah

The Sixteenth Blackness

Everything crashes
when a parent dies
and you’re sixteen

Brutality sends you underground,
closed off, shut down on the outside
to shyly read philosophers inside

And question it all;
sour 16, growing taller
more impatient with fear

Pink

I honestly thought it was my choice,
At five, to like pink.
That no other child would pick the same
That
Individuality of answer:
What's YOUR favorite?

Like "Who will you be?"
We all had to answer separate
And I picked
Carnation Pink
From my box
Treasured nub of wax and torn paper

My older sister, snidely informed:
"Girls are SUPPOSED to like pink."

Pleasure turned to horror and
I buried my crayon deep in the box
Tore pink dresses off dolls
and
Decided to like yellow.

--
Marie

Yellow

Butter yellow on the ground
The blanket just for two
Lay with me
Amidst the flowers
'Til the day is through.

Daffodils are dancing
Butterflies everywhere
Honeysuckle sweet perfume
Permeates the air.

Lay with me
Amidst the flowers
While yellow orb above
Shines down upon
The two of us
As gently we make love.

Chev, "Crimson" is fantastic. "and expertly plucks" conveys a tremendous amount in such a spare and subtle way. Well done!

Marie-Elizabeth

"Blue"

Blue...my favorite hue
thought you knew
too much too soon
color of a moon
from dusk to noon
my favorite hue is
Blue
thought you knew.

Andy says, “The Island
is red, green, blue.”

And I say, huh?

“The sand, the field, the sky.”

And I look and nod.

“The rocks, the trees, the water.”
“Red, green, blue.”

I point to the white of birch
the sea’s froth
the golden grain
the stubbled field
the black shadows
between the spruce
the clean, tidy painted houses
and the flowers in their beds.
But mostly he’s right
red, green, blue
green, red, blue

And then there’s winter, I say
white, blue and gray.

Hugh

Green

The girl with the eyes that sparkled this morning
Had a mouth that sang
“Good morning, good morning, it’s a happy day!”

The girl with the eyes that sparkled this morning
Couldn’t wait to find a book
And color

The girl with the eyes that sparkled this morning
Thinks I’m a pretty good Dad
I hope I am

The girl with the eyes that sparkled this morning
Has a little brother who loves her
He thinks she’s great

The girl with the eyes that sparkled this morning
Will grow up and leave someday for another place
I’ll enjoy every minute I have

"Blue"

Blue...my favorite hue
thought you knew
too much too soon
color of a moon
from dusk to noon
my favorite hue is
Blue
thought you knew.

Pink

The color of peonies in late May,
The peonies that decorate the graves
for Memorial Day. The graves
that mark memories, store sadness,
summon grief. The grief that mourns
lost life, the end of life, our mortal lives;
the lives that live to cut another bunch
of peonies, pink jaws flapping in the wind.

Black

She grows up hard and fast
On the poor side of town
But her mother holds herself
Apart from the neighborhood
And scolds her
“Why you hang out with
All them black kids?
Can’t you go over at Sunny’s
And play?”
She shakes her head and pouts
“They ain’t black, momma,”
She says. “They’re my friends.”

Purple

Velvety
Color of royalty
Color of nobility
Named for the shell
From which you first derived
Combination of red and blue
You must be just the right hue
Not lavender or lilac
Nor (shudder) mauve.
But deep, dark, royal,
Plush and lush
Purple

Remembering Blue

Blue was always her favorite color,
cornflower and daisy, crocus and bouncingbet.
She remembers her mother’s dishes, cobalt
blue glass. She remembers the ceiling
of the front porch summer afternoons,
lying back on the swing, roll of sky
captured in painted slats of blue. She made
a blue garden for shade, columbine,
iris, bellflower and forget-me-nots.
Even music they called the blues, lonely
and familiar, dripping like evening in her mind,
soft and slow and always a little bit sad.
Heaven for her would be like this,
a field full of flowers, ubiquity of blue.

Red

Tunnel vision,
edges blurred.
Dripping knife
turning insides out.
Facial muscles twitch
heart beats
hands clench, teeth grind.
Adrenaline shakes
the angry tongue
hits eye and ear
like acid thrown.

Burnt Orange

Holding up crayon after crayon
(from the box of 64)
to the framed photo
hanging on my kitchen wall
I find that burnt orange
comes closest to the color
I am searching for today.

Tiled roofs of Ozieri,
small Sardinian town
of my father's birth,
are almost that exact shade.

On the third floor
of my cousin's home,
a casement window opens out
to reveal a view
nothing short of stunning
to city-bred, suburbanized eyes --
the homes and hills of Ozieri.

From that vantage point, I
(not the world's greatest photographer)
snapped a photo which everyone agrees
is the absolute best of the many
reminders of my first trip to
the place of my father's birth.

The houses of Ozieri
humble in their beauty
beautiful in their humility
colorfully Mediterranean --
salmon, melon, saffron, peach --
lie before my reminiscing eyes.

But it is their burnt orange tiled roofs
sheltering, enclosing, open to the sky
that reveal the merest glimpse
of the priceless Italian treasures
of heart and home
my father left behind
to start a new life
in a new country.

Burnt orange --
color of Ozieri
color of my heritage.

Thank you, Daddy.

April 16, 2009

Brown

The quiet color that adds richness to the rest...

My daughter's eyes,
gazing at the world with sober understanding,
or sparkling with mischievous plans.

The soil in my garden,
so rich and inviting that my young son,
taking it in his hand,
could not resist a taste.

The ground of the calico print
which somehow enhances the brightness
of the other colors of my quilt.

Your chestnut hair, now gleaming in the sun,
the decadent richness of chocolate,
the aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans.

Burnt Sienna

Never one to think
outside the box,
nonetheless,
she preferred
the big box.

Don’t color her
basic red or blue,
no prissy pink.

She saw herself
as burnt sienna,
frayed
around the edges,
worn down a bit
from use,

a shade that
appears in nature,
warm but subtle,
browner than
just plain brown.

Nancy Posey

Red

Fire engines, barns, blood
comedians, communists
tomatoes, ink, Indians
Santa's suit, roses,
fire, tongues
every other stripe,
apples, nail polish,
blushes, sunsets,
Pentecost, Mao's book,
Monopoly hotels

Cerise



Battered and bruised
In days gone by
Blacks and dappled
Maroon
Days clouded over
But the rain came in
Trickling at first
Then the steady downpour
The water falling
Such a good thing
Cleaning and clearing
Edging things out
Washing away the
Unwanted
Bringing in the new
The fresh
Cleansing the wounds
Allowing healing
To enter
Those bad dark wounds
Tear up and cry
Suppurating no more
The scabs fall away
Even the cerise scars
Fade to nil

Clear

I love her personality,
She shows no partiality.
Guiding us directly through
To every color, shade, and hue;
Generously sharing light,
She highlights all, from pale to bright.
Of all the colors known to me,
Clear is who I’d want to be.

White

The trick
of writing is
not to write
the parts
folks don’t read.

The trick
of painting is
knowing where
not to
put the brush.

The trick
of life is
delighting
in our
gots and nots.

"Purple"

It began in my teens,
with a mohawk dyed,
then pens and "Rain,"
Doc Martens Mary Janes,
causing the bruises
in my youth.

Green


All through the month of March
We have waited for the grass
To turn green and now it is
April and yes, the grass is
The ripe color of early apples.
The bright green of the green
Crayon in the box of crayons
Or the green of the stoplight
That tells us when we can go
And now I want to go and walk
Barefoot across its wet surface
And let the blades tickle my
Feet and know that I am still
Here and still able to touch
The world and let it touch me.

Forgot to add a disclaimer to mine: I know, I know. Clear is not a color. ;)

Sea Foam Green


A connection that still exists
a bond that will always be
though worlds apart
conscience shifted
visions unclear
through windows of dark

yet

I can see your eyes
the love and strength
that guides me

sea foam green
always reminds me
of you

I love you mom

Copper

It drips along
It moves
It shimmers and swoons
In the light it flashes and spins
If it comes from metal
Over time it will dim
It mutates
Changes
Oxidizes and greens
Was it saving the green
‘Til just the right moment
That it could shout out and scream
Look at me I am a color
That melts to another
As if in ever a dream

Nancy Posey - love the punch of "browner than
just plain brown." The whole poem is very tight, actually.

:)

Daniel Paicopulos - like your "white" especially the first stanza

Clearly Marie Elena

Marie Elena,
that is so you,
"generously sharing light",
with your see-through hue.

No Vivid Tangerine,
no gaudy Screamin' Green,
no Purple Pizzazz,
who needs that jazz.

Poet, reader, fan
requires not even Tan,
our Marie Elena dear,
the one most clearly Clear.

Orange

Ever bold and unafraid, you will clash
but you refuse to rhyme.
You spread yourself with abandon
over evening horizons and September trees.
You are more mature than yellow,
more wise than red, bringing balance
to passion and happiness.
You warm us from your home in campfires
and the coats of kitties.
You lift us when you play
on the heads of children in sunshine
or when you show up on a scarf
unexpected.

Linda Voit

thank you, Marie...kind words indeed, from one who could create "treasured nub of wax and torn paper"

Green”

The world renews
With the color of green
My life restores
With the coming of spring
My heart like the buds
Awaken from a deep frost
Green is alive
In my eyes
In all that I see
The tall trees
The luscious grass
I play with it
And like a child run barefoot though it
I see you with my green eyes
And you have never looked so good
Laying with me
Surrounded by green

Open the bottle
distinctive 'pop'
unmistakeable
breathing
aromatic
the next sound
just as dramatic
liquid & air
changing places
glug glug glug glug
in the glass now
ready
beautiful shade
darker than blood
The only color
you can
sip
delicious
now drink deep
mmmmmmmm...
Burgundy makes me
feel good

Red

Red are the burning embers
Stoke them up and molten fireflies
Dance heavenwards like scarlet gods
Piercing the shadow- sky
In their quest for infinity

I put out my hand to touch,
To test the cold white fury,
But heat sears my naked skin
And renders my defiance
Blind and impotent
Against its fiery might

Looking through the flames
To Lucifer’s bedchamber
Into The pit of hell
To see melding and mutating
Shape-shifting creatures
With majestic fiery tails

The flames lick up
Purifying and cleansing
Beautiful yet dangerous
Like Circe on the shore

Searing heat
In the crisp night air
Creates a shimmering filmy sheen
Wood crackles
Smoke spews forth
As the logs catch
It stings the eyes

The brightness of the beacon
Like sunlight at night
A red- golden talisman against an indigo sky
Makes the world around seem so very dark
Watchful shadows creep in
Like darkling beasts

Grey

Violent ocean waves
Dark clouds of a storm
The once-white blanket keeping me warm
Angel wings
A seagulls head
The goose down feathers in my bed
My mother's hair
The paint on the stairs
The outside color of 6 Tyler Street
Sidewalk
Lamp
The bottom of my feet
after a walk on the beach
on a windy day
when nobody wants to come out and play
It is grey

Sorry, I couldn't decide on one color... ;-)

True Colors

red for the love you have for me
blue for the trust you have in me
yellow for the joy we have together
green for the harmony between us
white for the purity of our love
and black for the mystery

the true colors of love connects us
like a rainbow
between sunny days and cloudy nights

WICKED RED

Down the dark and sallow hallways
Gloomy, gray and dank
Came a calling from the depths
From every cell and rank-
Roll it in and splash it on every
hole and crack!
Fill every crevice with the stuff
That suffocates the black.
Wrap it round my bosoms,
Let it shimmy from my hips
And I beg of you, please, PLEASE
Permanently press it, across my wanting lips.
Banish every drab, disgusting color
That doesn’t please my eye!
That would be every single one-
save for RED,
RED makes me wickedly high.

wait! what happened to the prompt that was on here this morning? The one where we needed to use another poem's title? How come the prompts are one thing early in the morning and get changed?

Indigo

The velvet darkness
Soft to touch its stillness
The misty silence
Gives way to indigo moods

I linger to breed
Its silence within my mind
Time is but a shadow there
I wear its indigo mantle

Green- the color of the grass
as it begins to grow back after
its long winter slumber;
the leaves that clothe once
naked trees; the stalks that
raise flowers and vegetables
from the mud to be put
on my kitchen table.

Green

Mrs. Lewis
gave each of us
a rexographed picture
of a flower.
I scribbled methodically,
staying within the lines.

When she passed by my masterpiece,
she yelled at me.
I had colored
stem,
leaves,
petals
my favorite green.

Vision blurred
by tears and shame,
I ground the purple crayon
into the paper,
bleeding the petals into a hideous blue.

I was one of the best readers
in her kindergarten class,
and if she’d had a heart,
I would have explained how I
only wanted to replicate
the verdant beauty of
spring.

Yellow

Long-awaited sunshine
Streams through the drapes today
A ripening banana
One’s potassium for the day
The Beatles submarine
Where they lived and maybe prayed
The vibrant color yellow
Should never be afraid

Blue

When one looks up
sees blue in sky
thinks about Heaven

Black

Large moon,
Bright night.
White stars,
Dark bight.
Shape-shift;
Take flight.

Lights out,
Bar pane.
Dead world;
Rough main.
Shape-shift;
My bane.

Black

The sun failed to shine
Clouds obscuring its rays
The winds blew fiercely
Challenging any and all

The day was the worst
The weather a reflection
She no longer loves me
Black….

Orange

Orange like an orange
Warm
Bright
Energetic
Exciting
Happy
Fun
Orange—my favorite color when
I was fourteen, when I began dating,
and convinced him to paint his
nineteen-sixty something MGB orange.
I painted my bedroom orange. My favorite
tee shirt was orange. In the seventies
orange became so popular, the next
thirty years people tried to forget it. Orange
gave way to mauve and blue and then
earthy tones. But lately I noticed that
orange is slipping back in. Welcome back
orange! A recent article on destressors
included gazing at something orange.
I look around my house, no orange.
On the to-do list it goes,
paint something orange—
but not a whole room.

RED

Red
firey hot crimson
burning sensation
on the lips
on the hips
Sexy mama
red fingernail tips
flowing locs
of burgundy hue
not her's but that which
transcends itself
from the box
burning through
heart
candies
cinnamon sweet and hot
on the tongue
transforming pink to
red
blinded by the sight
stop light
bright red
red hot
even when you're not
on the panties spot
Firey hot crimson
tides of life
flooding the room
with red light
district
Sounds of music
red with fury
dancing feverishly
through the night
staining paved streets
under dull moonlight
Drowning out the noise
and presenting
up front
you can not deny
the spotlight
Red.

Creative Writing Class: A Study in Black and White

Day one I see a sea
of black, the Goths
or Emos, trying
so hard
not to conform
that they are lost
in a sea of sameness.

Black hair
with blond roots,
baggy black pants,
hiding shapes of hips
or girlfriend jeans
painted on boys,
skulls on tee shirts,
kohl-rimmed eyes,
black nails
bitten to the quick.

Distrustful when
I say, Yes,
write what you want,
they first attempt
to shock, but
failing that, they
open up a vein
and bleed the truth
out on the page
of black on white.

Nancy Posey

Haiku: Red

I am a red man
from the First Nation. I stand
tall and proud and free.

GREEN

Mancha – Indian lettuce – raises its small
green parasols in clusters under a canopy of oak.
Pasture’s lush with buckeye leafing out.
Wild mustard bunches against milk thistle
on a creek where February flood
washed out the fences. Now it’s April,
early morning. All these mancha parasols
open to collect the coin of sunlight,
silver of a fading Celtic moon.
Sheep have gone to pasture. I kneel down
in green, a browsing animal, gathering
mancha for a salad; then balance goatlike
on the creekbank, clipping tender
leaves of mustard. Somewhere, invisible
in green, wild turkey wings.
A titmouse chick-a-dees.The sheep
lie cudding, wondering at my human
foraging. I’ll walk back home
with muddy knees and green-stain, all
the color of the field; famished,
filled with spring.

"Blue"

The sun rises in the east,
the sky lightens from black to indigo to blue.
I turn over, not wanting to face the beast.
The sun rises in the east.
My eyes open to see the rays feast
upon my walls like a flaming brush of glue.
The sun rises in the east,
the sky lightens from black to indigo to blue.

Green

A room full of green
holding up flowers,
tendrils searching for the light.
Collect mint leaves for a bath in green
and eat green eggs and ham
Pluck corn from green stalks—
a green you can climb.
Lie on fresh cut lawn,
smell the green expanse
down there with the worms and other crawly things.
Pad through green carpet
and read a romantic novel in a green-cushioned chair.
Soak up green rays from the rainbow after a storm.
Smell the pine-green of a Christmas tree—
December air is filled with the green of forests!
Curl up in a green bed quilt.
Look deep into the eyes of a green-eyed child
and dream of the moon
made from green cheese.
The green of my life no bank will accept.

Burnt Umber

I won't say his name, won't whisper, hiss-whisper
to keep, sleepy weariness, hold deep forever.
Instead I'm disguised, hid hot in this peat bog
and shining in wet nested hollows of granite.
I sink into sphagnum, call circling crows
round the corrie, then flit with the kittiwakes downstream
where burnt umber ends and rocks slip-dip swiftly
past calls of the curlew; whilst I, all alone,
reflect on the wet sand that you are my love
of the deep sorrow lingering, the one who awakened,
first heeded the calling, first slaked sinful thirst
and who visits me still while I lie (and I lie) by another.

White Space


No one ever uses
the white crayon
in the crayon box;

it's always sharp
and pointy by the
time the other
crayons have been
worn down by the
work of making
masterpieces,
paper torn and
peeling like a
nest of snakes
shedding their
rainbow skins.

But what of white?

Technically speaking,
white is every color,
all the colors dwelling
in the spectrum; strained,
condensed, and rolled
into a waxy stick that
no one ever seems to use.

I don't think
this is because
most paper always
starts out as
a square of white;

I think we always want
explosions:

BLUE! GREEN! ORANGE! RED!

that flash across our page,
fireworks of hues.

We want to make a statement.

So we can't appreciate
the subtlety of white,
except when it's called on
to mirror brooding absences
of black or charcoal gray;

The people and the artists
just aren't looking hard enough
to find potential

in its simple,

silent space.

Yellow

She remembers dandelions –
bright eyes like golden studs in grass
and later, when the summer
stretched lazy fingers into hair
and tickled with fronds
of barley and timothy
the buttercups, candy-sweet among
the daisies and spikes of purple clover
and the reflected yellow on chins
“Do you like butter?”

Purple

Mace Windu’s light saber,
the pansies in the window box,
new glasses that give me a headache,
water bottle, chipping around the mouth,
a new bruise blossoming, clumsily,
heavy grapes on the vine,
the stain red wine makes on cotton slipcovers,
amethyst sparkling as the geode is cracked,
tulips so dark they are almost black,
brown butterfly—Emperor in the light.

C-r-e-a-m-y! (pronounced with a Scottish brogue)

I am drawn to colours both strong and true
Crimson and sea green and indigo blue
Yellows of certain shades warm my heart
and
Purple that is noble is first choice from the start

But the colour that favours our home office walls
Does not speak loudly but soothes overall

When computer error causes one's files to lose
Then it is good to see
Creamy
My best colour of all.

Hot Pink

Bright summer blouse
An assertive petunia
Bold optimism

WHAT'S THE USE?

When picking colors, what's the use?
The spectrum is so wide,
who would decide on chartreuse and puce,
and wear them both with pride?

The gaudy blends that they become
don't take a painter's eye,
To mix them on your pallette
would make a futile try.

Chartreuse is an effervescent
mix of yellow-green,
and it is somewhat fluorescent,
there's no mistaking you'll be seen.

Puce is just a ruddy mix,
a nasty purple-brown,
a pukey, pinky, mauvy mess
not fit for circus clowns.

To make a fashion statement
of both these lousy blooms,
the look will say, "Yes, I'm insane!
Now, where's my rubber room?"

Can't chartreuse be just yellow-green
and puce a purple mud?
These "colors" serve no sense of style
their aesthetic is just crud!

With all the colors, what's the use?
The spectrum is so wide,
blue and green would make my scene,
I'd wear them both with pride.

_green_

let us be giants together,
my chlorophyll king,
come roam the wide open,
let your tunic of leaves
fall where it may, feed me
sweet corn and spinach,
hang tin cans from trees,
be my jolly jolly.

thunder your ho ho ho
into my anemic mouth,
be steamy, smelling of things
pulled fresh out of the earth.
plant me some sprouts, be
a beast, let me carve my name
into your trunk, seed this,
sow it, never wither.

Orange

The spring after 9-11, orange exploded
on the fashion scene. Did designers know
it’s the number one color for healing
trauma? A few years later, The Gates
snaked through Central Park’s snow
and stone. We strolled and grinned,
our faces glowing saffron. It’s about time
for a planet-wide orange guerrilla campaign.
I want to send planeloads of orange shawls
to Iraq and Afghanistan, ship orange sheets
to every survivor of abuse and rape.
I want to orange-blanket starving kids, feed
them sweet potatoes, kumquats, and carrots.
I want to slip orange thongs into gift bags
with orange handkerchiefs for men
and hand them out on the street—orange
also being the color of sensuality, creativity,
and monetary flow—Maybe it would boost
the economy, heal fear with soul-mending sex.

PURPLE


what
can we
say about
the color purple in its good defense,
one of the few words that cannot be rhymed?
some poets
will shun
it,
choosing instead easy rhymes like green, red,
blue, even yellow, but never purple
because it’s easier for a poet
to describe an eggplant as brown or black,
or select a rose, but not a lilac.
what
can
we
say?

#

"Blue"


Mahogany furniture.

Black tie and jacket.

Red rose.

White wine.

Salmon entrée.

Blue box...


...for somebody else.


Green with envy.

Grey

some things feel like truth to me
they are written deep
etched like hieroglyphs on my cells
but that was before
before you taught me
between black and white
are infinite shades of grey

White

The color of a wedding gown,
representing innocence and purity.
Long, flowing and beautiful,
made of shiny silk and lace trim.
Worn by the blushing bride,
she is such a heavenly sight.

Green – By Jane Eamon 2009

Envious of the almighty dollar
And its hold on her
She looked the one-eyed monster
In the face and prayed she wouldn’t be sick

Every lucky charm she ever held
Felt useless and dull
Like tarnished brass left
Too long in the rain

Like mould growing on the edges
She lifted her hands to scrape
Away the spores
And peeked under the edges
Looking for that first sign
Of renewal

test
test

   test
test

Red

Flames will burn today.
Tall and mighty, stretching.
Hot walls of power, moving.
Red.
Huge.

We’re still crying.

#16 COLOR (advance apologies to brown-eyed folks for the following...that is the one exception I make for brown. I love brown eyes, but otherwise....)


Okay, like a little kid
I love every color of the rainbow
All at once
Mixed together
Making a palette of heaven for my eyes

Sensual red, crimson, cardinal, maroon
The taste of juicy citrus in bright orange or yellow
Mix the red with the yellow
Capture that beautiful sunset

And golden yellow -
daffies bowing their little bell heads
Welcoming the royalty of Spring
Who bequeaths upon us the bright blue skies
and the growth of new green everywhere
jungle canopies, lush new lawns
and money

The pure whites of Queen Anne’s lace
The clouds and paper-thin petals of lilies
Followed by purple lilacs, irises and gladioli
in combination with a plethora of wonderful scents!

and mixtures:
Black-eyed Susans
hippie aqua with bright pink
And chartreuse

Black, the classic color of velvet, midnight and
Mysterious cats

The only color that will not find a happy place
on my canvas

BROWN! The color of dirt, unmentionables, and
Sackcloth

Gray

Pure and innocent, full of light.
Things I think when I see white.
New fallen snow, there on the ground,
One of many white things I see around.

Soft billowing clouds that float in the sky,
You can find lots of white things if you try.
Am I pure and innocent? What can I say,
I'm not really white, more a light gray...

Anders Bylund, thanks for the link the other day.

Green

Lost in the paint store
A jumble of just about everything wonderful on earth
Walls of paper: Bristol and Normandy, 90 lb., rice, smooth, and then bleed proof
A whole little room filled with boxes of canvases of every rectangular size
And oval ones piled largest to smallest, like tiers on a wedding cake;
In one corner there are mount boards, portfolios, art boxes, stretcher stops
And walls and walls of pens, inks, paints, pastels
Colors more than I could dream
Like just the greens alone:
Fern, Neptune, emerald, sap, sea foam, Erin, forest, frog, celadon, hunter shamrock and pine
I’d stepped into heaven
Green heaven

Orange

Spring's wild lillies
Orioles in the ball park
or in the trees
Entertainment for me.

Summer's sun setting
Juicy sweet peaches
or a popsicle
Dripping down my chin

Autumn leaves
Pumpkins on the vine
or in pies
A feast for tongue and eyes.

Winter hearths glow
Sweet candied yams
or orange slices
Warm childhood memories.

The Red Road (That Which I Have Been Made For)

I walk a long road,
a path laid out for me
by the Creator.
To walk the red road
is a sacred thing which
I have been made for.

I carry my load,
I give all that I can
for my Creator.
I walk the red road,
embracing all that which
I have been made for.

I've reaped what I've sowed.
I've tried to do what's right
by the Creator.
I'll walk the red road,
staying true to that which
I have been made for.

White Wood Storks


Flap

waft

soar

current

cradles.

Atop red lighthouse

balcony,

watch

black tips,

perfectly

feathered wings.

We reach,

nearly touch

space between

cloud

&

bird.


Lori Desrosiers 4-16-09

Not finished but working on Blue. Thought this would be easy. hah
Great job poets. All the poems have their own merit. I think we are improving.

“Happy Color”

In my search
for a happy color
think I’ve found
just the one
reminds me of sunny days
that can’t be all bad

Lemon drops
budding daffodils
school buses
shiny rain coats
mind and soul chooses yellow
happy-vivid-vibrant

"Green"

Green eyes, almond-shaped,
full of life. They are
laughing eyes, shadowed
with lashes, thick and black.
Little nose, sprinkled with freckles.
She smiles, her face lights up,
her laughing eyes close, almost completely.
Her laugh tinkles and giggles and
in it, I hear magic and I believe
it comes from a misty,
dew-covered forest - the laugh
of a little sprite. To look
into those green eyes, you imagine
this child dancing
on the edges of buttercups,
catching raindrops
in silver thimbles
and talking with the spirit
of roses and tiger lilies.

Green Yin

So in my dream it was dark and
I was at your Father’s table
only not, I was just behind
the door, and folks were talking
about church, and I said I’d rather
clear a forest of pine and deciduous
trees than go to church and your father
got mad and roared like the old Jehovah
in that scary book.

I’m not finished.

Then your mother, who’s dead,
took me to the kitchen (the place
of alchemy) And there was this
green rug on the floor, bright, bright
bright and wet to my bare feet. It felt
like moss, but wetter, algae, maybe.
I have a rug just like this, I told her.

I know you do she said.

So then you had a dream of a kitchen
(the place of alchemy) and it was bright
bright bright, and there was this cactus
looking kind of phallic but it was blooming
bright red. It’s pretty, you said, too bad
about the thorns and your mother, who’s
dead, said what it needs
is light.

Fuchsia

by Therese Haberman

Open buds of fuchsia plants
Bring curious hummingbirds
Hover inches from succulent centers
Dip their tiny beaks
Drink thirsty droplets
Honey nectar of avian delight

Pleated fuchsia dress
With white polka dots
A little matching bonnet
Shades spring sunshine
She toddles and zigs
Through grasses and daisies

Intent on catching
One drinking birdy
Or another
Giggling in pinkish glee.

Vermillion

Jupiter’s face, the warriors triumph!
Toxic and empowering royal hue
As red-orange as sun baked Georgia clay in summer;
Ancient as the marrow of dinosaurs.
Cinnabar, Tao life and eternity,
Bold statements of authorship upon silk.
Alchemic magic, red crystalline brew
Hidden away now, from clumsy mortals.

Yellow



"Stay inside! Lock your door! Don't do that!"
I shout at the stupid girl
wandering down the stairs at dead of night.

No power, the phone lines are down
but she heard a noise outside
and is determined to investigate.

Can't she tell from the music she's doomed?
"She is such an idiot."
I mutter from behind my cushion.

PURPLE AND ORANGE

People call me poet
at least a hundred times,
when I write verse, I know it,
I feel comfortable with rhymes.

But Robert threw the gauntlet down,
with today's prompts tint and hue.
And we all thought we'd go to town
and know just what to do.

But how to wrap my mind around
the challenge as it's written,
when all these words with the same sounds
have got me surely smitten.

So it's a color I must choose,
but which one to decide?
Purple makes a lovely muse
and it seems a few have tried.

And orange fills a vital bill
on which to write a poem,
I would like to try it, still
how the heck to show 'em?

So, I thought about the two of these,
but it's not a healthy sign,
it gives my brain a nasty freeze,
neither word has got a rhyme!

I've wracked my head against my bed,
when thinking about purple.
My mind was dead, I'll do breakfast instead,
pancakes with maple syrple.

I scrapped plans for this royal hue,
which was a royal pain,
I'll try another tint to do.
again I pick my brain.

So I try and try again, no luck,
my heart still set on orange,
this really sucks, my mind was stuck
it was rusted like a door hinge.

Now I fore go the thing I know,
and still be called a poet,
free verse is the way to go,
but orange and purple don't know it!

Indigo

Indigo go Go Go Go
Forgotten one, it lies in the spectrum
Like a lie you told your blue self
in a field of emotional violets
Indigo lost Lost in between
when everyone can make do
with purple and blue

Indignant we go forward
asking you to remember
the distinct hue, more than blue
Six blessed disciples are guilty
if the seventh suffers and dies

Indigenous crops grew in this fertile land
manifesting nothing more than harmony
before the conquerors fetched a better price
with plantations of gin and doom

Indignities are suffered when those
old times long forgotten
are relegated to rhymes
Richard of York may in fact
vainly battle with nothing to gain

Indigo go go go Go
on with your coloring shading rambles
with the spectrum in shambles you'll be there
in the know
in the row
Indigo

umber

the color of under,
a fundament, somber
or thunder

deep within roll
ants and ant-cows,
annelids, rhizomes,
whole worlds of microbes
each with its color, its tone

I hear them all as
a pondering, a wonder:
I pause for
ummm

Marie Elena -- I LOVE your clear! Great point of view!

Don P - I not only love your view on WHITE - but ALSO your poem on Marie Elena! Both of them are darling!

Mathew Abel - ROFL! I think you need a paint job!

Sandy S-E -- what an elegant way of looking at a rather dismal color.

Pink

It’s not that I don’t appreciate it.
All the frilly dresses, rompers,
tiny tights and bonnets
are swell. Really.
It’s just that they’re so…
What’s the word?
Pink.

Which is a perfectly fine color,
And certainly quite traditional.
And I know lots of moms
Who would love a mother-in-law
Bringing arms full of
bunnies or bibs that are
Pink.


It’s a little thing, and I
Wouldn’t mention it at all,
Except that I see a trend.
And I know it’s your favorite
Color and you think it looks
Just lovely. But I hate
Pink.

“Blue”

ice cold blue
touch that chills
clear sky blue
sight that thrills

blue black starless night
vacuity
blue green translucent waters
limpidity

Feel blue once
in a blue moon.
Talk a blue streak
out of the blue.
Ponder blue until
blue in the face.

___hardest one yet for me

Red


For a while I was a South Park character.
Built myself online
At a German site.
Took stacks of pixels
And recombined them
According to code
And became Red.

She wore ruby shades that she peered over with a look akin to exasperation.
Her hair was the same hue, but with more saturation.
I sent Red out into the world.
While my depression and I stayed home and watched TV.

Red inserted herself into stolen Flickr photos
From strangers' vacations.
Red went to China. Greece. The Grand Canyon.
But she seemed uncomfortable with reality.

Art changed all that.
The last I saw of her was peering from the shadows at the Hopper Nighthawks,
Disappearing like the cheshire cat with ruby eyes.

Yellow
A shade present
at the start
and end of
the day

A color of caution
as you try to make
it through the intersection.

The color that
sticks out as
you run.

It is the color
that you probably
don't wear when you
go out.

It is not my favorite color.

Lavender (by Jeanetta Chrystie)

Lavender buds
perch along the tips
of our dogwood’s branches.
Bundles of lavender
stalks dangle from
my herb drying rack,
leftovers from
a bountiful harvest;
ready to sooth a
good night’s rest
or scent a bath.
Lavender blooms yield
to burgundy leaves
as our plum tree
reaches for Spring.
Lavender stripes mingle
with purple and white
on delicate petunias--
missing the bright lilac
background bush that
winter ice mangled.

The New Scarlet

She twirled her hair around
her fingers. Around and around
catching the bitter arrows
aimed at her purity.

“Now, you can’t wear white.”

Bold lips, tiny waist
and feet. The tiny sweet
mother. Tiny pristine
mother. Tiny, tight voice.

“Now, you can’t wear white.”

The color of sluts, sinners, Hester Prynne.
Almond.
The new scarlet.

Flute White

I am not an artist, so
to suggest a flute, I would reach
for a gray or silver crayon

but here at Cafe EnVie
we breakfast below a fine painting
of a jazz musician. The keys

of his flute shine out, bright
in the Monday morning gloom,
white splashes of light

like Cheshire teeth gleaming
from dark green thickets. Like
a trill of sparks within
a moody solo. Like the fall

of water from our showerhead
that, not being an artist, I
would try to depict
as something transparent --

streaks of white in a painting,
or streaks of black in line art -- only,
the way it falls reminds me how
notes swarm out of a virtuoso's flute

like clouds of fireflies. Brightened
by the sunlight pouring through
the bathroom window, the water

strikes the tiles in a cascade
of gold and of tinsel, silvery
as the oil-paint white

keys of the flute above us,
as glittering as the note
that sounds as our glasses meet.

Green

You’re free and
I'm licking a micro or
wide angled screen

Kissing my pillow,
the mirror
our well rehearsed scene

Out from my spell--
How do you mean?
Having lifted off the covers
And not quite weaned

Green

My green fades
naïve novice going
envy still….want of new couches
that don’t show the wear of our dogs
an entertainment center with a back so I’m freed
from looking at cords dangling like the nooses
of some crazy hangman as silly macramé undone
I like green almost bitten with yellow
green that says sunlight hasn’t sucked me dry yet
that green….temporal
remember pony boy says nothing gold can stay
I think what he meant
is green.

What I really like about this exercise of a poem day is it encourages me make poems from the notes I have been making for myself. It puts an end to my authorial procrastination.This poem about blue was langishing in my notebook until this morning.

Blue Lustre
Star and Phoenix Tile, Iran c. 1270

Sea and morning glory,
Forget-me-not blue.
No blue like another—The names are music—
Azulean, cobalt, madder and woad.
Air riotous with elderberry
and bees humming around my head--
hands sticky with purpleblue juice.
Sky the day after snow

On this blue lustre tile
the winged antelope
recumbent in a summer garden
gazes through branches
at the Fruit and Barley moon.
He and I could stare
at that sapphire canopy forever.
No blue like another.

Red

the colour of blood
the colour of heat
the colour of an African sun


passion, emotion
anger: you see red
shame: you turn red

there’s murder afoot
when there’s blood on the moon
you pay in blood

red is the colour
of a scarlet cape
of a scarlet letter
of a scarlet woman

a woman’s moon carries
the curse of blood
and yet, the quickening of life

new life births in a sea of blood
and tears.

Carol A. Stephen
April 16, 2009
PAD Challenge poem

Orange

It’s not my favorite color,
but the color of my favorite
fruit and juice.

And I admit, it’s a great
attention-grabber –
how can you not notice

an orange car on the road,
those ubiquitous construction cones,
or another hunter’s vest?

And when it comes to sunsets
or Halloween,
it’s indispensable.

But it’s also one good reason
this poem doesn’t rhyme.

Gold

I like you when slathered with garnet
across one-hundred yards of green.
I love you cross-emblazoned
on kingly cobalt field.

But nowhere is more warmly welcome
the golden hue that softly lingers
than when I see the wedding band
nestled on my finger.



(Apologies for the testing posts -- no, I can't find a way to indent lines of text here. Oh well.

Green

and om goes my mind
and om go my eyes

seeking green fields of paradise

the lines waving behind my eyes
as I try to maintain the palm tree pose
2 year old giving me high fives
in a living room the color of limes
Baby in her swing is seeking rest
in her sweet frog princess dress

Pink
******

Pink is so soft,
Wearing something pink makes me feel like a girl,
Pink is a solace,
Dancing in pink makes me want to twirl.

Forest Green

The richness of leaves on so many trees
of grass beneath my feet
and the color on plants
that grace the forests
and vegetable gardens

The first time I saw you
was in a box of crayons
standing tall and rigid
waiting for me
to explore the many possibilities
of your hue

Balance and harmony with the world
your presence surrounds me
The promise of Spring
and then the graceful exit
as you allow the earthy pallet
to consume you
during Autumn

Yellow

Always been my favorite, yellow.
Funny, I don’t feel cowardly,
Though I’ve done enough damage
To my liver to warrant the adjective.

No, I prefer the sunlit, buttery hue,
Brightness against the blue, Tom
Bombadil’s colors, implied cherry nose,
Spread on toast in a bright kitchen.

The line down the middle of the lane
Is solid and I pass across it anyway.
Who hears caution with such obvious
Encouragement on the pavement?

Blondes and straw and jonquil spring,
Incessantly urged through the traffic lights.
Superman gained his powers from a yellow sun.
Who am I to argue such colorful logic?

© 2009 Chuck Puckett
16 April 2009

Red
By R. Chazz Chute

Red is menace.
Red is rage
and flags and borders.
Red China and China on a map.
Red is a dozen roses with
blood dripping from each thorn.
(Mean reds, said Miss Golightly.)
Red is high alert
and superficial negotiations
on a red phone
before pushing the big
red button.
Red is what I see when
all indicators are green
for launch.
Red is where the arrow
pierces the heart
on my forgotten Valentine's card.
Red is you holding hands
with him.
Red is me, stifled behind the counter,
trapped in your gleeful glance ,
selling you and your
new boyfriend
popcorn.
Red is when I
follow you home.
Red is hard to wash out.

White

The paper I write these notes
mountain tops daisy chamomile fields
bride’s wedding gown

Clean laundered cotton
Gandhi Ahimsa lessons to do no harm
eastern Indian widow’s dress

Facial veil on young girls face
ribbon holding school girl hair
socks in shoes walk about

Canvas waiting for color
flour, sugar, milk
on tablecloth large

Children’s innocence
grandma’s handkerchief wipe away
tears of the years gone by

Crosses of the disappeared along the borderline
I wave the peace flag, not surrender
a plea for Just Peace in this land.

Raul Sanchez 4-16-09

Black

My soul aches.
The night closes in around me.
I cannot see beyond this moment.
Time holds its breath
waiting for me to act.
Yet I cannot.
I can barely even breathe.
How can I move
when I sense there is
something out there
looking to destroy me?
I can play this waiting game.
Just you see.

“Green”

It is green around at last,
Pulse throbs wanting
An excitement. Yet, unable
To put a rhyme into rondeau.
Have to take time to feel up
To it. Half way has past,
Dream is felt across, desire
Shudders to keep going to
The real point. Body tissue
In intense work to continue
Job of evergreen process.
Let’s get to the success!

Orange Outrage.

Orange is the colour of my outrage felt at three
when I tried to eat the crayon that my teacher gave to me.

Ruddy

The colour of my several wounds,
some self inflicted.
The rest,insect bites
and stumbles, scratches.
Of my misplaced pride that
I had many a slip but
never a fall.
Like a lot of me and my world
the wounds also skin-deep.
I fondle them but no self-pity.
I like to try and
remember times when I
too could feel pain, hurt
and muddle in the meadows
and step into the mud.
I have no use for the lotuses.

Red

By Ian Phillips

I like red, not the colour but the word.
I like the word that rhymes with read
And dead, and bed.
I like red as it hides within blood
And it’s skies at night
When red, delight men in fields.
I like red for flying the flag
And standing tall
And for staining roses
And bloodied noses.

Magenta

It’s not red
Well it’s sort of a red
But not, well, red
It’s not scarlet
It’s not crimson
Well sort of but no…
…’cause they are scarlet and crimson
Its not fire engine red
Nor post box red
Not phone box red
Not tell-tale lipstick on the collar red
Not cheap tarts shoes red
It’s definitely not a wine…
…not burgundy or claret
It’s a special red sometimes found on bell peppers
Oh but that’s capsicum red!!
It’s a special red that’s quite unique
And it has a magical majestic name
Magenta
…not just good to look at
But sounds nice too
MAGENTA!


Iain

Violet Sky in Owensboro

You will find an ocean in the sky
if you angle your eyes just right
outside the Dairy Whip stand
where the crows swim in violet
and the old farmers harvest algae
hoping to find pearls in the weeds.

It scared the Amish away. It brought
the Jehovah’s to their knees. It
made the Catholics repent on Sunday.

Imagination dies slowly
if everyone believes. I welcome
anyone to cast the first stone at me
if they think the violet sky is a lie.
Cast your stone, and I guarantee
it will skip across water, not land
on dirt.

“So We Decided to Tour a Ghost Town”

I stand in the streets of dust and forlorn
In this town where cowboys were born
I glance around at the deserted stores
As the wind blows open the saloon room door.

Standing amidst the street of this town
A sound of music and a girl in a gown
Whirling around on a young gents arm
Pretty as a picture, she’s the school house marm.

A vision of two men standing in the street
Poised and ready, their guns to beat.
The scurrying to clear the road for a fight
Waiting to see who proves their might.

The drinking, the gambling, the dance hall girls
The brawling and tossing of the men he hurls.
The Sheriff, his tin badge and the law of his gun
Watches over the town until day is done.

Gone are the people, the mines, and their work
Nothing left but the shadows lurk.
The visions and thoughts of yesteryear
The whisper of wind is all that I hear.

Deserted is the town that before me lies
Buildings are tombstones of the town that dies.

White, Through Four Seasons

Six inches of fresh snow
cream poured from a ceramic cow pitcher
paper snowflakes hung on fishing line from the ceiling

Dogwood blossoms
the sight of your skin after winter
sheets of paper, unlined and untouched

Your knee-length cotton skirt
every color present in the sunlight
ice cream melting in a green glass dish

Ashes left after a bonfire
sheets draped over bodies, making ghosts or togas
an empty bed, a clean tablecloth, more paper, that eternal gift

( color )

***
seashell
***

the blur
of your thigh
in bathwater.

the deckle-edged
howl
of that baby
on the radio.

grandmother’s cough.

the rag
in the mouth
of the woman
washing

your husband.

stockings
you wish
would reach.

the one-handed
memo
of a painter
who slipped.

shirtless paperboys.

Jewels

Tranquility spills
a diamond flood
into a silver pool.
Emerald foliage
and jade moss
complete the setting.
Peace adorns
Mother Nature.

CLA

Burgundy


Afterward, when the construction is completed and the workers lift the bodies, there are burgundy stains left on the floor, which the priests fawn over, crawling on their hands and knees to clean by way of mouth,

deep copper puddles which they drink from and bless their foreheads, their hearts, their genitals, mumbling prayers so that there is no breath and each word slurs into the next holyfathermakeuswholenowandattheendoftime while their female counterparts uncork wine bottles and pour the contents into jeweled decanters, then into solid metal chalices.

The purveyors might insist that the metal alters the flavor to such a degree that wine is no longer wine

but what they do not understand just yet is that the priests strive to mimic the flavors they have grown to love, lifted off the gravel and sand by means of a forked tongue alone and savored, so that one drop lasts for several swallows.

Later, they will decree that all sheep and cows be fed red food, pomegranates and cranberries, red roses and raspberries so that over time, the pigmentation will stain the flesh from the inside out and there will be burgundy wool and burgundy milk, all naturally occurring without the slightest hint of dye.

Then, the priests might lift themselves up to collect the goods, might drink the contents of proffered buckets and wrap the strands around their necks, many times over, on and on again,

so that in the distance, those who watch will swear that the religious bleed wine from beneath their chins and above their shoulders forever, bleed without being drained and still walk,

and they are certain that there are gods among men; they grow to be so afraid.

Burgundy Red

There's this photo of you
that I keep in the inside

zipper of my purse. It's
of you when you were

Sarah Nell White
of River Falls, Alabama.

Face round and glossy
like a wet plum and far from knowing

who you'll become, an old
flame snapped you

leaning against his
burgundy red Ford and

the color looks
good against your dark skin,

like lipstick
or fingernail polish,

the kind I can't find
in CVS or Brook's Pharmacy.

I show the photo to the lady
behind the makeup counter

at Macy's, but nothing
comes close.

Off-white

Not the blinding white of glossy paper
or the neighbor’s new plastic fence
which birds and time will turn spotted gray

Not the white with pale blue tones
chilling the blood on its ride through the body
or the pinky-white some women favor
for the glow it gives to their skin

Not the yellow-green-white so gorgeous
in hellebores but sickening near the face
and certainly not the drear of gray-white
with its pallor of death

I paint my walls a creamy white
touched with tan to give it warmth
and notice that the friends who bewail
my dull walls and lack of color

are the ones who come here
when they most need
to be soothed and calmed

ALABASTER TEARS (Tanka)

Opaque memories
translucent emanations
frosty images
glazed now with transparent mist
crying alabaster tears.

Blue
******

When I am feeling blue,
I like to watch comedies,
That will make me tickled pink and without a clue,
Paint the town red is one of the remedies.

The Family of Red

Shadow and light, shade and tint
Colors are truth worn inside out
Moods and tunes and earth and sky
It takes a full palette to capture it right
Come one, come all, equality calls
Don’t like lavender? Shouldn’t matter
Still I can’t help but choose a pet
There’s only one that makes me purr

Red is love, like a girl’s first kiss
Pink is hope and a baby’s breath
Burgundy languishes, sexy and smooth
Crimson blushes, passion in bloom
Give me a palette, give me a brush
Pour out the paint, let’s splatter the world
A dab of blue and a dot of green
But it’s red that capture the song I sing

orange

the second lowest chakra
orange is
sexuality:
the color of fire
the color of fruit
orange is jack o' lantern funny
the color of clown hair
of pylons in the street
where orange vested men
and women repair the gray-death roads.

we don't see it much in the
new york, or the midwest
but in puerto rico, mexico --
yes. here in California, they've
knocked down orange groves to
build parking structures
but still on Alameda
you drive down to where the city ends
and see the pinatas:
orange all.

Green
A four leaf clover lets me escape into a dream
Where ‘might have’ has a chance of becoming done
And nothing is as it seems
The web of destiny still un-spun
The only return on the interest of the balance put in
Anticipating a future release of joy
Pure desire shooting blindly for a right timed win
Searching for ‘mounds of green’ following rainbows
Luck is transient at best and needs to be primed
Measurable outcome only settles on a ready target
Fantasy becomes reality with energy and time
Or snuffed when disbelief provides it nowhere to grow
Lying on a quilt on a field of green

I'll try out one of those hay(na)kus.

blue

choked,
frozen, military,
chuckling stop light

I'm sorry but I posted my favorite poem in this section. I didn't realize I was on the color section. Here is my color poem

“Yellow”

My favorite color has always been yellow
It’s a bright color but still there’s something mellow.
The sun shines bright up in the sky
Even the sunset tints the blue with a dye.

Yellow roses bring out the romance in me
It makes me happy as all can see.
Yellow is warm and lends its hand
To frost the scenery all over the land.

Yellow brings a shine of coziness and cheery
It’s bold and honest no one’s ever leery.
It stands out stark no mistake to be had
It provides a gaiety to very lass and lad.

The Beatles had the yellow submarine as their song
The Wizard of Oz had the yellow brick road windy and long.
Side by side or through thick and thin
Yellow is light there’s never a din.

Yellow makes my life seem like a sight to behold
Gathering the sheep and bringing all to the fold.
Yellow provides the day with its shine
Making each day different and always fine.

Yellow is the Big Bird on Sesame Street
Yellow in your entryway makes friends to greet.
Yellow waves of grain brings the farmer’s crops to life
Yellow daffodils and yellow tulips are brought to his wife.

Yellow is the color we should adopt for all seasons
Because with yellow you don’t need any reasons.

Three Versions of Scarlet

Though your sins be as scarlet,
they shall be white as snow.

No one bleeds in fairy tales
except by sword or axe or
shards of glass falling from the sky.
If bleeding occurs, towers are built
and hedges grown so full of thorns
they blind those trying to enter.
Spindles are hidden
lest they prick the innocent.
Wooden feet replace red shoes.

Scarlet woman.
Tattoo the letters on your breast.
Lay on the bed in wild profusion,
splayed ribbons bought with blood.

“Green”

The softer rain falls down on
you, dewing your lilted grasses
awash in shades of watermelon
each ripe and bursting.
My dreams you’ve filled, like
water laboring to stay contained
inside the pipes we’ve imprisoned
it in, finding holes of light and space
to seep out, starting slowly then gushing
like I did when I walked
among your faerie lands, erupting, finding
my soul set free, immersed within
the dancing clover, the ancient hills
embracing me, whispering my name
in Gaelic tones. For your trees have moved
me, their willowy arms shouting forth
by day, your ivy crawls inside my toes
as it skulks across the countryside, your
fields have stopped my breathing, I
could die a speck among their dresses
spread out and flowing, marbled and knotted
by rockery walls. I close my eyes and
remember his words, “Aren’t you glad that
God invented green?”

Yellow-Orange

The color of the blazing sun and fire
Not red, no not red which is only
Blood of ninety-eight degrees
Or fingernails thought as sexy hawt

Yellow so misunderstood and cast down
Beaten up chased afraidy cat
Orange on the other hand deemed as
Good wholesome sweet and juicy

And still even when combined
They are not more then a pretty color
For some other could care less for
Their hue, or shade

Why is yellow-orange not
Thought of as hot?
It is…

A blistering sun, scorching skin
Baking it into aged brown leather
Fire flickering, licking everything
Into a yellow-orange flame

Even able to melt metal like butta
Yeah, yellow-orange
Now that’s HOT

http://paigeofabook.blogspot.com/

Opal


It's a cheat, I know it's a cheat.
Maybe that's the reason
I chose it. I love
the pretence:
the way one non-colour rainbows
a whole spectrum.


Perhaps it's like me. Or rather,
reflects me as I reflect
my surroundings.
Always
either nothing
– or everything.


Sarah James, UK.

“Brown”

I hated you growing up
You constantly oppressed me
Showing up in the mirror
My eyes, my hair, my skin
Brown, brown, brown
Brown is ordinary. Like dirt.
I guess that made me dirt
Defiantly I opposed you
In coloring books
Shading my ponies and puppies
Green, pink, orange
Anything but brown

I’ve forgiven you now
And realized your potential
Sparking in the mirror
My eyes, my hair, my skin
Coffee, umber, sienna
Not as ordinary as I thought
But still like the earth
Carefully I’ve explored you
In beauty magazines
Spotting similar tresses and eyes
Brunette, caramel, chestnut
Anything but brown

Magenta

My husband met me in magenta colored pants. We then started up our romance.
Magenta is a great shade between dark pink and red. There
isn't any other color that I would prefer instead.
It is my favorite color, don't you see. It makes me feel rosy and so sexy.

Blue

“Blue is the color of night
When the red sun
Disappears from the sky
Raven feathers shiny and black
A touch of blue glistening down her back
Blue”
Lucinda Williams


The nighttime
With its darkness,
Hiding her bruised soul,
Holding onto the prayer
Her heart cries out
While others
Are off busy dreaming.

They do not talk
But some how the words
Linger, existing anyway,
Echoing whispers
Of the tragedy
Their union has created.
“Should we talk?”
“No - what would we even say?”

In the background
The music continues to play.
She feels the notes
And relies on them
For strength, guidance,
Hope.
They feed her full,
Quench the dryness
In her throat,
Hold her up until the light
Comes back to her eyes.
Blue is there until she can
Find her wings
And finally fly away.

red

is not my favorite color
but it might be if these
color-blind eyes could see
the red everyone else sees
'cause here's the thing:
what i perceive as 'red'
is likely something else entirely
more like what could be
'orange' or 'yellow' or even 'brown'
(they all appear the same)
i usually wait for someone to identify
a red thing, then quickly agree
and try to remember it

Green

I wear the green proudly,
As I do my father's Irish last name:
Angus,
And his mother was a Collins through and through.
Dad and I stood beside Muckross Lake
In fair Killarney,
The magical mists swirling about us,
On this sacred emerald soil -
And I silently slipped off my sandals,
The soft moss and solid earth
Beneath my bare feet.
When the sun set, we ambled into a pub
And fueled up on poet fuel:
Guinness
And sang the songs of the land.
I wear the green proudly.

09-0416

Indigo

The night sky
before the moon rises
The depth of the sea
where the strange monsters dwell
Glass bobbers from Japan
in varying sizes
And what I feel
when you say farewell

The eyes of a cowboy
who made my heart ache
Sixth color of the rainbow
in a dark rainy sky
The irises growing
beside a cold lake
And what I feel
when you say goodbye

To the person who wanted to know why the poems change-
In the morning is yesterdays poem, then when Robert gets to it he puts todays posts. That's why it changes. Also, nobody usually answers questions around here unless you say something somebody doesn't like I've noticed.

Blue

Blue
Like the flu
Can’t get out of bed
Nose all red
Cotton in the head
Blue
Jealous of you
And your yellow hue
Makes me feel green
And a bit mean
I’m sorry I snapped at you
It’s just that I’m blue

Sky Blue Pink

For many years as I was growing up
I would hear my grandmother mention
That her favorite color was
Sky blue pink

Sometimes she would include
Purple polka dots

So strange this combination
Thought provoking
Fun to try and imagine

For years I believed it existed
In her mind I’m sure it did
But nowhere else
Except….

In her mansion in Heaven
Where one day I’ll enter
Her favorite room
With her favorite color
Sky blue pink
With
Or without
Purple polka dots

Grey

There you are again in your long grey coat
following me around, dogging my heels,
tapping my shoulder, offering an embrace.
I thought I’d got away from you at last.

So what do you want here with me old friend?
Maybe you can lend me your coat, let me
hug it round myself, turn up the collar
to hide my eyes, wipe my nose on the sleeve.

White

I long for white
clean and peaceful, warm and bright
beyond the judgement and the night

The white dawn that wipes my tears
and stills my fears
for endless years

I long for white
ablaze and steady, true and right
no stain will ever pierce this light

The white dawn that heals my pain
washes like rain
again and again

white.

Eggplant

That royal purple.
Your wedding was draped with it.
Someone stepped in it.
I stabbed the flesh of it.
I love the way shape tastes.
Your mouth is turning blue.
I want to kiss it back to warm red.
Or somewhere in the middle.

by Kitchell Resimi, 2009

Hooker’s Green

Green?

Not
Black net stockings?
Red stilettos?
Yellow, too short mini?
Pacing city sidewalks
Earning green?

No.
Hooker mixed
Prussian Blue, Gamboge
To paint God’s green.

Today’s synthetic landscape green:
Anthraquinine Blue
plus
Nickle Azo Yellow
plus
Quinacridone Magenta.
PMS 5467.

Pre-menstrual syndrome green?

We’ve gone
Chemical.

SAFFRON
(for Thich Quang Duc)

i wonder,
what went through your mind
on that liquid June day?

(picked up your gas can and
headed downtown,
sat cross-legged and closed
your eyes)

were you afraid, or
did you see the future unfolding
as gracefully as a lotus?

(said mantras while they bathed you
and struck that match,
saffron robes turned Tibetan red
with flames)

how did you keep
from crying out in agony,
and let yourself expire?

(the ripe jewel of your heart,
plucked out unburnt
while the rest of you was all
ash-grey)

did you look down
and hope it was worth it,
while they covered you once more
in saffron?

pink

you were my favorite
that pink and gray dress
I wore it when I was seven
the same year I got pnuemonia
and went retching in Cosmo's black Oldsmobile
to St. Mary's hospital
the nurses would curl my hair
the baby in the crib next to me cried for his mother
I didn't cry
I sat on the metal bed in the ward
and waited
hour after hour
my mother didn't come
I told the nurses she'll come
but she didn't
Oh, you remember that day, I came every other day.
She said.
I sit on the bed patient.
I sit on the bed there's no pink.

Earl, I like your poem.... and your faith that always comes out. Thanks for writing this.

“Brown”

Animals roam Mother Earth
Their paths interconnect

Hawks, Eagles, Buffalos, or Wolves
Their all one
With Mother Earth

Brown rocks towering
Toward the sky

As our eyes meet up
Oh, what a surprise

A set of striking brown eyes
Meet mine

What a sacred blessing
It means so much

The Hawk has blessed me
With good luck

Protect our animals
Which roam Mother Earth

For if they die
We will lose so much

By: Melinda Elmore

Red

He was my best friend then, at six,
This skinny boy whose bright white teeth
Contrasted sharply with complexion
Dark chocolate dark.
That I was white and he was black
In Washington, DC,
This did not seem to matter
As we climbed the monkey bars
And kicked the bloated orange balls
And swung as high as we could swing.
It mattered not at all
While running over green grass fields
Beneath our blue and cloudless skies
Until he stepped upon a broken bottle
During our recess
And I, not wondering at all
Why he wore no shoes
Stood there in my utter awe
That when he bled
His blood was red.

Amber

An in between colour;
A little bit of brown and green
Some yellow and some gold

Amber, Amber everywhere I look
Amber in the clear green of sea water
Amber in the acres of ripening wheat

Dark amber as the November corn leaves blow
Dark amber secrets in my horse’s eyes
Amber, dark and light in the pile of harvested barley

Bright amber washed across the sky
As dawn light streaks the night
Bright amber gilds the mountains
As the sunlight leaves the sky

Amber glowing with the resined life blood
Of trees long dead and gone
Amber holding the secrets of immortality

Nancy Bell, Balzac, Alberta

Pink...


Not fuscous, rubious, cretaceous, vinaceous, albugineous, sanguineous...
testaceous, phoeniceous... melichrous, puniceous, flammeous...
Chrysochlorous, luteolous, stramineous, porraceous, cinerious, fuliginous...
Neither badious, piceous, griseous, coccineous, brunneous, caesious, glaucous...
Icteritious, ochroleucous, lateritious, niveous, plumbeous, olivaceous...
Nor aeneous, castaneous, spadiceous, vinous, prasinous, porphyrous...
Violaceous, citreous,miniaceous, chlorochrous, atrous, cyaneous, rufous...
Or even cesious, pyrrhous, rubiginous, sulphureous, luteous, fulvous...

But. Just. Plain. Pink.

Fuchsia; amaranth;
Carnation; rose; lavender;
Blooms, or shades of pink?

Brown
composed by LaDonna Reed 04/16/09



...the color of my skin;
the perfect complexion
I like the skin that I'm in.


No one else may not think so...
but brown is the flawless color


it's the color of my skin
I would choose no other.

"We're all Pink - for Rachel"

We're all pink
Not in the Rita Dove kind of way
Well, yes that too

But you with your hot pink
and me with my pale
We are beginning to blend

Into a charming shade
not rose
Like strawberry lips and lollipop

Drips
On a linen dress
In a black and white photograph

Or in blazing color
In a field of fairies
Glowing pink against the gold

From your eighth birthday surprise
A bedroom colored your favorite
To the naughty wink

Of your hot pink
Ruffled the guys
"Oops dropped my keys," underpants

Keys and underpants more than that dropping
Cuz we can't spend enough on pink when shopping
Never will we regret

On pink what we've spent
Because inside we are knowing
That our best sparkly pink is showing

Aqua or The Pool Bottom Blues

From the air
a strange sparkle
of tracks as if
from some gigantic
crystalline beast

Meant to the mimic
ocean hues
surrounding
unspoiled
South Pacific isles

That swimmng pool bottom
shade of blue
only matched on Earth
by Formica from the '50s
unnaturally splashy

The eye is not fooled
Tahiti is still
a plane ride away
water sloshes gray
on the surrounding cement

The paint cracks
and webs with black
and now all I see
is an Easter egg
to old to eat

Crimson

Stripped, then cloaked
in scarlet, royally robed,
stripped once again,
reclothed in common clothes
and crowned,
they nailed him to a tree.
His body hung in agony
as blood of deeper hue
streamed down…
a crimson tide.

Pink Is

everywhere in April,
rosy stems of hepatica
rise through matted leaves,
tiny pink stripes decorate spring beauties,
sunrise paints the mountains rose gold,
and plum branches glow
like pink bones.

My piece of green

It should be easy, write a poem about a color.
Perhaps reach into the old crayon box and choose.
It’s easy when you’re innocent.
Blue for boys and pink for girls.

For a while it was black turtlenecks and red lipstick.
Very continental. A smoke and pale champagne at noon
To match the blue for the blues and blue mood.
I claim green under a tombstone and rest and peace.

SEPIA

Left behind.
After all that have gone before.
A box.
No one left to claim the contents,
so it becomes mine.

Scraps and relics of foregone places,
tug on my mind for the slightest traces
of remembrance.
Remnants of vaguely familiar people
who caused me to be.
Reminders of the way
things came about in my history.
The past revisited
in fond recollection.
I study the faces
and strain for a mention
of a name. Many are unknown
and will remain so.
But, in the myriad of this photographic
patchwork I find a common thread,
which binds this present
to those long agos.

Sepia.
This sepia tone
is the trigger that fires these synaptic
glimpses at who I have become
and of the people who "brought" me to this place.

Sepia is the color of memory.

Red

Glorious leaves against
And indigo sky
The crisp juicy apple
Going into my pie
Meat of the watermelon
Dribbling unto my thigh
The ruby lips of
The girl I kissed goodbye
The ladybug which
Flew into my eye
The color of your shirt
The day you made my cry
The setting sun
Against an evening sky

White
for Amelia

We didn't have a choice of days;
this was the one we were given,
and it was raining.

So lucky to have a daughter like me
who likes taking photographs and writing.
We spent hours in the fields getting muddy
taking close-ups of raindropped cowslip and primrose,
while the earthy brew of manure mixed
with the smell of clover greening.

The cattle tracks finally lead us into the village of Vesancy.
We captured every window frame, cat, and red rooftop
on our safari, even though the rain now painted
leopard spots on our lenses, making it hard to focus.
An old man was sweeping winter from his doorway.
I said in French: It's a beautiful day!
and he replied in kind that it would be more beautiful
if it wasn't raining. We nodded politely,
but I couldn't imagine anything more beautiful
than being with you this afternoon, in this moment
in the year you are fourteen.

And on the drive back you saw them swirling
around the heads of mountains,
enormously blown by the wind.
I was so busy driving I would never have seen them
without you.
"Joni Mitchell called them angel hair," I said,
and I stopped the car so you could take a picture.

Gray

I hid from gray like a dirty secret.
Temporary tints, then later for keeps.
Touched up, topped off, highlighted
and lo -
I only fooled myself.

Mahogany, spicy mocha, dark cola;
exotic names to soothe my ego.
Decades of self delusion built
up on my strands, uncounted
fortunes rinsed down the drain.

After the second wedding
I wondered who I had really become.
Years and experiences hidden
from myself, time to come clean.
I faced my gray.

The gray along my hairline
is from my eldest son,
All the years struggling
to be a good stepmother.
Now I’m just mother.

The gray along my part
is from my youngest son.
Three years old and he rode
his big wheel down the highway.
His adventures only continued.

The few flecks of gray on the sides
are from my daughter.
Years we spent in harmony,
but there were times, scattered,
of worry and grief.

My brown and gray hair
is healthy and shiny now,
styled and worn proudly.
I earned every gray hair.
I’m sure there will be more.

A Black Shade of Gray

Hidden in dark corners,
Dim-lit shadowlands,
No sunlight penetrates,
Or filtrates the dark shadows
Of the land.

BROWN

Dull
Common
Like sludgy mud
after a long rain:
my eyes.
Not periwinkle
blue.
Not pretty.
Just brown.
Common, dull,
muddy brown.

He says
my eyes are the
prettiest he’s ever
seen.

I don’t think
I’ll ever
understand
why.

Red

Kathleen and I at fifty-plus could dwell
for ages in the steamy zone below
Desire in Dante’s mythic, spiral Hell.
What is the hottest, coolest red we know?

Though nature’s cherry lips and cheeks are lost,
we’re on a quest for lipstick that will wear
through breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That accosts
potential lovers with discreet Come hither.

The rosy flesh of peaches at their pits
recalls our worn-out purses lined vermillion.
So now we open wallets to bestow our tips
on manicurists, who mete out crimson’s frisson.

We lust for cardinals’ tails, the quetzal’s feather.
Scarlet is all. A toast to passion’s tether!

my favourite colour..

my favourite colour is the one i made myself.

i took the light of day and dark of night and mixed them with the green of apples and leaves and the red of blood and wine, sky and sea blue and yellow sun like the sweetest mango; i took the evening's purple flower and the morning's pink blossom, the orange of love's fire and the grey of fear's cold ashes; and when i had them all in one place i added a little of my own self, stirring and dreaming of now from the inside.

as i stirred i sang a song of beginnings and endings and all things inbetween and as i sang, every molecule shook in harmony with my voice; then the ever-changing wind blew the mixture into my eyes and into my mouth and nose and ears and i seemed to fade, becoming invisible for a moment, and when i reappeared in a flash of insight, i took the colour of the flash and spread it all over my face and body, where apparently i can no longer see it...

but you can.

BROWN

Miss Faye browns
easily in the sun. She
doesn’t mind, but
her man does—
snatches her
in the house
if he catches her
out from under
the willow tree.

Yellow

Yellow sun
Barely showing but
Always there.

Yellow glow
Turning orange at night
As it lowers slowly.

Beautiful sun
Warming the earth
As it comes up over the horizon.

Yellow sun
Giving us warm light
Always there.

Her Blue Period

Pacific Northwest
Rainforest enters
her Blue Period,
a woman cool,
moist,
and mysterious.
With fresh brush,
she paints her
sacred self
in periwinkle,
blue-bells and
forget-me-nots
that strayed
beyond confines
of a garden.

Quinachridone Crimson

It’s got the ‘kay sound in spades:
great sound. Looks good too: a rich red.
I like to lavish it on a white ground
or punch up some cool darks. Tasty.

Rose Madder Quinacrinodine
has a hint of blue, that secret
of the velvet petals, transparent,
the other colors show through
like a negligee, with excellent
lightfastness. It’s not a starving
artist’s paint. They must settle
for just red.

The Quinacrinodines are a hot
family with beautiful shades,
not too toxic unless handled
unwisely. That goes for most
relatives, don’t you think?

COLOR IN ABSENTIA

I find delight in all things white,
they all look very clean,
they have a virginal quality
(if you know what I mean!).
If it were an elephant
it would be in the way.
Use it as a sale,
you'll have linens on which to lay.
A video camera would consider you
perfectly in balance.
A fairy tale would have you hang
in the Charming Prince's palace.
Turn on TV at three AM,
if that truly is your choice,
what you'll hear is very clearly
the color of that noise.
Polar bears look good in it,
Beluga Whales do too!
If by chance you met Pat Boone
you'd see it on his shoes.
Alabaster claims your tint,
Ivory wants your hue.
Albinos find a comfort
in everything you do.
To call yourself a "color" is so far
fetched, a massive malaprop,
White, you're the absent of all color,
so if you say you're one, please STOP!

Red

red hot
passion
red anger
violent passion
red the color of passion

blood red
seeing red
that barn is red

red
love
a red, red rose
gentle
touching my heart
red heart
chocolate covered cherry
cherry red
red the color of love

if it is red it has to be good
better red than dead
little red hen
little red riding hood
the red bicycle
red the color of life

red.

Day 16

Black

Black the absence of light,
sets the tone
where I might write
throughout the night.

Black, resistant to stain,
gives me clothes,
simple and plain —
easy to maintain.

Black, the color of skin,
proves to me
we all are kin,
within.

"Black"

My daughter says
I wear too much black

Tells me I should put on
something colorful
bright

I tried red
blue
yellow

Ended up with
coffee stains
rorschach on cloth

Good thing I
had my sweater
the black one

(c) m.u. 04/16/2009

Yellow

The moment he pushed custard towards me,
home-made custard, the custard mothers made
in the fifties before ease and speed appeared.

Rampant daffodils on the hill he declared a cliché
but his photograph was my screen saver for months
with the toe of his walking boot caught bottom left.

The slight twitch of his mouth when the hire car
at the airport was as bright as highlighter pen,
not sunshine, verging on incandescent, he snarled.

His management of bananas allowing them to ripen
to a soft sweetness before that rush of mushy brown
he labelled a crime against banana, verging on illegal.

The legal pad he scribbled on in that handwriting
readable only to those who knew his quirky Fs
and the way letters fell backwards into inky piles.

That shirt, oh god, that shirt, he bought in a fit
of something akin to madness, he wore it twice,
the last time as a huge canary at a fancy dress.

Yellow
always reminds me
of my mom
when I was growing up.
She said yellow was
like sunlight
and our kitchen
was yellow
with a vase of yellow daffodils
on the blue and chrome table
covered in a white cloth
with yellow flowers
Yes, there were other colours
There were light blue blinds
she said were like a summer sky
and greyish linoleum with a hint of yellow and blue,
because they didn't show the dirt
and white dishes with gold trim
for special times
and white dishes with blue flowers
for everyday.
Outside, the flowers bloomed
other colours but mostly yellow
and the vegetable garden
was intertwined with
yellow too
And the thing is
we were happy because
we had sunshine and blue skies
in our hearts
all year long.

"Black"

In the night I rest, I dream
I dance among the stars
soft black velvet caressing the soul
my feet skimming the fabric
of the universe, all possibilities
all desires answered, unspoken
buried deep in the recesses
held close to the heart
horded like black gold
heavy with infinite matter
heaven in the black
void and fullness of sleep.

Poem by Vanessa V. Kilmer © April 16, 2009

"THE COLOR PURPLE"

It's royal
rich and strong
I painted my entire room purple
when I was young

My cousin Jimmy helped
oh what fun
I felt like a princess
with a new life begun

COLOR IN SATURATION

Let's converge
and sing a dirge,
a sadly morbid ditty,
about what too much color can do
and what it does,
is such a pity.

Take a bright red from a fine lady's lip,
Add a zest of orange, just a zip.
A touch of blue, a gob of green
and yellow wouldn't be too obscene.
Lots of purple, too much brown,
all of the mauve, taupe
and gray that you've found.
Blend them together,
make them all sing,
But, you'll find that you're
too much of a good thing.
Black is the state
of color saturation,
(which prob'ly explained
Johnny Cash's frustration)

The Setting Sun,
By Barbara A. ostrander:

I never tire of
looking at,
the setting sun
when day is done.

It shines over
the lake near
our home.

As I stand
here alone,
I am amazed at
the gift God
has given'

This wonderful home
we live in.

barbostrander43@aol.com

COLOR

FALL FOLIAGE IN OXFORD COUNTY, MAINE

The hills are ablaze in color of gold,
and of red, and of orange, and of green;
In October's fold, Oxford County, Maine---
is the wonder of God's universe;
I have traveled the world and seen it all,
but never before have I seen,
The glory of God in majestic array
as is shown in October's day,
When trees are abloom, and colors explode,
during Fall foliage in Oxford County, Maine.

Magenta

Mother helped me sound
Out the word from tiny
Black letters on the reddish-
Pink crayon paper while we

Colored beneath Dad’s
Television “Mission
Impossible.” I liked the soft
“G” behind my lips, saying

It in my mind as the waxy
Hue spread between the lines
(Sometimes out of the
Lines); on rosy places in

My lovers skin; on three
Babies petal lips when they
Slept—years apart; striped
On the dress Grandmother

Made for N’s first birthday
Complete with a heart-pocket;
Puddled on the table beneath
Me after baby extractions,

Seen through the big round
Mirror; checkered on the table
Cloth ready for dinner; sipping
Water with a horses tongue;

Evidence of health behind the
Eyelids of the underprivileged;
Gushing from a child’s bitten
Tongue, scraped knee, cut fore-

Head; pocked on fair white skin
Until teeth gnashed amidst
Moans, leaving life-long marks.
It finds its way to the heart

Of things, its lines running
To our loves and our fragility.

Kyanous

Or Greek for blue, a process
color or electric, for modern
printing. A four color method,
who would believe how many colors
require a little bit of blue. Veins slowly
pumping crimson fluid and so the color of
light and spring also heralds the coming
darkness with a lack of oxygen.

Pink

Jelly between toast;
it spreads itself across the eastern sky
separating the darkness from the darkness.
Memories of mornings deliciously shared,
jealously guarded
in cardboard boxes.

'Tis a gift to be simple,
'tis a gift to be free.

Rose quartz on windowsill
catches midday's rays,
scatters them brightly
across hardwood floors;
life imbued with healing light,
chasing memories,
cobwebs banished.

'Tis a gift to come down
where we ought to be.

Splashes of paint,
surreal clouds dancing
in a purple sky
backdrop for sagging barn
and leafless tree.

And when we find ourselves
in a place just right,
it will be in the valley
of love and delight.

Words inset borrowed from Shaker Elder Joseph Brackett, Jr. written in 1848.

A WORD FROM OUR SPONSOR:

A Commercial For Chili's By the Music Group Los Lobos

"Black is black,
I want my baby back,
baby back, baby back, baby back,
baby back,ribs!"

We now return to our regularly scheduled poetry!

Cute, Walt, but the band was Los Bravos....

Subject:Color poem

"Streaks of Blue"

Through unfathomable leagues

of turquoise oceans splashing

unpredictable currents to the

sandy bottom of my heart,

I am colored many streaks of blue.

From endless indigo skies scattering overblown

clouds to changing winds

drifting clarity into my green eyes,

I am blended many streaks of blue.

Stirred, mood swings like weather

surface downcast and melancholy;

and I compose my smudged black and blue

soul with royal melody;

q u i e t l y…

listening to somber sounds of the blues.

It is then, I am drawn in

and become a completed painting,

many streaks of blue.

Crime Scene Red

The knife was left there
by the sink,

and when the gloves loosened
the old plumbing,

the inside of the elbow,
the first turn of pipe,

a slick, gentle glaze of red
whispered a final clue.

Royal Pink and Celestial White

THE LADY’S SLIPPER

Far from the side of any road
Or pathway that runs through the woods.
Deep in the forest in shady groves,
Near watered brooklets you’ll find the goods.

Rare to the sight of any man,
Secluded and most difficult to find.
Clothed in her glory, in solitude repose,
Placed by God as just one of a kind.

Soft, and delicate, in royal pink,
With vascular lines that wend their way
Through the ball-shaped dainty moccasin flower,
On a tall green stem, in the month of May.

And if by chance you may find her dressed
In the color of pure celestial white,
Then blessed indeed will be your view,
For rare ‘tis seen such a wonderful sight.

Like exquisite beauty of a damsel fair,
In the flower of her youthful zeal.
With eyes of blue and hair of gold,
And sculptured in femininity of a Godly hue.

With dainty feet shod with slender toes,
‘Cross the arch to the heel at the base;
Like Cinderella’s lost glass compost
Lies the mystery in the shroud of a glorious face.

The face of a flower of the orchid clan,
Majestic from the head to the foot.
“The Lady’s Slipper”, which can not be worn,
For the name so called is only moot.

Unknown to most, and seen by few
Who are blessed with a ‘calling and election made sure’,
As they wend their way through the forests deep
To seek out the truth of the clean and pure.

For life is real with an earnest stance,
With flowers strewn all along the way:
There’s the buttercup, and the daisy too,
And ‘the Devil’s paintbrush’ to keep us at bay.

And a thousand and one colorful varieties,
To attract, to appeal, to distract, to allay,
But the path is sure to the secluded place
Where “The Lady’s Slipper” brings peace and hope to show ‘the way.’

Donald R. Anderson
Chartreuse

Yellow Chartreuse, has been digitized,
web colors named for something greener,
in favor of Green Chartreuse,
yet of the two French liqueurs Green has been
the first to make its stand,
somehow Yellow Chartreuse was the first to
be an actual standardized color though.
A color that can be a youthful fun neon green,
versus a color that can be like putrid water,
or something vomited in one of those sick days
that you'd rather not recall.
I think it's good that
we went back to the first of the first,
which will be the last.

Blue

A VISION OF KAREN

Blue eyes, and long blonde hair,
I saw a dream standing there,
A pretty girl so soft and sweet,
And now we meet.

For the moment we talk a while,
I am captured by her smile,
Just a vision of my dreams,
That's what Karen seems.

And now since Karen came,
My life will never be the same,
A living dream, a vision true,
Karen, that's you!

Blue eyes, and long blonde hair,
I saw a dream standing there,
A tender heart and a love that's true,
Karen, that's you!

A pretty girl so soft and fair,
Golden sunlight in her hair,
In just a moment she would be,
A memory to me.

As time passes by,
I see Karen in my eyes,
But the vision that I see,
Is just a dream to me.

Blue eyes and long blonde hair,
I saw a dream standing there,
A photograph, and a memory,
That's what she was to me.
And now that Karen's gone,
Still the vision lingers on,
I keep searching in my dreams,
A true love for me!

And now since Karen came,
My life will never be the same,
A living dream, a vision true,
Karen that's you.

Karen that's you! Darling that's you!

Brown

“Your favorite color?” people question.
I smile and snicker. I may be the only one.
Makes every other color look better.
The complexion of Earth with a homey feeling.
The backdrop of splendor and the creator of rainbows.
The hue I feel most like me while wearing.
I like it on my eyelids, my walls and my landscape.
It is brown, and in any shade, it is beautiful.

© 2009 Molly Logan Anderson

(I've never done an anagrammatic poem before, and I'm not sure I got it right but this is my stab at it!)

GOLDENROD

Gone old red doe
Gone golden loon
On gold-red roe
Or odd dog goone

Good rode
Lone doodle
Red door den
Golden noodle

Goldenrod
Led Ed on
Gone old Ed
Role on

Thought I'd try a rondeau in combo (or "combeau") with today's prompt.



“Gray” (or “Grey”)


Spring's sun won't chase this veil of gray,
and the same shadows chilled us yesterday.
We live in a gray area it seems:
gray hysteria looming in our dreams
while the same numbing gray keeps gray at bay.

It’s like this: there’s still no work in my tray,
but slack hours don’t inspire me toward play.
It’s not black and white--but blank in betweens.
Spring's sun won't chase this veil of gray.

Presidents go and come. We mark each day--
Tax Day, Earth Day--and each dollar we pay
accrues into audacious pillow schemes,
but morning’s bright gray softens all extremes.
What do we do? What we can. And we pray.
Spring's sun won't chase this veil of gray.


DA

Golden, Ruby, and Azure Blue

MICHELLE

Went to the left, went to the right,
I knew that I was hypnotized,
Oh, I met a girl with golden hair,
Ruby lips, a beauty fair, Oh she was rare!

She was like a dream come true,
Soft sweet eyes of azure blue,
Sparkling like the morning dew,
Michelle was her name!

Went to the left, went to the right,
I knew that I would sacrifice,
To hold her hand, and call her mine,
To hold her close for all of times' eternal bind.

She was like a meadow scene,
Flowers, and a sparkling stream,
Sent to me as heaven's dream,
Michelle was her name!

Went to the left, went to the right,
I knew that I would compromise,
My time and plans, and goals and dreams,
And all I have, with every means, for her it seems.

She was like a mountain firm,
Strong and true at every turn,
Captured, I was soon to learn
Michelle was her name!

Went to the left, went to the right,
I knew that I was hypnotized,
Oh, I met a girl with golden hair,
Ruby lips, a beauty fair, Oh she was rare!
Oh, I met a girl with golden hair,
Yes, I met a girl with golden hair!

Turquoise

Sparkling Caribbean waters
in several shades of turquoise
loan their lightest hues
at sunset
to lounge with copper
in the sky.

Pink

I was engulfed
in a carnation colored canopy bed
which I wanted at one point (supposedly),
but quickly outgrew.
My next room, decorated when we moved,
the year I was 12, was red and white
with matching striped bedspread.

I next donned the most girly color ever
in the role of guestbook signing coordinator
at an old babysitter’s wedding
Twirling around in long, satin gown
and ballet flats I feel like Cinderella.

Eighteen months later,
I re-wore the same dress
to a very politically incorrect
junior high school formal dance,
complete with a ceremonial queen’s crowning.
That night
I was a princess in a power chair
gliding across the stage
on the arm of my platonic escort
to all social functions.

My older self looking
back on that little girl-
who didn’t think she
was so little that night
and would have happily told you such
had she been asked-
can’t help but smile
as she remembers the private, unshared
disappointment of losing the crown.

I wouldn’t own anything else
that color, on feminist principal,
for more than a decade
until the activist group
I belong to decides
to create it’s national action t-shirts
in its neon shade.

Red

Cheeks and cherries,
Sunburn and berries,
Cars and stars,
Letters and jars,
Anger and pain,
Hurt and disdain,
Fish and tides,
And carnival rides,
Balloons and noses,
And ticklish toeses,
Lipstick and rouge
In shades and hues –
So much can be said
For the color red.

COBALT BLUE
By: Hannah Bowles

Cobalt blue, you can
see the light shining
through. The color of
the glass ball I always
wanted, mine was plain
green and the deepness
of the blue it taunted me.
The color of that oversized
marble my sister still owns.
The one I looked at as a teen
when stoned. The one that sits
on her shelf in front of her sink.
The one that all these years later
I look at and think, what a long time
has gone by, and without much warning,
the warmth of salty tears begin forming.

White



An eagles head

Clean sheets on the bed

Frosting on cake

Ice on the lake

An old persons hair

the fur of a polar bear

Clouds up above

Feathers of a dove

Caps on a wavey sea

Blossoms on a tree

Snow that drifts

and wedding gifts

It really is a delight

The color of white!

Blue, Blonde, Ruby-Pink

THE LEGENDARY BEAUTY: “MY Sweet Elena”
© April 2009 by Richard-Merlin Atwater

1. She walks in the majestic glory of true feminine grace.
2. A woman of high caliber and world class distinction.
3. A heavenly wonder as seen in the beauty of her face.
4. Soft blue eyes like ‘reverie’-- and her long blonde hair
like a cascading waterfall attraction.
5. The voluptuousness of her ruby-pink lips my heart enthralls,
6. The womanly figure and mystique of a born "goddess from the skies"
7. She stands in pre-eminence among the souls on earthly ball.
8. As a wondrous lady to behold as I gaze into her eyes.
9. The marvel of her gorgeous body and serene beauty of her face
10. Make requisite the need to capture her essence in eloquent poetry, and melodic song.
11. The loveliness of everything about her as she's dressed in lace
12. Arouses passion, love, desire to have and to hold her in my arms, all night long.
13. This feminine glamour girl made to enslave all the human race in awe!
14. Has been given the wondrous and lovely name, as a Legendary Beauty: "My Sweet Elena".
15. My heart, my mind, yea, even my veritable soul throughout the draw.
16. Is captured forevermore by this goddess woman as I live eternally the dreamer.

Black

Yuk, my husband says
every time I dress in black.
But, I love black, I say.
It’s perfect for my coloring
and it goes with everything,
I can throw on any jacket
with it, so what’s the problem?

You always look like you’re in mourning,
he says, and I know
he’s not far from the truth.
I guess I do wear black more
since my son died.
For me it’s a comforting and
comfortable color,
and a reminder that
my boy is still gone.

White



An eagles head

Clean sheets on the bed

Frosting on cake

Ice on the lake

An old persons hair

the fur of a polar bear

Clouds up above

Feathers of a dove

Caps on a wavey sea

Blossoms on a tree

Snow that drifts

and wedding gifts

It really is a delight

The color of white!

Green

Spring has sprung early this year,
St. Patty's Day also is here.
Green ties and green shirts,
green pants and green skirts.

Green grass and green leaves
Bows on bunnies with green sleeves.
Green drinks and green ice,
green gambling dice.

Green potatoes and green candy
Green sure is dandy!
Aw, the party is over--
Here's a green Four Leaf Clover.

Gray

The skin is thin and dry on the hands she clasps
the same way I do now. My veins like blue earthworms
protrude on the freckled skin of my hands.
Freckles that will soon be age spots
like hers.
The thick hair I was secretly vain about
washes down the drain daily.
Wasn’t I young just yesterday
unable to imagine myself old? Wasn’t she?

[an effort at rondeau]

Green

Green grows sharp, each tender sprout
breaking ground – needles rising out,
pushed by a thimble of busted seed
to stitch a green stitch, slim as a reed
or wide as a celadon cabbage leaf

or high as sequoia’s top green bead
of elongated fibrous shine. The need
of life, this photosynthesis shout.
Green grows

and with green, whether flower or weed,
cornucopias of apples, oats, wheat,
orange carrots, orange oranges, stout
bamboo poles rife with greening beans about
to burst green pods: sustained and pleased
green grows.

SONGS SUNG BLUE

The Birth of The Blues.

Blue.
Almost Blue.
Blue on Blue.
Feelin' Blue.
Song Sung Blue.

True Blue.
Blue Bayou.
Don't It Make My Brown Eyes, Blue.
Blue Sky.
Mr. Blue Sky.

Blue Eyes.
Pale Blue Eyes.
Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain.

Blue Hawaii.
Blue Moon.
Love Is Blue.
Blue Danube.

Lady Blue.
Jackie Blue.
Red Roses For A Blue Lady.

Blue Suede Shoes.
Blue Velvet.
Alice Blue Gown.
Forever In Blue Jeans.
Bell Bottom Blues.

Blue Monday.
Blue Morning, Blue Day.
Blue Days, Black Nights.
Midnight Blue.

Tangled Up In Blue.
Rhapsody In Blue.
Crystal Blue Persuasion.
Out Of The Blue.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading the poems today. In particular I liked "The Sixteenth Blackness" and "The Emerging of White". It is a pleasure to be in the company of so many good poets.

PAD- April 2009
Prompt: Color

The Purple House with Purple Shutters

In a respectable row of beige, white, off white
houses with carefully manicured lawns,
neighbors regard it a nuisance, an eyesore.

The speech teacher’s house
some say pipes dreams or a sense
of truth or how to conquer obstacles.

When you enter at fourteen, there is
nothing but a bare oriental bench and
opaque sliding silk panels.

We lie on jade carpet, release
taut muscles like watch springs on
pungent orchid sands.

We adopt the stranger’s dialect,
incarnate a hunchback who would be king,
a brash leprechaun, a pregnant Cockney lass,
a French maid in armor, and fly by instinct.

We dare to fail and conjure a vale where
no one denies we can soar beyond
the coldest star.

Then we sharply critique, eat hot sausage pizza and
memorize Shaw, Chekov, O’Neill on
the long railroad ride home.

© Gretchen Gersh Whitman April 2009

Red

It's how much I love you with my beating heart,
How my blood pulses through me and so pure,
The low we created and shared together in due time,
Something true and innocent, everlasting and definite,
Or a promise of new things, like spring or new beginnings,
And with a zest from you, I blush into pink, rose or maroon.

Green


How many different thoughts
can one color incite?
Spring, storm waves,
Fuel efficient, recycle,
tornado clouds, turnip tops,
salad makings, starter’s flag,
forest trees, shamrocks,
the eyes of the monster of envy
and that strange modern
American custom of dyeing beer
in honor of St. Paddy. None
matter to me as much as that sprig
of spearmint you tucked
in your careless hair.

Mangled Red

Scifi sun, ray gun’s spot
center, bleeding erratically in-
to sky over darkening beach,
not a bird moving, tide
slough and dully glittering
shuffle. You think of eyes, tongues
out, wagged, arteries burst-
ing into headstrong rivers
seen by leaning up
and over a hideous map,
leading to red blotch-houses
with red blotch-swimming-pools,
then red nooses and loops
of coldly red lassoes, or are
they merged into the red-
masked hangman’s bloody
red axe blade de-
scending on the bystander
too dumbstruck to move,
move, move—before such vio-
lent anger filling your beloved sky
takes you in like a red shawl
of red knives slicing cloud,
sun sliced, the beach lopped,
dead-tread by your lone, skittish
shadow.

Thanks Bruce. I remembered that just as I hit save. Let's just say it was "Los" in translation.

These prompts are really starting to click for me! This is the second day in a row I've written two poems for one prompt. That may not seem like a big deal to some of you, but I was really grappling with the muse coming into April. Thanks, Robert! And great poems today, you guys!


Flesh

When I was a school kid
we had Crayola crayons too.
My favorite was the box of sixty-four
with that little sharpener in the back,
and almost more colors
than a coloring-book fan could imagine,
like melon and thistle and burnt sienna.

And then there was “flesh”,
a color that was a sort of cross
between cream and pink.
In those 50’s days of Dick and Jane
and Father Knows Best,
we didn’t really think
an innocent crayon would insult anyone,
but it did, and rightly so.
Who should presume that we could color
all the faces of humankind with one hue?

They changed it to “peach” in ’62,
and the world suddenly became
a little more tolerant. Just a little.
Today, on this global-village planet,
it seems we could fill that whole box
with sixty-four different colors,
and name each one “flesh”.

"Redness"

When the summer storm rose from an eastern sky
To us the west looked red
Roses of anger heaped on a bush stuck in its thorns
Smarting faces, hatred.

You were watching ‘Caché’ in the living room TV
Blood squirting from a slashed up neck
Headless chickens scattered in an ungainly race
Backwards, forward, again back.

My finger touched a tomato skin shedding light
Of a red ink, darklike –
Wasn’t this what my father’s revolutionary friends
Brought, a newspaper wrapped tight

So not everyone would know how words tumble
Red and angry on our roads?
I thought I saw a word flutter open again, a hue,
Not a name or mundane things like odes.

You thought we had lost our tongues, our attitude
Piled under the redness of shame
Peripheral to storms, deaths, news of constant ruse
And I realized, a color did not need a name.

Cardinal

Not clearly crimson,
or as orangey as scarlet
but a hue distinct.

CONFECTIONERS PINK
BY: Hannah Bowles

My stomach churns
with the pink flower
frosted cake, the one
from my bridal shower
they insisted I take.
All the exercise wasted,
I've made my body slave
again to rid myself of the
things only a moment I tasted.
Get out the jump rope, the kettle
bell and the yoga tape. Work till
I smell and I have sweat running
my nape, like the trail I knew so
well where I fell and broke my ankle
one summer, trying to mountain bike. We
had to hike out for miles it seemed while
the mosquitoes they screamed in our ears and
made my skin sting with the vicious bite of them.

Lilac

Lilac wishes
And honeysuckled dreams
We lived on a tree lined street
And fat, slumbering bees
Buzzed
Languished
But didn’t frighten
All our days were easy
Hazy
Lazy and
Gay
Without a care we’d roam
Always right at home
Comfortable in our own skin
And relishing a lifetime of ease
A flight in a purple haze
Free to be whoever
Whatever
Whenever
Wherever
Lilac cool
Elegant and crisp
With just a hint of something
Pure and sweet
And good
Takes me back to when
I didn’t wish
Or dream or reach for more
A time I
Knew I could…

“Purple”

When I started wearing purple
I even shocked myself
What made me think I could wear a color
that explodes like the ripest plum
whose sun-warmed juices squirt
on the first bite
and dribble down the chin

How could I dare to wear it
when my truer nature
was blue
blue-jean child, rough and tumble
homespun, solid and sad
forget-me-nots, wind-kissed in a field
tall, proud mountain columbine
alone
cool blue water, warm blue sky

I did not go to lavender in pastel shades
acceptable for church on Easter Sunday
with white gloves and patent leather shoes

But purple!
like the robes of a priest preparing
to sacrifice his lord
blood of the lamb

Add blood-red to blue and you get
purple
Passionflower, passionfruit
squeezed into a glass
warm, wet going down
and down
and down
Deep
then pushing, pushing up,
Swelling
fit to burst
Singing in my blood
mingling with my blues

And so I choose to wear purple
Not lunacy, not daring
but somewhat like wearing my skin

Purple

violets by the window
lupines by the door
grapes in a basket
eggplant cut for four

color of the kings
color of the sage
color at the edge of night
color for old age

hyacinths on the table
plums on the plate
orchids near the shelf
roses by the gate

Bruce your poem was fantastic, I forgot about the crayon "flesh"
color. Nice piece!

“Gray”

I’ve always been
been curious
about the unknown

and the extremes
bothered me.

How can you ever be sure
of anything in this world?

In those rare cases
where I have decided
something is either
black or white
I pull it apart further:

is it a very light black or
a very dark white?

My favorite photographs
are not black and white
but gray.

My charcoal gray shirt
summons a beautiful hue
from my otherwise muddy
complexion.

I was conceived
in the gray moonlight
and redeemed in
the gray shadow
of the cross.

Gray is my friend.
Gray is very forgiving.

Shout out to Chev Shire!

White

To market, Tina went with her mother, one day
And saw a white, pretty pearl necklace

Less was the cost and poor she was
Could not afford that white pearl necklace

Saved each dime, in her piggy bank it chimed
And finally purchased that white pearl necklace

Feeling too proud, with her friends she played
Always donning her white, pearl necklace

One day her dad, asked if she loved him much
Would she gift him, her pretty, white pearl necklace?

Doll she offered, favorite book she gave
But, she could not ever part her white pearl necklace.

Days, and months and years passed on
but she always loved her white pearl necklace.

Until one fine day, when she was an adult
Her father switched it with a genuine pearl necklace

All along for many years, in his pocket he had
saved his daughter gift, a real white pearl necklace.

Midnight Blue

My husband watches
a truck with big wheels
pass us on the freeway.
“That’s my favorite color,”
he says. “Midnight blue.”
I watch this same truck
and think to myself
the thing is cobalt.
I share aloud.
He disagrees.
I find other objects
in our car that are colbalt
He calls them midnight blue.
I tell him to pick up a box
of crayons.
We pretend to stand our
ground about this shade
discrepancy, except my ground
is olive and his
just plain green.
The thing is,
our different soils
have made two individuals
see only one color
when their eyes meet.

RETURN OF AUBURN SUMMER

As a boy, I was as all kids were:
tireless, non-fatigable; supposedly invincible.
A power supply fueled by Hostess pies and Dr. Pepper
and a motor that demonstrated
everything a young man could do
with a belly full of caffeine and sugar.
Street football and kick the can.
Camping out in the back yard
and fishing deep behind the tracks.
Carefree days with nothing
but the future in my eyes.

Not only future though,
for sitting there with my bare feet in the water
and my line dancing in the breeze,
I saw it as clear as day.
To everyone else, it was a sunset, nothing more.
But for some reason, I saw something different.
The hues of color that playfully
teased my wide-eyed wonder were brilliant.
Yellows and browns and oranges and reds.
Red-orange.
Auburn!
This was the awakening of my youth.
I saw her for the first time: My Auburn Summer.

The days of my simple boyhood had been
irreversibly changed from the moment
I laid eyes on My Auburn Summer.
She had only been a sunset to my sight
the evening before, but for
some unexplained reason,
she was beautiful that day.
More beautiful than I have ever remembered
anything or anyone looking.
From that time on,
My Auburn Summer filled my heart,
and I craved My Auburn Summer with all my being.

She filled my mind with poetry
of the most fantastic kind,
and a desire to sneak off to see her
every evening at dusk.
She was my obsession,
my first love, and my mistress.
No one could understand my delight in her.
But she knew. She always knew,
My Auburn Summer.

I quickly grew as a man
finding more exotic ways to view My Auburn Summer.
But as I changed, she did also.
Her light had dimmed,
somewhat struck with a weakened capacity.
She seemed to forget how to shine for herself;
how to illuminate me,
And yet I saw nothing in her appearance
that made me love her less.
She was My Auburn Summer.

I attempted to lock her away
only for my eyes. Only for my heart.
I stifled her ability to glow
brightly and effortlessly.
She would shine as best she could,
but her efforts took too much out of her.
In the process, I forgot
how to look at her as I once had.
Once again, I only saw sunset
when she needed me to see My Auburn Summer.
I had lost my vision of her.

More years had passed than I'd care to admit,
seeing me grow to my middle years.
I would always think of My Auburn Summer,
although her beauty was kept from my eyes.
I would look at sunsets and pray
for just a glimmer of my youthful enchantment,
only to be disappointed again and once more.
My Auburn Summer had gone away,
taking with her my very heart,
and every poem that she inspired;
every poem in my mind.
It was not a selfish act, for they belonged to her
as I had given them to her.
I envisioned that she took them out
from time to time and tried to remember
my own glow as I would look upon her,
enraptured with her grace and charm.
But sadly, I had to settle for an ordinary sunset
for the loss of My Auburn Summer.

My search intensified,
needing to rekindle my flame
and find my own beauty which
had been long stolen.
My beauty of song and my beauty of words.
My beauty came from My Auburn Summer.
It was of her. It was for her.
For the more beauty I saw in her,
the more brightly my beacon shone.

One night, I saw her in a glimmer,
just a wish really. Something in her
sparked a memory, as a flint on a stone,
igniting a pyre so deep within me,
burning, as she did so often before.
I had found you in that glimmer,
My Auburn Summer,
gazing with old familiarity,
finding my beauty, my warmth,
my heart and my muse.
For you were my first love, my best love,
you are my ever-lasting love, My Auburn Summer.

Growing in glowing brilliance once more.
I close my eyes at night, and I see you clear as day.
For my dreams are full of the return of you.
My Auburn Summer.


***My Auburn Summer depicts the Summer of 1974, the year I met my first love (obviously a red-haired beauty)***

GRAY

I don’t mind the thickening of the clouds
in the western sky or the way the wind
offers up the damp, musty scent of a pregnant
earth. Birds have been performing since 4 a.m.,
their songs frantic with procreative ardor, and we,
in our own soft nest, linger with each other
in the half-light, behind bedroom curtains,
fingers intertwined, words muted in breathy
whispers. We were married in the spring,
remember? Birds sang like this then, too,
our expectations in tune with theirs. Now,
it’s lovely to be less insistent, ready
for the new depth of how we define love
as we gather ourselves together
before stepping out into the gray drizzle
that nourishes the petals yet to unfold.

Mauvelous

i was 27,
but i felt about 9,
and she said,
draw the feelings,
that words can’t find.

she handed me paper,
a big box of crayons,
so many colors,
but all the wrong feelings

there was mauvelous,
and chestnut, a broken cadet blue,
there was granny smith apple,
red orange, Pacific blue.

i found gold,
carnation pink,
magenta and bittersweet,
sea green, plain orange,
apricot, atomic tangerine.

so many colors,
all the wrong feelings.

Stephanie- Thanks a bunch for the much needed feedback, my two year old just doesn't quite cut it in that department. Happy writing! -Hannah

SEEING RED

I'm seeing red today
my father in a southern springtime
raking and burning
deadfall from the pines
a huge red ring of fire
blackening the earth.
Our kitten runs to him
jumps the flames
loses all
whiskers in that bold action.
I think of that kitten
whenever there's something hard
I must do
and my father raking his
piece of ground
the red ring around him
getting bigger and bigger
until it burns us all.

Blue

My favorite color is blue
All varieties of this shade will do
From dressy navy to baby to jeans
And every tint in between
I gravitate to this hue

I also really like purple
But nothing rhymes with purple
So what could I do
How about royal blue?
In the right lighting it looks like purple!

SEEING RED

I'm seeing red today
my father in a southern springtime
raking and burning
deadfall from the pines
a huge red ring of fire
blackening the earth.
Our kitten runs to him
jumps the flames
loses all
whiskers in that bold action.
I think of that kitten
whenever there's something hard
I must do
and my father raking his
piece of ground
the red ring around him
getting bigger and closer
until it burns us all.

He wraps me up

in gold, a whole
canvas of glowing.
I brighten
into Judith,
fin-de-siècle femme
fatale, stroking the severed
head with slender wrist,
pearls luring
from my lips, face
under halo of darkness,
eyes half-closed,
calling visitors to the wall,
where I am leashed
to his canvas,
beheaded by gold.

Turquoise

Semi-precious stone set in silver
vibrant jacket
deepest water of the Gulf
when I see you
when I wear you
I feel more alive
I feel more me
I embrace turquoise
and life.

Green

Green is a Sybil color
With a plume of personalities
Lost in frightful jealousy
And inexperienced love regrets,
Envious wished plights
And supple virginal forms,
Golf grounds shorn short
And currency in stacked wads,
Environmentally friendly intentions
And immature devotions,
Campus lawns sunbathing
And budding minds lost in thought.

Yellow

I love,
Little yellow chicks,
Yellow 'dobe bricks,
Yellow guitar picks,
And the rising sun.

I love,
Bumblebees that are yellow,
Evenings that are mellow,
My granddaughter's hello,
And the setting sun.

I hate
Fevers that are yellow,
Communist travelers that are fellow,
A badly playing cello,
And bad dreams.

I love,
Yellow little blooms,
Yellow corn straw brooms,
Cheery yellow rooms,
And sunny window beams.

But I like purple, too.

A color and as a broken rondeau.

Seeing Red

Our land: Back Off Government!!! A rarer set,
rural signs (of fishing not inter-) are: Net~!,
Gas, Live Bait 'n' Ice Cream Fireworks Gift Shop
Your Dock & Deck Specialists. Best Truck Stop
2 Buck Breakfasts, FR3SH LO3STErS. Guitars sweat

the blues dropped. Softly, our losses are debts
but waxing nostalgic spatters the carpet.
an ice cube makes brittle, knife up off pop
or iron (towel, paper cloth) melts, sop.
salt or champagne for red wine. cigar? pets?

Our land stains, textures lost in the discarded.
What are you feelings towards my man? (Guarded
mumble reply): I'm fond of the guy. Chop
shop welding torch eyes! She misheard. Stop
fight! Not "I fondled the guy." Cigarettes. Back off.

Marie, Your piece was crystally transparent. I saw right through it. It was as if it wasn't even there. Your vision was most obviously....um, what's the word I'm looking for? Oh yeah, CLEAR! I think that one allows you to drop the "aspiring" tag from your title. Say it with me, "I AM A POET!" Now the "awe"'s on the other foot.

“Turquoise Cars”

She saw turquoise cars for days
Lining up on the freeways

Surrounding her like a comfort cocoon
Protection from road rage buffoons

It was her mother’s way, she said
Of saying hello, though mother was dead

A sign from beyond the blue
That mother is always with you

Grandma wore turquoise and not
A dainty little bit.

Big bold Indian gems
Jewels in green and blue tones

Wise warrior woman’s grail
Silver cover for the shaman’s tail

White strands with Earth stones poking through
Yet, she was a little white lady from the North and South

With brown soft native skin
A little pink house to live in

Which she built with her own two hands and brevity
When she was a mere youngster of seventy

When the drunkard smashed her car
She battled in totem war

Smoked a pipe with Geronimo
Toasted sherry in the bonfire’s glow, then

After while thought of us
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust;

Chuckled with a mischievous laugh and
Filled up those turquoise cars with gas

Silver

It is my highlight within moonlight,
Adding a hint of glamour to midnight.
The arrow flash that can pierce the heart,
A refracted glint from an unknown start,
Keeping the thunder laced world alight.

I cherish its subtle nature, not too bright
Nor too dull, it admits its own sunlight,
Dappled into a black hued oil of art,
It is my highlight.

A color found while twirling in starlight,
While my soul strains to hold too tight
As it bathes in hues while trying to dart
Into an aurora borealis that comes to part
The waves of bright colours streaming tonight,
It is still my highlight.

Hello, I am Yellow

yellow daffodil
peeping sweetly thru the earth
hello it is spring

Green


All through the month of March
We have waited for the grass
To turn green and now it is
April and yes, the grass is
The ripe color of early apples.
The bright green of the green
Crayon in the box of crayons
Or the green of the stoplight
That tells us when we can go
And now I want to go and walk
Barefoot across its wet surface
And let the blades tickle my
Feet and know that I am still
Here and still able to touch
The world and let it touch me.

Green

Green was
They said
The new black
Green was
They said
Calming and soothing
So they painted the
Blackboard in the classroom
Green
And everyone
Was calm
Personally
I think it was
Martin Hughes
The kid with the catapult
Moving to Manchester
That helped

Blue

Her mood on most days,
while dreaming of British Columbia skies,
the biggest and bluest she's ever seen.
She walks along her California beach
in a straight line, past all of the people
the noise and the commotion, along the
clear water and watches the sand kick up
into her flip flops as she walks
and raises her head to look into her sky,
and wonders if someone is doing the same thing -
while dreaming of her.

RED

RED

Red is vivid,
Feisty.
Red is me,
Found.
Red is autumn,
Dancing.
Red is warm,
Sexy.
Red is cinnamon and apples and sweet sugary pie,
Comfort.
Red is what I want to be when I grow up.

Red by Lynn Potter

in the recess of my mind
I imagine

the sights and sounds of
the greatest love ever shown

It is hot
and very noisy.

Confusion and chaos,

whips and screams,

agonizing torture.

Drip
Drip
Drip

as He walked the hill

The color of love.

(Day 16,) April 16, 2009


The Color of His Love Is RED

The color of His love is RED
He hung on the cross, his blood was shed.
To wash away all our sins,
So that our new life could begin.

The color of His love is RED
When they placed thorns up on his head.
his love he did freely give
He died so we all could live.

In the tomb he did lay
Three whole days he did stay
He conquered death when he arose,
He had vanquished all our woes.

The promise of salvation is clear,
It's to all those who truely hear.
God will be our saving grace,
When we meet him face to face.

Green

The fingers
are slender and small
waving and flirting
unashamedly
at others nearby
who are trying
to remain
poised
and aloof.

The fingers run
their hands
aimlessly
through
their hair
shaking
loose
all the winter
debris.

The leaves
are now set
for their
summer date
with the trees!

Gold

It's a shiny color
A color that dreams are made of
It sparkles on the arm
And glows in the vault.

Men have killed for it
Sought it in lost cities
Gone West in search of it
It is the ultimate Temptress.

A color of such importance
It's been called the highest standard
Been heralded as the grandest era
Proclaimed to be the greatest touch.

It's a status symbol
And a metaphoric symbol
Of all that is great
All that stand above the rest.

It is gold,
Clearly the best.

Vermilion

She’s the one in vermilion
Brilliant in bed
The best looking Chilean
Resilient he said
She looks great riding pillion
Thrilling in bright red

True Blue


Robin egg blue, royal blue,
Navy blue, sky blue,
Paul Newman’s eyes blue.

Texas bluebonnet blue, iris blue,
Turquoise blue, or agate blue
Mediterranean blue vs. ocean blue
Which blue is your favorite hue?

By favourite poem Robert, do you mean of all the poems posted, or of the ones you've written and posted yourself? I'm just wondering...Sharon I.

Light Blue

They said he entered in a blur
Then without warning he took her
Though may witnessed the abduction
Few were able to see past the obstruction

The obstruction created by his speed
He Ran in fast
There was no time for anyone to plead
His image just did not last

What one person did see
will remain in everyone's memory
That is to tell, if they do
For all he saw was light blue. . .

Ralph J. Fitcher, April 16, 2009, Color Poem.
Not one of my best, but I have been out painting a fence all day, and I am just too tired to do better. Sorry.

Cadmium Yellow Medium

Throbs with life
Color I see in the sun
When my eyes are closed
Petals on sunflowers,
Skin of an over ripe lemon,
Corn kernels
Sun against the horizon

Underneath
Baby grass,
Tangerine sky,
Hot things,
Warm skies,
Silky persimmons
Spiky palm leaves

Squeezed from a lead tube
Atomic poison
Consume it
Take the sunshine in my blood
Glow like fire or the terrible sun

here is another one just because I feel like it ....

Flesh

A color of many shades
One flesh no better then another
And yet the first thought,
Your first thought of that color
Is your own flesh
The one in which you reside
Alone
You cannot deny it,
The one flesh most precious to you
No other to match it exactly
And yet there is no one
Perfect flesh
Flesh that is as diverse as man
And the universe in which all
Human flesh, as we know it lives
We are all judged for it,
Because of it, this color
On this color of flesh
Could you, would you recognize
Anyone without it?
Even yourself?
A color that is flesh changes
In the sun, the shade,
And then at last in the grave


http://paigeofabook.blogspot.com/

God is Green

Leafy lush,
every fern and tree
a different shade.
Crops across the hills,
a new deciduous quilt, dirt
and chlorophyll, the off-
lime stripes of wide lawns.
Aquamarine chlorine pools,
fat tourmaline boxwood hedges,
thin blades of emerald grass,
mint pale sprouts.

Mosses, verdant and urgent,
plow-turned fields,
dotted with sprout-tender tips, emergent -
leaping up into verdurous miniature towers.
Cornfields and orchards, mowed and wild,
roadside, weedy; virescent wood, virid ditch
and vivid vale, a forest, velvet with verdure;
verdigris canopy of sycamore and oak leaf,
valley. carpeted with farm fields, flanking.

Pink

That pale dawn shade
And morning’s blades of pink that cut the sky
To dew-bright tears;
That bloodless dawn
That waking from the hours of restless sleep
Can’t keep from crying;
Forgotten dreams
Are dying with the misbegotten lies
Of enmity
And shock and awe
Are death. The shade of morning only mourns
The waking breath.

OMG - Rachel G! I very nearly did Mauvelous! You clever girl, you!!! And what a brilliant, poignant, lovely poem you wrote with this color, too!

(I ended up using Atomic Tangerine instead only because I thought the name was so funny/quirky - and I usually write funny/quirky.)

God is Green

Leafy lush,
every fern and tree
a different shade.
Crops across the hills,
a new deciduous quilt, dirt
and chlorophyll, the off-
lime stripes of wide lawns.
Aquamarine chlorine pools,
fat tourmaline boxwood hedges,
thin blades of emerald grass,
mint pale sprouts.

Mosses, verdant and urgent,
plow-turned fields,
dotted with sprout-tender tips, emergent -
leaping up into verdurous miniature towers.
Cornfields and orchards, mowed and wild,
roadside, weedy; virescent wood, virid ditch
and vivid vale, a forest, velvet with verdure;
verdigris canopy of sycamore and oak leaf,
valley. carpeted with farm fields, flanking.

REVISED: I hated the last two endings. Forgive me for posting again. --Theresa

SEEING RED
I'm seeing red today
my father in a southern springtime
raking and burning
deadfall from the pines
a huge red ring of fire
blackening the earth.
Our kitten runs to him
jumps the flames
loses all
whiskers in that bold action.
I think of that kitten
whenever there's something hard
I must do
and my father raking his
piece of ground
the red ring around him
getting bigger, spreading
out to burn the world.

RJ - thanks!! That's so funny, I hadn't read your poem until just now -- what is the chance we'd pick up the same box of Crayola crayons, eh? ;)

Verdigris

He sat hunched over his whiskey at the end of the bar
Pretending she hadn’t just blown through the door
Tried in vain to hear the music pumping out of the jukebox
As her heels tapped their way to him, marking the floor

Her scent reached him first, fulsome and strong
As she swung her body onto the stool beside his
He tried hard not to notice, not to glance her way
But she undid him right then, besides he needed to whiz

So mumbling some nonsense he stumbled away
But not before she had a chance to reach out
Lay her hand on his arm with her long sparkling nails
Whisper huskily, entreating him not to be a lout

Wending her wiles she lowered her lashes and smiled
Coquettish as ever, she laughed low in her throat
Sounding sexy and inviting and he knew he’d return
If only because she had a hold of his coat

What was it he wondered that made her so irresistible?
Made it impossible for him to find peace
Then zipping his fly, he pictured her hands
And her nails, they were verdigris

In all his life, he’d never known such a woman
Her behaviour could drive him half mad
But those greenish-blue nails at the tips of her fingers
Just seeing them made him foolishly glad

He would think they were done, he was over her
Even though he spent most every day drunk
Then he would spot an old statue with a ruined patina
And like that, he would be deep down in a funk

At first he was bewildered, wondered if he’d gone nuts
Thought perhaps some screw had come loose
Then one day regarding some old copper thing, it hit him
And he marvelled at how long he’d been so obtuse

For ruination and science and acids and such
Went hand in hand with his lady love’s nails
And verdigris is a shade you don’t find very often
Every other colour beside it just pales

still working on my "official" entry for today, but in the spirit of its struggle...




a writer’s hue to-do


red embraces yellow
scarlet and amber, too.
grey goes nice with anything
when you’re feeling blue.

purple smiles at powder pink.
silver and slate, surreal.
and rose by any name, i think
would make a friend of teal.

turquoise loves magenta
green and gold, just right.
so why is it so very hard
to just get black on white?

Red

Red runs hot
heat of passion,
sizzles, burns,
lasting love.

Heat of hate
denies love
knife pierces
crimson heart,
wound bleeds,
red blood runs
red runs strong
life is gone.

Mary Kling

Black Day White Night

past three a.m.
on this pitch-black night
nobody is about
no cars no trucks
speeding on their way
with the business of the day

it is night and too dark to see
the spray of flowers
fastened to the streetlight
marking the spot
where the young boy died

earlier today
his family
knelt down
and fastened his bike
now spray-painted white
and chained it
to the sign

warning drivers
to slow down
and children to reflect
before venturing
into the dangers
of the busy road
lest no other mother
should grieve like this

and in that moment
devoid of light
his mother
leaves the brightest glow
of her soul
on the dead end of the curb
and travels home alone
unsure of how she arrives there
and falls fitfully to sleep

and the boy rides
and rides on
in his mother’s dreams
white wheels spinning
emitting a blurred carnival trail
memories of ferris wheel lights
where mother and child
swirled around and around
blending yesterday and today
smiles and laughter
roll down the road

and far away
from the rigidity
of the warning sign
finally unchained
the boy rides
and rides on
and the open road
is all his own
and it’s nobody’s business
what he does with the night

Blue

To hold off the blues
is to immerse yourself in all its many hues--
the funkiness of indigo and
the elegance of sapphire
the regality of royal
the fragility of robin's egg
the security of powder-blue
the loneliness of midnight

Bathe in aqua waters
Breathe in azure air
Roll in Kentucky blue grasses
Loll in blue mountains--no cares

Eat blueberries--
bake them into a pie
Sing the Blues soulfully
'til tears spill from your eyes
Tease and tickle the blues
Pamper and entertain them
Then send them out the door
with a pinch and a kiss good-bye

Green (After Tax Day)

Yesterday, we were too much buried—
in desks, in papers, in news
that we never should hear. My dreams are bad:
Poor polar bear, swimming in the middle of
A sea, no land in sight; papers giving us
Poor reports (the words in hieroglyphics);
A witch knocking at our door, wanting
Money and our water, our house, our child.
Outside, the lawns burst
With roots and buds, with beetle and spider
Making their new paths. If there is a day
To shine, to step into a lighted road, a curve up
A hill, I will. On the player
Ella sings her soul into us. We won’t talk today,
We won’t bring ourselves to each other, like we did
When we were new and kissed each other awake.

Saffron

Turmeric, cayenne, cinammon --
a spice rack full of the exotic,
colors tease the eyes,
aromas and flavors zap the tongue,
the best of them unnoticed at first,
then blossoming into wonder

like a blue pottery bowl
tucked behind the mangoes displayed
at the back of a stall in the bazaar

you stumble, dazed by relentless sunlight,
shoved by people in white robes and headscarves,
stunned by the sun and the dust and the music
of camel bells, the muzzeins ululating
call to prayer.

Hunkered in the cool shade,
your eyes adjust to darkness
and the bowl beckons,
a deep azure the color of Kansas skies
when you lay on your back
between the rows of towering corn.

So you turn away from the bright bangles
and painted leather bags and boots,
and barter your last piastre for the thing
that reminds you most of home.

Day 16: prompt. Colour (this is the Canadian spelling...not a typo :-)
April 16, 2009

I couldn’t chose just one colour…it’s not fair
to the rest. So this poem is inspired by a rainbow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

sovereign crossing

by faye e. arcand

warm light stretched from her being
everything changed colour
the world opened
up and out
there were no limits
she could soar

energy coursed passionately
through her veins
pulsating with the heat of the sun
the air embraced her
like a cloak draped serenely
upon her shoulders
she was safe

she floated easily to the heavens
touched the suppleness of the clouds
and faded into the
cerulean openness of the sky
free

the vibrant spectrum of the rainbow
radiated from her hands
supreme exuberance unlocked
she studied them

awe and rapture enveloped her
she swayed lightly with the breeze
carried by swollen currents
the underside loved and cradled her

there was no fear
no pain
only
luminosity and brilliance

never again would she fade back
to life’s cruel paralysis
obscurity and distraction
forever gone
an Angel home this day