Editors Blog

2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 19

At the beginning of the challenge, there’s a lot of excitement about starting; at the end of the challenge, there’s excitement (and sadness) over finishing the challenge; but in the middle, it’s kind of like the dog days of summer–at least for some. For me, each day is a new challenge. And speaking of challenges, don’t forget to check out my poetic challenge with a $500 grand prize (deadline: May 15). Click here for more details.

For today’s prompt, pick a color, make the color the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. You can make your poem black, white, red, purple, turquoise, puce, or whatever your heart desires. And the subject of your poem can cover any topic–as long as you’ve plugged a color into the title. Let’s do this!


Get feedback on your poetry!

If you want some professional feedback on your poeming efforts, the Writer’s Digest Advanced Poetry Writing course is a great place to start.

Click here for more details.


Here’s my attempt at a Color in the Title Poem:


my father would cover the windows
with heavy blankets the only light

a digital clock that counted slow
the minutes i didn’t have patience

but i knew how to listen and keep
silent i often wonder if he

knew i wouldn’t tell years later when
i did he said he could remember

nothing but admitted it could’ve
happened a decade keeping secrets

and keeping them alone that hurt most
father asking if i loved him and

saying to not tell a secret we
must keep and me wanting to escape


Today’s guest judge is…

Thomas_Lux_poetThomas Lux

Thomas Lux’s most recent book of poems is Child Made of Sand (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012). Selected Poems is due from Bloodaxe Books this fall.

He is also the author of several other books, including The Cradle Place and God Particles. In addition to poetry collections, Tom is the author of From the Southland, a book of literary nonfiction.

He holds the Bourne Chair in Poetry and is director of the McEver Visiting Writers Program at the Georgia Institute of Technology. He has been awarded multiple NEA grants and the Kingsley Tufts Award and is a former Guggenheim Fellow.

Click here to learn more.


PYHO_Small_200x200Poem Your Heart Out

Poems, Prompts & Room to Add Your Own for the 2014 April PAD Challenge!

Words Dance Publishing is offering 20% off pre-orders for the Poem Your Heart Out anthology until May 1st! If you’d like to learn a bit more about our vision for the book, when it will be published, among other details.

Click to continue.


Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. The title poem from that collection is about the relationship mentioned in the poem above. Learn more about Robert here: http://www.robertleebrewer.com/.


Color your life with these poetic posts:


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724 thoughts on “2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 19

  1. Andrea Z


    I open my top desk drawer,
    the designated pen drawer
    to make my selection
    for my latest writing session.
    There’s a rainbow of colors –
    big and small pens,
    retractable or capped pens,
    pens with a fine point,
    pens that write thick, like a marker
    blue pens, black pens, purple pens,
    even orange and yellow pens!
    I reach into the drawer
    and choose a red pen.
    Out of them all,
    red remains my favorite ink color.

  2. j.wessier101

    Rookwood Red

    The color of secrets in an era of speakeasies,
    of hidden doors and covert coupling,
    of bobbed flappers, tainted and tinted –

    The color of things better left unsaid,
    of silky unmentionables,
    of stained cheeks and reputations.

    The color of smeared lipstick,
    shaded eyes, and shadier lies.
    And counterpoint to all that deep
    Red – the bottomless Blues

  3. IndiFox

    Favourite Colours

    Mum’s favourite colour is red
    Red like the blood
    Waz coughed up
    When our father forced him to eat
    A full box of cigarettes
    Waz’s favourite colour is green
    Green like the money
    Our father took from Tia
    And never gave back
    Tia’s favourite colour is pink
    Pink like the bacon
    Our father tried to shove down my throat
    When I stopped eating pigs
    At age eight
    My favourite colour is black
    Black like the eyes
    Ian would get from our father
    On the few times he disobeyed
    Ian’s favourite colour is purple
    Purple like the bruises
    We’d see on our mother
    After a disagreement
    With our father
    I’m not sure what our father’s favourite colour is
    But I think it’s blue
    Like the blue tears I didn’t cry
    When he was finally out of my life

  4. kevinwiatrowski

    The long brown cigarettes
    were delicate, lady-like —
    Virginia Slims, or maybe Mores.
    You said they were healthier
    than Winstons or Marlboros.
    You knew better, of course.
    You were a man of facts,
    a man who knew the rules.
    But grammar had less stamina than
    the long brown cigarettes
    that smoldered on deadline
    in abandoned film canisters
    scattered around the newsroom.
    Years later, when the long clear tube
    kept you hooked to the oxygen machine,
    did you think back to all
    the long brown cigarettes
    you’d held pinched between your lips
    as you edited the obituaries?

  5. Benjamin Thomas


    Color me black
    and see me fade
    Color me grey
    and bask in my shade
    Color me blue
    and see me wade
    Color me white
    and whiff the purity
    Color me orange
    witness the surety
    of vibrance

  6. bookworm0341

    “Colors of life”

    Red is the color of love
    Resembling the heart’s
    Steady pounding when it has fallen
    Is shared between two people

    Orange is the color of youth
    The sun rises and sets
    On the young minds gaining knowledge
    To bring forth a better tomorrow

    Yellow is the color of happiness
    Bright and cheery
    Like a birthday balloon and the sunshine
    On a perfect summer day

    Green is the color of growth
    Resembling the grass
    It can be swayed by the wind yet remains planted
    in the ground due to its strong root system

    Blue is the color of loyalty
    The sense of peace and calm
    Felt when you know there is someone
    Who would be by your side always

    Yet, on the flip-side of that same rainbow…

    Blue is the color of despair
    Tears streaming down
    Collecting in a jar
    Each hurt recorded down

    Green is the color of envy
    Like nausea stirred up
    From the pit of their stomach
    keeping one held hostage and bound

    Yellow is the color of a coward
    One who doesn’t take a stand
    And would rather sit on the fence
    Or even hide behind it in fear

    Orange is the color of caution
    A warning sign before proceeding
    Unsure of which path to take
    And who to trust along the way

    Red is the color of anger
    Resembling an all consuming fire
    Raging on in the hardened heart
    And that is quite the opposite of love

    By Jennifer M. Terry
    April 19, 2014

  7. ianchandler


    not the glaucous jacket
    of a morning plum,
    but the loud afternoon
    of a PT Cruiser with wood paneling
    in this shade.

    you like to pop, to pump up,
    to rocket yourself into starlight,
    everything there being
    the best damn thing imaginable.

    we are two bananas,
    I with cancerous splotches,
    you perfectly ripe,
    but still
    we eat one another
    and hope
    to meet the emperor

  8. Evelyn Philipp


    It was a hot
    day and
    the room was humid
    and close.
    Fans whirred and
    kept the flies away
    while we waited.

    The young man
    came to us,
    handsome and
    armed with
    a beautiful

    His eyes were,
    the same as his shirt
    and a bright desert sky
    but cold.

    Icy and distant
    but I
    didn’t notice that
    until later

    When I asked for
    extra sauce
    my taco.

    1. Evelyn Philipp


      It was a hot
      day and
      the room was humid
      and close.
      Fans whirred and
      kept the flies away
      while we waited.

      The young man
      came to us,
      handsome and
      armed with
      a beautiful

      His eyes were blue,
      the same as his shirt
      and a bright desert sky
      but cold.

      Icy and distant
      but I
      didn’t notice that
      until later

      When I asked for
      extra sauce
      my taco.

  9. shethra77

    Ruby Red

    Ruby red has many reds
    Color of cherry Corvettes
    Cherries hanging ripe from trees
    (those the birds don’t eat)
    fresh plumage of the cardinal
    preening and singing at the bird feeder
    a deep red feeder for hummingbirds
    and brilliant trembling red of flowers
    on Standing Cyprus.
    My honey’s lips when he stands
    up in the morning and reaches for his cane

  10. clcediting


    I never liked the color red,
    too brash, too bold
    and me a timid wallflower
    pressed against the drapery.

    IT was not a color I chose
    to wear that day
    I’m not sure where the blouse
    even came from,
    certainly not my own closet.

    But there it was,
    the last clean
    button-up shirt,
    waiting patiently to be worn,
    confident that I’d get around to it

    Someday became today
    as time ticked away
    and I was already late
    for the very important meeting
    to decide my place in the company.

    So, on went the red
    and out through the door;
    to the car, to the company,
    to the meeting.

    All eyes were upon me that day
    for maybe the first time ever.
    When I spoke people listened,
    as if, for some reason, I mattered.
    And when all was said and done
    the chairwoman said “Good job,”
    but meant,
    “Nice shirt.”

  11. larrywlawrence


    Wish I had one more chance
    for one more game with him.
    The only time we ever went.
    Should’ve asked a guy to take a
    photograph of me with my father,
    way up high in Neyland Stadium.

    Wish I had one more chance
    to snap a photo of the 106,000 fans
    in orange, singing Rocky Top as the
    Pride of the Southland Band forms
    a big T for the team to run through,
    led by everyone’s hero, Johnny Majors.

    Wish I had one more chance
    to get a picture of Carl Pickens,
    star wide receiver, stretching out in
    the famous checkerboard end zone.
    I still hear the call of “Give him 6!”
    and the howl of the blue tick hound.

  12. lily black

    They say cures depression
    I keep it around my neck
    Dangle it from my ears
    Have a chunk upon my wrist
    Painted the door to the house
    Bought sheets pillows
    A comforter too
    So far
    I am a deeper shade of blue.

  13. PenConnor

    Coffee Kisses (a Somonka)

    I long for your lips
    as warm and red as this cup.
    The coffee, I sip,
    to wake me from my dreaming,
    of you in your pajamas.

    We’re out of coffee;
    you left the empty pot on.
    I long for a sip,
    but I’m running late. I’ve time
    for a quick, red kiss.

    1. PenConnor


      Coffee Kiss (a Somonka)

      I long for your lips
      as warm and red as this cup.
      The coffee, I sip,
      to wake me from my dreaming,
      of you in your pajamas.

      We’re out of coffee;
      you left the empty pot on.
      I long for a sip,
      but I’m running late. I’ve time
      for a quick, red, coffee kiss.

  14. JRSimmang


    The winery started as a small family thing, two-hundred or so acres devoted to the reunion of the grandchildren who at one point or another walked barefooted across every inch until they itched with wonder and bled with the blood of discovery,

    but the auburn sunset set all too early and before the birds had the motive to pluck the eyes from the potato-skinned scarecrows, the grandfather set down his pitchfork and slept under the vines, the purple twisted vines with the powdery glossiness of the grapes descending like heaven onto his pale pale face.

    They laughed at his funeral, and the next day an offering was made.

    Now, the jams and jellies are served on little baguettes perfectly paired with the wine they drank while he ascended into the clouds.

    -JR Simmang

  15. horselovernat

    Aquamarine by Natalie Gasper

    The world is a different place now.
    Reading through dusty books,
    the kind written in old English
    where the words are rich with meaning,
    shows that much is true.

    Nowadays being alone is almost taboo.
    Goodness forbid someone drinks an Earl Grey
    by themselves; there must be something
    wrong with them sitting in that corner,
    reading the daily news.

    Maybe that makes me an outcast then.
    There are times where I prefer solitude
    over the strains of being a sociable person,
    with all of the meaningless chatter and gossip
    about topics in which I have no real interest.

    Sometimes all I want is a simple change.
    Take off to West Auckland and make my way
    to Lion Rock on Pihu beach, where I can be
    alone with the unforgettable sights
    and the gentle lapping of aquamarine waves.

  16. Susan Budig


    He wore a safari hat to his cousin’s wedding
    Thinking he was hip and oh-so-stunning
    He’d tucked a five-dollar bill into the envelope
    I’d brought for the newly-weds and told me
    to sign his name to the card, too

    Thinking he was hip and oh-so-stunning
    He swaggered onto the dance floor
    with a rose tight in his teeth, thorns removed
    No one moved until my mother elbowed me

    He’d tucked a five-dollar bill into the envelope
    But I could see that he’d fingered right past
    The two twenties and a ten also in his billfold

    I’d brought a wrapped gift for the newly-weds, too
    A set of coasters with room for their honeymoon photos

    He’d have liked to put his own portrait into those coasters frames

  17. Michelle Murrish

    Tomato Red
    By Michelle Murrish

    Is it sad that the thing I’ve loved most dearly
    Was a chicken sandwich I had for lunch once
    To this day I still remember the flavors
    The perfect ratio of mayonnaise to bread
    Chicken to prosciutto topped with tomato and lettuce
    The colors were so rich and did not disappoint
    The experience is memorialized in my heart
    Like a love lost to time
    Or at least I think it was mayonnaise
    I guess I’m not quite sure

  18. Connie Inglis

    Rhapsody Lilac

    If these walls,
    now rhapsody lilac walls,
    could talk,
    layer upon
    opaque layer of
    each color
    revealing a
    distinct image from the
    painter’s mind–to create
    a mood,
    a feeling.

    If this skin,
    now age-spotted skin,
    could talk,
    layer upon
    translucent layer of
    not covering but blending,
    gossamer images from the
    inner heart and soul–to create
    a mood,
    a feeling,
    a life.

  19. SugarMagnolia


    Deep like the ocean that goes on for miles
    And engulfs me in its waves of happiness and calm
    Clear like the sky when no clouds obscure my view
    Making possibilities seem endless
    Vibrant like the flower awakening
    After a long winter rest saying hello to the world
    Crystal like your eyes that I get lost in
    Even after all these years drawing me in

  20. Mariya Koleva

    Red or Violet

    Yellow as the sun
    has always been my fancy colour
    Though they say
    yellow flowers mean hate.

    Yet, it’s always black
    that I give in answer
    to the age-old girlish question.

    While in truth violet
    and red, all types of red,
    wake my smile
    and my dream.

  21. SuziBwritin

    PAD CHALLENGE APRIL 2014 #19 Color Poem

    I hate brown
    I know it’s the color of the dirt
    that grows the plants
    that give us food and H2O
    I know it’s the color of chocolate
    gravy, hamburgers, and
    my lovely daughter’s eyes
    that she inherited from my father
    I still hate brown
    the final color of the leaves in the fall
    and dog pooh
    and mousy hair like mine
    the way the grass and trees look
    when they are dormant
    any other color, even gray
    anything but brown!

  22. Jay Sizemore


    Your voice is a roman candle,
    an orange explosion of sparks.
    White lines radiate from every movement
    like comic book emphasis for the wrong reason.
    Thunder is lightning in reverse,
    in my house, making the walls a disco.
    Opening a door comes with an epilepsy warning.
    The night is full of colors,
    fluorescent painted ghosts appearing
    with every passing car
    or scrape of wind against not wind.

  23. LeighSpencer


    like shy Gollum
    in the corner
    of the thrift shop dressing room

    I never

    would have even tried
    the little dress on

    But she made me

    I don’t mean that as
    a figurative excuse

    My cheerful friend
    and shopping companion
    shoved the dress into my arms


    “Just shut up and put it on!”

    Impossible challenge one – complete
    It actually zipped

    Impossible challenge two – pending
    Actually stepping out of the dressing room

    A total stranger told me I looked stunning


    She didn’t scrutinize
    the visible flabby underparts of my arms
    when I wave them
    like I’m dancing
    or having a seizure

    Like I did

    My friend snapped a picture with her phone
    to send to my husband

    He approved
    by way of the
    wonderfully vulgar comments
    I married him for

    So I bought the dress

    Hoping three weeks was enough time
    to find the perfect accessory

    to actually wear it

    It was strapless

    It was sparkly

    It was red

  24. KiManou

    True Hue

    Depends on the day you’re asking
    Yesterday I was yellow like the daffodils out my window
    Today I am a true blue
    not royal,
    more like that somber blue when dusk takes over
    Some days I’m white like stratocumulus clouds
    drifting without destination
    And other days I am fallow
    like barren land left untouched, craving salvation
    Tomorrow I could be sweet red like vintage wine
    or I can be
    any shade of black like coal or ebony
    poetic, deep and elegant
    Just depends on the day you’re asking me
    I’m always a true hue

  25. Blaise


    Pacific islanders could not see
    the Western ships right offshore,
    I cannot recall purple as a child.
    Blue and gold for school colors.
    Red, white and blue the flag.
    Blue and gray of the Civil War.
    Green on St. Patty’s Day.
    Surely there was a purple crayon,
    though my favorite was blue-green,
    even teal not in my pool of words.
    Purple was later exotic
    on a senior prom corsage,
    orchid for Mother’s Day.
    But not in my world
    of white T shirts and black socks,
    not wanting to be ridiculed.
    What kind of abuse
    would purple have brought in that era?
    Easier now when purple is primary,
    and men can even wear pink,

  26. Penny Henderson


    Intricate interwoven threads,
    a web of complex design,
    hung at a window
    to soften reality,
    or falling from a bride’s tresses,
    pushed aside for kisses.
    A circle under a blood red vase
    of fragrant narcissus.
    A woman weaves her dreams
    into thin white lace

  27. TuLife

    “Tyrian Purple”
    By: Tuere Aisha

    My tall, exquisite prince
    standing in pure grace,
    as knowledge and acceptance
    pervades your handsome face.

    My fine, beautiful prince
    positioned so strong,
    I explore your blameless eyes
    and discover no wrong.

    My gorgeous, original prince
    posing with affection,
    never minding others opinions,
    steadfast in your position.

    My wise, astute prince
    displaying such charm,
    sharing your smile,
    liable for no harm.

    My bright, slender prince,
    confident in all you do,
    giving me assurance
    that for me, there’s only you.

  28. lethejerome


    Who, in the middle of the Prairies
    over a lack of sedimental pressure
    on anticipating life-threatening labour
    away from mines and their underworld
    under no charm of romanticized Han classicism
    among the brush and forestfires
    along trap lines and willows and Saskatoon bushes,

    Finds the right tinge of green
    To describe your yet unopened
    And creates a bed
    For all that would flow

    In me?

    Jérôme Melançon

  29. David Walker

    Seafoam Green

    She asks me what I think and I
    tell her, “Great.” Honestly, it is
    the fiftieth variation on green
    I have seen this afternoon and
    I just want the torment to stop.
    We are remodeling the bathroom,
    not restoring a Van Gogh, as long
    as it isn’t yellow, I could care
    less. But I need to care, because
    if I show any inkling of appeasing
    to simply get back to the house,
    she’ll shove the swatch in my
    face and ask me, “No, really.
    What do you think?” To her this
    color is the same color our boy
    will grow up abhorring and repressing
    because it’s what he’ll stare at
    when he fails time and time again
    in potty training. It’s the color
    guests will stare at every dinner
    party and imagine their own
    rooms covered in a slightly
    altered, immeasurably better, color
    before coming back and swooning
    over our choice. It’s the color
    of OUR bathroom. But to me
    it’s the color that I’ll associate
    with the smelliest part of our
    house so I could care less
    if it’s Seafoam, Evergreen,
    or Tropic Paradise. A green
    is a green is a green is a green.

  30. JayGee2711


    I remember playing tag
    at twilight, streetlights blinking
    on like stars.
    And later, midnight rain,
    through open windows
    words to prayers
    we thought were
    meant for us.

    Julie Germain

  31. Yolee

    Blood Red

    It is the wash that will change humanity.
    But for the time being, my 29 year old son
    is an epistle of health as he carves the utility
    table his aunt Elizabeth needs to fill an empty
    space at home. Before the sun sets, the chalice
    he’s been so dilligent about will be completed
    with his customary finesse.

    I, his mama, prepare the fig feasts
    of bread with honey or olive oil, salmon
    and pomegranates or mackerel and grapes.
    I love to watch him get his fill.

  32. gloryia


    A man of many hues
    that’s you,
    one I cannot fathom
    that’s true,
    but when I look
    into your eyes
    all I see is blue,
    so maybe that
    is how I think of you,
    dazzling blue,
    always true,
    my man blue….

  33. Snow Write

    Longing for a simple kiss
    So alluringly wrapped
    Silky smooth on the lips
    But even barely a touch
    Can make me look dirty
    So I am resigned to resist

  34. Pengame30

    “Ironic Hues”

    Red is the color of love, yet it also represents blood that’s been shed.
    Blue is the color of that blood, while inside our veins, yet it also means sadness.
    White is the color of peace, yet it symbolizes centuries of oppression.
    Black, to many means bad, dirty, or forbidden,yet every other color derived from it.
    The whole world sits in between the spectrum of black and white.
    How ironic.

    Written By: Sean Drew

  35. BezBawni

    Shades of Yellow and Blue

    (beauty of simple things)

    aviculturist said glaucous
    fashion designer said lovat
    emo teen said caesious
    military said feldgrau
    nail tech said viridian
    artist said myrtle
    photograph said porraceous
    writer said verdant
    child said green and was right
    by Lucretia Amstell

  36. Rolf Erickson

    Robin’s Egg Blue

    Suddenly discovering the
    most fragile cup of blue
    tilted nearly sideways
    in clover and grass.

    Somebody was finally ready
    to break out into this world
    pushing against the walls
    that so embraced them
    and kept them safe.

    A shell cracked open
    drifted downwards
    was softly held as
    somebody flew.

    Robin’s egg blue.

  37. Heidi


    Kaliningrad in May where fires smolder in city
    streets, a blockade to mosquito swarms, the
    knee deep grass only sickles cut, while kvass
    vendors hawk a dark brew.

    Orphaned children learn to plant cabbages among
    lilac roots, the bed wetter is banished behind
    locks and electric shock, still the bread rises
    and is baked in allotments.

    Lilac blankets the city in a scented fever this race,
    toward summer rising at 4:00 a.m. at the door
    with salt and bread, while purpled blooms
    hang on weighty boughs drunk.

    Heidi R. de Contreras

  38. Aberdeen Lane


    you are the symmetry
    blazing red mixed with chilly blue
    valiance in your chivalry
    royally androgynous

    you are a party
    you are fickle
    you smart
    like bruises
    you tickle
    like violets

    you invoke fear
    in your capricious beauty

    you solicit smiles
    in your capricious beauty

    wearing you is freedom
    seeing you is balance
    I will serve your court
    take you where I go

    If only I was sure of your mutual loyalty

  39. poetrycurator

    Here is my Color in the title Poem for day 19


    Fresh from the orange groves
    Comes a sweet and juicy treat
    In Citrus County

    By Denise Fletcher Copyright © 2014

  40. cdonnelltx@yahoo.com

    I Am Blue

    I am blue.
    I am the indigo ocean,
    buoying majestic whales
    in my salty hands,
    swaying kelp into
    schools of silver fins.

    I am blue.
    I am the clear azure sky,
    carrying eagle’s wings
    where others dare not go.
    Rainbows arch above
    after the storm.

    I am blue.
    I am the turquoise lagoon.
    White foam on my waves.
    Here the dolphins play.
    Bare feet leave imprints
    on white sands

    I am blue.
    I am the sparkling bright shine
    of a grandchild’s smiling eyes
    looking into mine.
    Wonder and love reside.
    All things are new.

  41. Alphabet Architect


    Grandmother’s kitchen
    blueberry flavored
    popsicles the cove
    at Honeymoon
    Beach your eyes
    when you wear
    that sweater my idea
    box our silk pillow
    sexy stilettos with pedicure
    to match paint
    for the bathroom drips
    on the floor flea
    market owl the sky
    in July

  42. Amaria

    “Rosy Red Lipstick”

    rosy red lipstick
    is smeared over your color
    this would not mean much
    if the shade was my own
    questions now enter my head

  43. Mustang Sal


    Gray is hard.
    Cutting, cold, strong, invincible.
    Harbinger of doom.

    Gray is soft.
    Misty, ephemeral, almost invisible.
    Harbinger of peace.

    I live in the middle, layered between storm cloud and silver lining.

  44. Kimiko Martinez


    There are nights
    when I look up to
    see the sky
    dripping black and blue
    like an ink pen
    that’s exploded in
    a shirt pocket …
    which makes me think
    of those NASA nerds,
    whose job it is
    to stare at the
    sky, and who poorly they’re
    portrayed in every movie

  45. Laurie G

    Alice Blue

    Last night was red wine, my lover and me treating Sunday night like Saturday night,
    turning down the volume on the “60 Minutes” stop-watch tick
    ignoring Monday even as it moved in for its close-up.

    Today, I’m flinching at the rumble of the delivery truck.
    The bass thump threatens explosion
    in the muscle car’s heart.

    And now, the rant and chant of the Rasta on his third pass around the block.
    The clink of the “Do not pet me I am working” sign on the thick neck
    of the dog coming my way, pawing all this sunshine and concrete.

    Today, I wince at that blonde, she’s lamenting how skinny she is, sucking down Starbucks.
    Not even giving this sky the time of day, the Alice blue of this spring sky.

    This sky, it’s draped over flowering trees, spread like Mary’s robes
    above the train station where the guy jumped or fell on the northbound side
    a few weeks ago at rush hour,
    this sky, I’m telling you, so bright, so sure of itself,
    most days I’d praise a sky like this,

    but I’m telling you, today it all hurts.
    You know, because last night was red wine, my lover and me
    treating Sunday night like Saturday night.

  46. elysebrownell

    Elyse Brownell

    I remember the mangled bird lying in the snow.
    The gash in my shin after running through a park late one evening.
    The room in my heart where I said I’d always keep you.
    The hooded sweatshirt she wore the last time anyone saw her.
    The distance between what is fact and what is true.
    Afterward, they told her she would pass lemon-clots the size of blood.
    A small pink hat, flawless, except for the size of a dime soaking through.

  47. Pengame30

    “Ironic Hues”

    Red is the color of love, yet it also represents blood that’s been shed.
    Blue is the color of that blood, while inside our veins, yet it also means sadness.
    White is the color of peace, yet it symbolizes centuries of oppression.
    Black, to many means bad, dirty, or forbidden,yet every other color derived from it.
    The who whole world sits in between the spectrum of black and white.
    How ironic.

  48. J.lynn Sheridan

    “Flames of Indigo”

    We’re five thousand light years into indigo
    and while no one is collecting candles to
    sell for prayers, I’m still under water
    swallowing the last breaths of love not

    lulled to sleep by indifference or withered
    from thirst or bruised by injustice inside
    and out, fresh and stale, grandiose or mild.

    We were the heirs of royal sweethearts who
    knew how abiding in this fragile space could
    mirror the mystery of forever instead of being
    the mystery of never. We were the flames of
    tomorrow’s peace, the locks of generational
    love beads woven into a nest of safety,

    but even we cannot slay the inferno of apathy.

  49. Liliuokalani

    Monarch Wings and Other Orange Spaces
    In fourth grade, our teacher asked us
    to name our favorite color.
    I announced

    – “orange” –
    that’s when I strangled
    the shimmer of bluegill scales,
    a blue jay feather I found reflecting
    night sky stripes on the forest floor,
    a cormorant’s jeweled iris,
    Mrs. Peacock,
    and my grandma’s marble from Bermuda.
    Sacred colors are revealed
    to those who listen.

  50. jsmadge

    Virginia Bluebells

    Incendiary blue in April
    After frost dissolves into muck,
    You come rearing out, racing ahead;
    With yellow-green lambent leaves
    You pin me to the ground.

    That blue of nothing else,
    Fired within, as if orange plunged
    Into hidden mountain springs
    To surface blue;
    Blue of wind, desire, cool lips.
    It glows and aches
    Under grey Ohio skies,
    Fades beneath high May light.

    Jo Steigerwald

  51. MMC

    Lavender Earplugs
    (a found poem except for the title)

    Blue Oyster Cult
    Black Flag
    Pearl Jam
    Red Hot Chili Peppers

    Moody Blues
    Black Crowes
    Legendary Pink Dots

    The Screaming Blue Messiahs
    Electric Black
    The Red Krayola
    Deep Orange

    Blue Nile
    The Black Keys
    Tangerine Dream
    Yellow Magic Orchestra

    Red Noise . . . . Red Noise . . . . Red Noise

  52. Mr. Take The Lead

    The Colors of Life
    Daniel R. Simmons
    Life is beautiful and our world is beautiful, because we are surrounded by the passions, inspirations and creativity of our God. We can enjoy the magical colors of the skies He creates during a sunset. Or the mystical dances of the waves He causes in the sea. Life is filled with beauty and the opportunity that life feeds us daily, are breathtaking.
    Life gives us people who change our lives forever, friends who stick by us and send our hearts on a wonderful journey when we find the ones that become our forever.
    Life gives us peace. L
    ife gives us love.
    Life opens up our passions, genius and inspirations like no other can.
    We can sing to the wonderful blessings of music, or sit down to a pen and paper and create a masterpiece of words.
    We can walk into an office with nothing but a dream, and determination but walk out with the job of our dreams.
    Life opens the door for us to dream, reach, and inspire through the using of our gifts and talents.
    Life brings the world together, through the contributions of our inspirations.
    Life is a melody.
    t is a song.
    It has its ups and downs.
    It brings forth its peace and sometimes its rain, but after the rain, shines the beauty of life’s sunshine.
    Yes life may be filled with struggle at times but after the struggle comes beauty.
    For life is not always filled with struggle, war, or hardship, no it is filled with, magnificent beauty.
    For, life is like a beautiful flower that stands up and blossoms, in a field of chaos.
    Life always grants us room to grow.
    It does not matter how young or old we are, we never stop growing.
    We never stop learning. For with each experience that we have is a lesson learned.
    Yes life is filled with many different faces
    And colors
    we all come from many different backgrounds, possess many different skills and have accomplished many different feats both great and small- but you them all altogether and you form the beauty
    The color
    Of life
    Of our world
    Yes, many would argue that perhaps money makes the world go round, but I have come to find that it is our very own gifts and inspirations that keep our world turning. Because, without the individual gifts and inspirations of others, our world would be colorless and dull
    So no matter what state you find yourself in
    How busy you become
    Take the time out to enjoy the colors of life
    It’s quite a masterpiece.

  53. Daniel Paicopulos

    Blue Mirror

    She asked about the blue mirror we
    had moved a few times but never
    used, so I told her the story of how,
    from the time I was four or five,
    my mother would put it on the four
    by five cedar chest we used as a
    table, and at Christmas time, we’d
    put snow and little people on it to
    make a festive scene.

    I’m 69 now, and through the years,
    a lot of stuff has disappeared, like
    lamps and photos and baseball cards, and
    people, too. I’ve lost dogs and cats, some
    car keys, the home I grew up in, even
    my mother, who died suddenly one
    September, and we didn’t have Christmas
    after that for a long time, what with
    sadness, and later, war, for me.
    I never lost that blue mirror, though.

    Then I met her, and I had very little
    stuff, but I had her, and that was enough
    for me. Her family was big on Christmas,
    and, after we returned from our December
    honeymoon, her baby sister put the
    ornaments on their tree, the ones made with
    a glitter and a glue stick, the ones with
    everybody’s names on them, and we were
    the last ones to go up, smack dab in the
    center front, to much oohing, ahing and smiling.
    My dad was there, our first Christmas in
    forever. It was cold, really cold, but
    our hearts melted.

    So, the blue mirror, remember? After
    we moved to a town with lots of folks,
    one where we could have visitors, we
    started to decorate excessively. Too much
    was still not enough, with wreaths and
    themed trees and garland and such. she
    said we should bring out the blue mirror and
    make a scene, so we went looking for
    fake snow and little trees and people

    Then Department 56 happened,
    and a train set happened,
    and more Department 56 happened,
    and I built display tables and drilled holes
    and did dangerous, overloaded wiring
    and it was big and grand and good,
    and all of our friends loved it,
    and more Department 56 happened,
    and a storage locker to hold it all happened.

    I think I mentioned that I’m 69 now,
    those boxes and tables got heavier,
    that wiring got more painful to connect,.
    we’ve lost a few more people,
    there’s this talk about voluntary simplicity.
    Still have that blue mirror, though.
    I think soon we’ll start a new tradition,
    borrow from the past, bring out the older,
    garage sale the newer.

    But, then, there’s the crazy
    Krinkles accessories,
    and all the Santa ornaments,
    and the clowns
    and the reindeer
    and the angels
    and…oh, what the heck, one more year,
    and I think we can find room for
    a blue mirror

  54. Mark Conroy

    “Cabo Blue”

    No one went out
    Until the sun was low
    Spreading orange light
    Instead of yellow
    Into the blue.

    The sun set suspended
    In the middle of a mix of light
    From the rocks and sea.

    Colors washed over us
    Until everything disappeared
    Into a true Cabo midnight blue.

    Mark Conroy

  55. robinamelia

    Lichen and quartz

    Gray rocks are laced with pale green lichen
    looking like words or boys’ faces
    if I stare down too long while walking.

    Sunny days, quartz glistens so they look back at me.
    There is nothing else to see
    from this rocky outcropping.

    Waves crash in.
    Waves depart.

    Robin Amelia Morris

  56. Lindy™


    It’s not my favorite,
    I’ll admit.
    Irritated, angry
    inflamed and hot,
    it’s loud
    and makes me stop.
    Of blood and wine
    and warning signs,
    a poisonous alert –
    flashing like it’s going to die
    or explode at any time.
    Still I suppose
    it has it’s place
    somewhere up
    in passion’s face,
    on roses and in
    spaghetti sauce.
    For some strange reason
    my thoughts can’t cross,
    red just turns me
    completely off.

  57. Jaywig


    Having unravelled my attachment
    to a quirky gift – another basket
    crafted from local twisted spike reed –
    I took my budget and intention –
    to play the game – to Myers’ Gift Registry.

    It was the word: coral: that caught
    my attention, and the medium: cotton
    which claimed my willingness
    to search among the ‘throws’
    available for thirty percent off.

    And there it was: striped with cream
    ready to casually drape a back
    of lounge or rocker, or to wrap
    or swaddle … oops! that attachment
    set aside too. Let’s get the wedding over!

  58. nmbell

    Green and Gold Days of Summer

    There is a field on the Buller Road
    That runs between Norland and the Miner’s Bay Road
    In Haliburton County, Ontario
    The small pasture sits in the cradle
    Of the bend in the road where it meets
    The Spar Lake Road.

    There used to be a little farm house on the corner
    Of the opposite side of the meeting of three roads
    From the field.
    On Friday and Sunday nights every weekend
    In the summer, we would pass this little place

    The summer sun would lie like a golden blessing
    Across the rumpled grasses where they dreamed
    In the slanted light of late evening
    Golden dust raised by the tires of passing cars
    Hung mistlike in the heavy heat of summer

    The scent of crushed grass and sunshine
    Came through the open windows
    Along with the pungent dry smell of disturbed gravel
    Magic seemed to haunt the green and gold pasture

    Fairies and other fey creatures danced in the
    Slanted rays of the molten setting sun
    As you came around a gently bend and
    Down a small incline to where the green and gold
    pasture held sway over the encroaching bush

    Sometimes a family of deer would be there
    Half hidden in the long verdant growth
    It holds me enthralled still in memory
    Now in the autumn of my years
    I can still dream of the Green and Gold
    Days of Summer

    Nancy Bell

  59. C.


    Pick a color?
    You say today?
    Hmm what color?
    Would I pick today?
    If only I could pick?
    Anything I wanted?
    What would I pick?
    To be what color?
    Do I think of today?
    When I think of me?
    On just today?
    No grey?
    No purple?
    Maybe even green?
    Blue is nice and calm?
    Don’t you think?
    Especially now in spring?
    And in even summer too?
    But I guess that’s wrong?
    It’s more a winter color?
    Don’t you think?
    Goodness I think I should stop?
    Trying to even talk?
    Trying to write this thing this life?
    Has too many choices?
    To think of just one color?
    Of just one thing?
    Of anything?
    Just black text?
    That can’t be it?

  60. C.


    Pick a color?
    You say today?
    Hmm what color?
    Would I pick today?
    If only I could pick?
    Anything I wanted?
    What would I pick?
    To be what color?
    Do I think of today?
    When I think of me?
    On just today?
    No grey?
    No purple?
    Maybe even green?
    Blue is nice and calm?
    Don’t you think?
    Especially now in spring?
    And in even summer too?
    But I guess that’s wrong?
    It’s more a winter color?
    Don’t you think?
    Goodness I think I should stop?
    Trying to even talk?
    Trying to write this thing this life?
    Has too many choices?
    To think of just one color?
    Of just one thing?
    Of anything?
    Just black text?
    That’s it?

  61. newbie44

    (a story)
    Renee Meador

    bloom of iris
    scent of rose
    pursed lips
    blush of grape

    strip of sunset
    bloom of moonrise
    crush of grape
    pursed lips

  62. PowerUnit


    Pink things do not get lifted off the table
    When I am not looking
    A black iPhone?
    Good as stolen
    A blue fountain pen?
    But anything pink?
    Apparently the color is the only thing
    That makes thieves think.

  63. Richasapenny

    Blue And Green

    Blue seas haunt green
    Too see her swells
    All beyond memories
    Singing leaping laying
    Her belly is there’s full
    The greatest tomb
    Her oceans are creating
    The bottom is a focal point
    Tea cups photo frames
    The massive. Gash of ice
    Just a full martini glass
    Titanic does not stir
    Lay still and unshaken

    My ocean colors
    Young men flow through you
    Forever just the families
    Children of the sea
    Green and blue
    Playing them. Sea music
    Humming holding hand
    Bubble of them. Float up
    Teasing a train journey
    So big beyond
    Ocean of no control
    Kiss them all goodnight
    Liking look out from sea
    I’m by your side
    Wearing my favorite colors
    Blue and green

  64. PSC in CT


    Lady Spring is coloring things
    (wildflowers, butterfly wings)
    rainbow shades & hues.

    Let her paint me too.
    Maybe I’ll be blue…

    Blue as a robin’s egg,
    forget-me-not blue,
    bluets and blue-eyed grass,
    bluebonnets too.

    Glorious blues –

    heavenly hues:
    the sea,
    the sky,
    your eyes.


  65. Shennon

    Bright Colors

    Too many bright colors
    Can cause a swift meltdown.
    I don’t like being anxious,
    I don’t like to frown.

    Moderate bright colors
    Accentuate my mood.
    They bring out my happy side
    On days I’m feeling rude.

    Train whistles are so loud.
    Now your voice is, too.
    I feel completely helpless
    When my head hurts through and through.

    Bouncy music
    Brightens my day.
    Cheerful tunes always
    My sad thoughts allay.

    Heartfelt smiles
    Offer reassurance
    When I feel like shutting down
    They suggest a second chance.

    A large chore chart with stickers
    Boosts my daily routine.
    It helps focus and build on what I can do.
    It fosters my self esteem.

    Mama says I’m autistic.
    Others say difficult, dumb.
    But I’m just a kid who needs love
    To face whatever may come.

    So modify my classroom.
    My house, desensitize.
    But leave me with the colors
    That I know and recognize.


  66. Scott Jacobson


    Our temperature rises when body
    heat is applied. The gesture beyond
    the shadows begin the enchantment
    then gravity and time fold into a swan
    that flies on a string above the window.
    The clouds move on in silence. Love
    wants to paint the moment crimson,
    a red three shades more vibrant
    than a one time romance.

  67. DanielR

    Reminding me of her every day
    a beautiful soul on display
    her legacy hangs on my walls
    in wooden frames both big and small
    white canvases she filled with many hues
    subtle yellows and deep endless blues
    broad brush strokes created skies
    the backdrop where a seagull flies
    over beaches of golden sand
    brought to life in her artistic hands
    starting with simple pencil traces
    capturing distinct details on faces
    a senorita in a Spanish town
    dressed in a vivid red ball gown
    each image reveals the history
    of Granny who left her paintings to me

    Daniel Roessler

  68. DanielR

    Yellow ribbons around oak trees
    remind us how in green army fatigues
    you defend freedom, ours and theirs
    I know of your sacrifice and how
    much you are missed by your wife
    and your son you’ve never held.
    You tightrope walk around IEDs
    crossing scorched, scarred deserts
    your brown leather boots sinking
    into the burning sand of
    someone’s paradise, their eyes
    follow you, resentful of your presence
    your mind drifts to a week away
    the day you will be going home
    and you smile, before an explosion
    sprays body parts across the ground
    in front of you, where smoky haze
    mixes with sand and through your
    weeping eyes you see the boy in
    a t-shirt, stained crimson, he is
    not much older than yours,
    crying as you crawl to him
    gunfire from the left shredding
    your body and when all of the
    others have forgotten, I will
    remember that badge you wore
    was courage and the color of
    bravery is red.

    Daniel Roessler

  69. DanielR

    Slivers of silver icicles
    draped from leafy branches
    of green winter cedars
    gleam morning sunlight
    and cast shadows on
    freshly fallen ivory snow
    my fingers fumble over buttons
    zooming in and zooming out
    I focus, snap, and repeat
    unable to capture in pictures
    the splendor that steals my breath
    transforming my melancholy to awe

    Daniel Roessler

  70. Linda.H

    At Grandmother’s funeral

    the clouds drifted in with the black-clad
    crowd, bleak and wet, pouring down
    as if Noah were beginning his journey.

    Grieving guests gathered there
    depicted the darkness of the deepest
    ocean– except for me. I stood out

    like a beacon in the night. Shocked
    gazes and gawks engulfed me,
    whispers circulated; my cheeks burned

    bright until mother grasped my hand,
    squeezed gently an she spoke:
    She always loved you in red.

    My cheeks damp, chin up,
    I paid respect to grandma
    as she sailed off to distant shores.

    Linda E.H.

  71. Shennon

    Blurry Gray

    Without my glasses,
    The gray sky on an overcast day
    Blurs into the landscape on the horizon.

    Ominous thunderheads become
    Giant marshmallows,
    Bouncing around in the sky.

    Jagged shards of lightning
    Illuminate the earth,
    As well as my pain.

    Pelting rain continues to
    Blur my vision,
    Until I reach my house.

    Stark white walls
    Blend with the ceiling,
    Making the room appear spherical.

    You ask where I’ve been,
    And in the dim light,
    Your shadow is black and large.

    Squinting through
    The graying dusk,
    I pretend to see a man.

    The man I loved
    Many years ago,
    Who’s temper always stayed in check.

    Now even blurred vision
    Can’t deny
    The fist swinging toward my face.


  72. barton smock

    -malnutrition blues-

    my friend had this boy
    would dress for school
    empty his backpack
    and leave the house
    in his sleep.

    my friend would get on a bike
    retrieve the boy
    and put him to bed.

    my own boy has begun sleeping with his lunchbox.

    to both,

    you could’ve been hurt

  73. Grey_Ay

    Often have I wondered,
    what is it in a color
    that captures me, draws me?

    Is there a genetic disposition
    to explain my transfixion
    of that blue, dark blue?

    Or has my mind decided
    based on environment
    my hue, navy blue?

    I know no explanation.
    Perhaps it’s my imagination
    my color is blue, always blue.

    -A. Ault-

  74. PatsC


    The landscape is replaced.

    A tilt,
    Sunny daffodils,
    Budding trees,
    The days expand.

    The stirrings of nature,
    The new birdsong,
    The silent push of earth.

    Do not blink,
    Or you will miss,
    The restoring warmth,
    The sweet sigh of Spring.

  75. Emma

    White out

    They say the colour of misery is
    Blue: you’re feeling blue, have the January blues.
    In the waiting room of my therapist,
    There are posters about beating the blues.
    But misery and depression are not
    The same. I don’t feel melancholic, I
    Feel nothing at all. Stuck in a white world,
    A blizzard where emotions aren’t visible.
    Depression is blank paper white, but without
    The potential for words to be written.
    Every day I try to add some colour,
    Even tinge the page a light pastel pink.
    It is all erased: a fruitless struggle.

  76. mshall

    Purple is the color
    Of the eggplant
    I eat each night for dinner

    Purple was the color
    Of his crown
    That sat for so long next to mine

    Purple was the happiness
    Of mismatched wedded souls
    Till I was saved by Fate

    Purple ran my luck
    The day Prince Charming
    Rescued me

    Purple turned the face
    Of the king when he did hear
    The news of my disloyalty

    Purple as bruise
    My doom without my Love
    Would have been

    Purple was the nightshade
    I ground up
    For that last supper

    Purple peace
    Upon his face
    Heralded that

    Purple break of dawn
    When I at last was free
    To be me

    Purple is the color
    Of the eggplant
    I eat each night for dinner.

  77. lshannon

    A bit behind but I was teaching at a writing retreat all weekend and so… missed yesterday! YIKES!

    I have a pair of brightly color socks
    they don’t match- woven here
    happily meandering there
    threads of knitted colorful chaos

    They are not beautiful
    but they are joyous things
    Then there are softer items of clutter
    gray-brown and comfort toppling

    Out of drawers and my closet
    clothing neither stylish nor fashion
    forward to evening ending
    slumping in dull slouch wear

    Browns and greys
    in soft cotton calming
    and lulling me- but my toes
    peak out in riotous rebellion.

  78. Misky

    In The Black of The Night

    What colour, night, shall you be
    when moonlight folds into clouds.
    Is your colour, no colour, or is your
    colour the sounds of the night –
    Is it the colour of kisses,
    the tint of love,
    or the shade of tears –
    What colour shall I call you,
    but dark.


    (c) Misky 2014

  79. RJ Clarken

    No Gold Pocket Watch

    Not even a gold pocket watch
    for – how many years of service?
    What could he do? Where would he go?

    Head home? Cozy up to some Scotch?
    Get numb? Where to turn? He’s nervous.
    What does he do with zilch to show?

    Misery just kicked up a notch.
    Hey, smile. Ain’t yet scratched the surface.
    Never mind what lurks down below.

    They always said he was topnotch.
    Now, they say, “It isn’t malice,
    but cutbacks. Sorry. Even so…”

    Contemplate a future that’s dim:
    then say goodbye. No gold for him.


  80. Julieann

    Purple, Green, and Gold

    Purple – the color of justice
    Whether by king or queen, duke or duchess
    Sometimes enforced by the cutlass

    Green – the color of faith
    Bringing hope and peace as God saith
    Spiritual, yes, but not a wraith

    Gold – the color of power
    With the ability to devour
    Or bloom delicately as a flower

    King Rex assigned these colors in 1892
    Purple, green, and gold, the others he did eschew
    Signifying more than just floats and parades, king and krewe

  81. jean

    Celery Versus Daiquiri

    I do remember the dust-up
    That waged in my childhood home
    It was time to freshen — a must, yup —
    The walls of the our own living room.

    My mother tended towards earth tones,
    And always avoided blue shades.
    My father would oft piss and moan
    Just to watch the kerfuffle he made.

    They agreed that the room needed lightness,
    And preferred eggshell over flat.
    They could work as team for the rightness
    Once the color was chosen for that.

    My mother had settled on “celery”
    Matching already owned thing, the inference.
    My father insisted on “daiquiri.”
    To this day, I cannot tell the difference!

  82. De Jackson

    The Paints Are Having a Party
    (Roy G. Biv, would you like to dance?)

    Sorrel spilled first, then slate and smalt.
    It really wasn’t badious’ fault

    things got so citreous so fast
    and brunneous and caesious.

    Ivory fought to remain pure
    and lavender was quite demure.

    Even gamboge was a little shy;
    umber, raw, just wondered why.

    Then sapphire burned a congo line
    and khaki blended in just fine

    with tan and topaz, teal and tawny,
    though turquoise looked a little scrawny.

    The pumpkin was quite bittersweet
    and bisque looked good enough to eat.

    Amaranthine and aubergine
    grabbed aqua, making quite a scene.

    The cobalt was quite self-azured,
    though the willowish wallflower could not be lured.

    No one danced with mauve or puce,
    but then good old chartreuse got loose.

    The navy stood at royal attention
    until aquamarine remembered to mention

    they were on shore leave,
    and could dance a blue streak.

    Sable and saffron were all the rage,
    but no one was as wise as sage.

    Primrose was a wee bit smug
    ’til terracotta dancing bug.

    Scarlet, she was one in a vermillion,
    until the last revenge of Titian.

    Periwinkle didn’t sleep a wink, right?
    And ebony stayed up way past midnight.

    Peacock pranced a lurid limbo –
    you should have seen that Indi-go!

    Coal went crimson when Olive got smashed.
    Cerulean found her rhythm at last.

    And then all of a sudden, after two,
    the tints all turned a different hue.

    With an ochre ohhhhh and a sepia sigh,
    they pulled the shades and curled up to dye.


    1. Brian Slusher

      Lotta fun here–especially enjoyed “bisque looked good enough to eat” and “but no one was as wise as sage.” Of course, the final line is to “dye” for. Good start for my morning!

  83. Brian Slusher


    I’m lost in the paint department
    searching for you, rhyme-less color
    but all I can find is Autumn Blaze
    and Citrus Burst, Apricot Butter
    and Warm Cider. Even when I get
    a hold of you, you’re attached to
    Cream, Ice, Mist, and Slice. And
    what is Grand Hotel Awning Yellow
    doing in your family? You used to be
    simple, sitting there in my Crayola box,
    bright but no big talker, happy to fill
    a pumpkin in or deepen a drawn fire
    but now it’s like you won’t glow
    true, as I repaint and repaint
    the kitchen, losing square-footage
    as I try to pick my childhood out
    of a line-up full of Cantaloupe Smile,
    Whipped Peach, and Toasted Honey

  84. Amy


    Her skin held elements of light,
    pulling milk white from the sheets.
    She was the velvet moon alight,

    absorbed in waning candlelight.
    She moved gentle as wind-stirred wheat.
    Her skin held elements of light

    that danced, a rose so slight
    I mistook it for the blue-flame heat.
    She was the velvet moon alight.

    I heard her sing a lover’s plight
    in honeyed tones that glowed as sweet
    as her skin, held in elements of light

    that broke upon her face, a sight
    as fine as eyes will ever meet.
    She was the velvet moon alight.

    I long for the quiet of cream white
    where skin and silk poignantly meet
    Her skin held elements of light,
    for she was the velvet moon alight.

  85. P.A. Beyer

    What we dreamed of, when we dreamed Oregon

    The albuterol sits in the bathroom drawer (but we rarely need to find it.)
    The air is so much cleaner, with the rains. Always growing,
    The children are sprouting, the sunflowers they are.
    You and I grow older (and sometimes wiser), and for now
    We still cut loose, Footloose.

  86. Mokosh28

    Prussian Blue

    Deep in the ranks of Super Crayolas, she discovered
    cyan, a blue so magnificent it was named
    for a country no longer on maps. In the first drawn
    line she recognized the backs of bluejays. As she
    continued to color, she slipped into
    that first star place, at the threshold
    of darkness, goodbye to vision, greeting
    another sort of sight.

    The color made her cry, not with fear of uniforms
    and a nameless European war. Not from poison or its
    antidote. But into the hue for a virgin mother’s
    cloak created by Masters in place of
    indigo. When she whispered Prussian blue,
    birds hushed for sleep. No nightmares
    knocked, as she dreamed the waxy shade
    of what is beautiful.

    – Joanne M. Clarkson

  87. CLShaffer

    No One Writes About Brown In The Spring by C. Lynn Shaffer

    Against a backdrop of green, it’s all redbuds
    canvasing the hillside with their Impressionist shows,
    tulips with their parrot heads, dogwood
    and cherry blossoms
    but brown,

    brown is the color of galaxies,
    or some of them anyway, the ones colliding
    looking back with glowing centers,
    owl eyes flanked in feathers
    the faded brown of old wood.

    My childhood, brown, well-used
    cows’ hooves, eyes of dogs I loved
    and horses’ eyes brown as the sky
    before full-dark, their starred foreheads
    starting to gleam. Best of all, manure piles

    dried spirals populating the field,
    a game for me to run as fast as I could,
    without shoes, dodging cows and their droppings,
    feet hitting against ground that hadn’t quite
    given up winter, then the utter shock of warmth

    as a foot broke the crust, splatted,
    sent me sliding a bit, and laughing,
    running with a smeared foot,
    the dark wet brown of cow shit,
    rich as fresh-turned earth brought to light.

  88. PKP

    Sweet Candy Kisses – The Children’s Blues

    on the bridge they stood
    Rocking on small bare feet
    clutching twice stolen candy
    in their pockets
    Letting the sway of the wind
    blow away the sharp ache in
    her sparrowed shoulder bone –
    the open mess of his split lip
    Letting all go in the sway
    as though they stood cradled in
    a sturdy crevasse of a huge limb
    holding them safe, sticky candy
    waiting like kisses in their pockets –
    until his florid raging face faded
    and with returned joyous abandon
    they threw the memory over
    the side – watching it sink in the
    deep water below – as they –
    rocking on small bare feet
    pulled out their candy,
    the sweetness
    and laughed
    once again –
    in the

  89. Margot Suydam

    Tricolor Niso

    Shoulderback sea cat
    in your Peruvian hat
    a strawberry top

    you dance last
    night’s incised moon
    a false-cup and saucer

    Not in a heavy bonnet
    you move more
    like a sparse dove

    a Lazarus jewel box
    in triangular nutmeg
    unequal, bittersweet.

  90. Lori D. Laird

    Rainbow Skies

    It’s hard to see just one
    when many colors block the sun.
    Depicting love and pain.
    Hatred and shame also rain.
    What was once so beautiful
    is tarnished by a need to be dutiful.
    What brings one happiness
    condems another to sadness.
    So allow me my multiple hues.
    They’re here because I’m missing you.

  91. Jezzie


    I did a search and no-one has yet
    written about the colour cerise,
    so I thought I’d honour that vibrant
    colour by writing this little piece.

    Cerise is such a cheerful colour.
    Call it fuchsia, hot or shocking pink
    and dab a splash of it anywhere
    and it will liven the place up, I think.

    You do not need very much of it
    that would be just too much “in your face”.
    I’m told to paint a whole wall with it
    would be a total shocking disgrace.

    But I am now feeling very smug.
    I have painted cerise on one wall,
    added some hot pink pots and a rug
    and invited some good friends to call.

    They came in the room and gasped out loud
    with awe when they saw the fuchsia,
    but they loved it and I’m very proud
    that one’s copying me in the future!

  92. Linda Hatton


    You and me blended as one,
    nothing medium about it,
    for a moment we went violent
    until n-for-needy fell out
    through the cracks between
    overpowered and loveless, left violet
    behind in the middle of life,
    waiting, oh waiting for red
    at the end of this run-
    on colorful life.

    -Linda G Hatton

  93. lionmother


    I always write about red
    the color I will always
    choose for it brings me
    joy and lifts my spirits
    like no other color can

    Oh, gold is nice
    and I love when it
    sparkles especially
    gold sequins lavishly
    adorning fabric
    or gold shoes peeking
    out from a formal gown

    Silver is sparkly too
    and it creates a sheen
    wherever it is placed
    making things special

    Orange has its moments
    especially as the skin of
    an orange or of course
    pumpkins plump and
    ready for picking

    Lavender is soothing
    in a quiet and dignified
    way it creates an aura
    of peace and tranquility

    But red is the one for
    me and will always be
    my refuge and my favorite
    and I will always choose
    this standout color in
    all its shades of fire engine,
    vermillion, ruby and even

    Its glow creates a fire
    inside me and instills
    a spark which carries
    me through my day
    and warms me from
    the inside out

  94. lionmother

    Flesh Color

    For me flesh color was the crayon I used
    the least and only for faces and hands
    But if I had looked around me when
    I was a little girl I would have
    realized this wasn’t the color
    for everyone

    Yet every crayon box had this
    one crayon marked flesh color
    and no others for the various
    differences of my classmates
    and random people I saw in
    my city

    I wonder if a child who was
    not this color thought about
    why this was the one chosen
    to be flesh color
    Why wasn’t it darker or browner
    or yellower

    When they colored a picture
    of themselves what did they
    use for the face and hands?
    Was this their only choice
    and what did that say about

    the crayon makers who
    continued to use this color
    until late into the 90s when
    finally they decided to add
    a whole assortment marked
    flesh color and gave it
    its own little box

  95. fahey

    Malachite Dreams

    What I’d give for a colorfast paint,
    an eye to immortalize what fades;
    colors that won’t bleed and bolt
    like the flight of a wounded animal.

  96. Zeenie


    When I look,
    everything is burning
    in a wildfire strangle.

    Fruit to filth,
    flower to addict,
    color to choke –

    I cannot eat an orange
    without tasting skin.

  97. GirlGriot

    No color poem for me today. Still caught up in the family history discoveries that have been tugging at my sleeve for the last 10 days.

    my name –
    place me, ground
    me. Connect me
    to your past, to mine,
    me Home.
    Call my name.
    See that I”m here.
    A name: full, weighted,
    A name
    to carry,
    show that I’m here,
    place me beside you.

  98. MyPoeticHeart

    teal the color of sand shaded by the clouds
    even in sun of the ocean depths without grass or rocks

    one of my favorite colors many can have is teal
    not one to be borrowed can’t even steal

    a cross between sea green and light blue
    wearing clothes or dabbling in arts and crafts

    it is fun to play with teal to watch the color
    unfold before your eyes when mixed on a pallet

  99. encrerouge

    Green letters against a sunset

    The mint of the bewilderment settled year round

    I remember when the sun used to color the irises
    with the own pigment they foreshadowed in silence

    since the beginning of October, curtains surrounding the area
    the ocher didn’t conquered , but the blinding view of raw material
    covered the fields, introducing themselves as a blinding diet

    To become grass and unripe within a bubble
    the reflection of the coordinates outside, untouchable
    and the prickles ignite the resistance to the orange
    What transaction could manifest if no hand extends?

    It surrounds every figment of the consciousness
    yet, the tone clashes harshly against the day’s end
    contrasting the natural vocalization that leads to movement
    now a race rises from the ground, reversing the leaf’s fall
    undressed and pampered by the eventide’s substance

  100. Monique

    Lady in Red

    I am a siren on the dance floor
    Calling out to men
    Men who have no idea that I am protected
    Who think they are the ones in charge
    Confidence surges through me
    To the point where I feel cocky
    I want to show the world who I am
    And leave a blazing trail behind me when I leave
    Because nobody forgets
    A lady in red

  101. Shell

    By Shell Ochsner

    Happiness and often dangerous

    to view this life

    of an individual who has been made

    For us.

    The perfect gift baskets

    The new version of this message

    from what we are looking

    Forward to meeting everyone

    who knows

    If you’re looking

    Into the beautiful

    day of the outside world.

  102. lionetravail

    by David M. Hoenig
    The Glaucous Gull’s no need for shy,
    and isn’t, with its raucous cry.
    Its blue-grey wings can barely hide
    the size and strength, when they’re spread wide,
    which makes it king of arctic sky.

    Its soft appearance does belie
    the killer lurking in its eye.
    Make no mistake, this bird has pride:
    the Glaucous Gull’s no need for shy.

    Against the water, from on high
    its colors make it hard to spy.
    From under sea its underside
    against the sky will sure misguide.
    And when the time to kill is nigh,
    the Glaucous Gull’s no need for shy.

  103. Sharon Ann

    Chartreuse and Color Reflections

    My color is usually a shade of blue.
    The glare of the sun combines
    with my blue causing the shock
    of chartreuse.
    While the afternoon cools,
    spring greens take hold
    like the trees, the buds, the grass.
    As day turns to dusk
    I am a deep, sea green,
    taking on the reflection of the
    approaching night sky.
    With the setting sun to the west
    I am aquamarine.
    Cooling blue to midnight,
    I am indigo,
    lightening shade by shade as
    the morning approaches.
    My color is usually a shade of blue.

  104. Funkomatic


    The math of it is the easy part
    Thing by times by days lapsed
    A compass rose, a key to read

    Rose red like the blood bloom on fingers
    Four or five times today, same tomorrow
    It’s called a lancet and they get dull

    Dull like reading too many big words
    Glycosylated, Hemoglobin, Islets of Langerhans
    A haul of terms about what is faulty

    Haul, as in what one does with a burden
    The red is different in each drop that comes
    Life in the math of milligrams per deciliter.

  105. SestinaNia


    You are that moment
    of twilight on the mountain,
    erupting into night—
    or the tapestry
    on which a field of galaxies
    swirl and collide—
    the sash draped
    across a monarch’s throne—
    the velvet petal
    of a rare orchid blooming
    in a remote Oriental garden.

    But mostly you are violet,
    imbued with earth
    and tasting of regret.

    –Sara Doyle

  106. utsabfly


    Draw a portrait of yourself,
    They said when I was five.
    Make it look just like you,
    Blonde hair, brown eyes, and white.

    The hair and eyes were easy.
    But I couldn’t color hard enough,
    For the white to actually appear,
    And white is what they said I was.

    Draw a portrait of yourself,
    They said when I was six.
    Blonde hair and brown eyes, easy,
    I was given peach this time for my skin.
    I loved the sun, and was actually,
    More of a golden brown tan.
    So questions about my color arose.
    Inquiries about skin and race began.

    There were portraits in many shades,
    In class, others did just as I.
    White, peach, black, brown, red
    Nobody’s seemed quite right.

    Today we all work from boxes,
    Filled with more crayons than twenty-four.
    And we know we can mix colors,
    With the colors laid down before.

    If I color myself brown I’m still “white”
    If you color yourself brown, you’re still “black”
    We’re all so much more than colors,
    In a yellow and green cardboard pack…

    ©E.D. Allee
    April, 2014

  107. Pat Walsh

    PAD poem 19:

    by Patrick J. Walsh

    In the light of winter sun
    the gray stillness of the empty field
    seems bigger
    than the memory of days
    when the grass grew freely

    A wrap of dying leaves
    enshrouds the early fall
    sealing away
    any chance for new growth
    as the black winds turn chill

    And summer, lusting red with heat
    in sodden, sweaty steps
    stomps down
    the flooded patches
    with an angry trail of mud

    But spring, its secrets hidden
    in the lush fertile soil
    deep below
    renews the promise of green
    and its hope for a better world

  108. Emily Cooper

    R.E.M. G. BIV

    There is still time to enter
    the National Geographic
    Traveler Photo Contest

    or you can just continue
    to sit in the intersection

    of that guttural
    and instinctive color appreciation

    that for sighted people
    provides answers to questions
    we never thought to ask

    and envy.
    (That’s cool too.)

    As a child this poet
    asked a parent

    if it were possible
    to record dreams

    not because they were spectacular

    (and sometimes the most
    mundane ones

    were given the most explication
    of all their insignificant details)

    but because
    the black (or even blue)
    formations she scribbled onto a page

    would become something subjective
    in a reader’s mind

    which was well and good

    but still no match
    for those randomly-firing neurons
    that gave her those

    “real-photolistic” ineffable
    and ephemeral

    pre-dawn splashes of color.

  109. CStern


    An earthy blanket of rich chestnut mulch

    neatly bound

    by a ring of eggshell and gray-dappled limestone blocks

    under a robin’s egg sky

    Sun warmed and drowsing

    glossy emerald leaves stretch out and up

    toward that pale blue sky and inescapable light

    anchored by thick gray-brown stems shading to

    verdant hues

    At the ends

    red-tinged new budding curls of foliage


    crowned by bright jewels

    proudly lifted to entice passing bees

    bright bold petal ruffles flushed carnelian

    releasing sweet whispers

    on the wind
    * * *

  110. LCaramanna

    True Blue

    I swear you did this on purpose,
    Painted the flowers lavender lilac,
    Blossomed the trees cherry pink,
    Showered the grass spring green,
    Warmed the air with forsythia yellow sunglow,
    Fluffed the clouds in a cerulean sky.
    I swear you did this on purpose
    So I would unpack my white bleeding heart,
    And stay true blue.
    Lorraine Caramanna

  111. MaryAnn1067


    green–those shoots that
    tear through the blackloam–
    bursting into red, yellow, the
    colors of foreign flags–all on
    your staid suburban lawn,
    beyond the river, green
    green, growing up
    into blades that cut through
    the spring air like a knife
    through butter,
    borne out of bulbs planted deep,
    with a whisper of hope
    before the snows came

  112. cobanionsmith


    Everyone knows about the first wolf: big ears, eyes, etc.;
    how he gulped down the gullible Grandma and little girl.

    The muliebral meal agreed with him so,
    he slept soundly, snoring even as scissors

    cut a new path up his middle. Stones,
    heavy as sin, did him in.

    The second wolf tried the same tired line,
    but this time, the girl was wise:

    Stick to the public path; lock the door;
    and, above all, don’t listen to wolves.

    So Wolf #2 nosedived from Grandma’s roof
    and drowned in a trough of pale pink sausage-water.

    Temptation lures us all, it seems,
    but only the careless still slip and fall.

    (c) Courtney O’Banion Smith

  113. carolecole66

    Pink as Spun Sugar

    and twice as fragile. I was never that girl.
    While mother dressed me in crinolines
    and father refused to play ball, I grew up
    blue, blue like the landscape of my arms
    that tracked football tackles and bicycle spills,
    blue as the jeans I wore hidden beneath my dress.
    I was the smallest kid on the block but still
    I knew how make big boys cry blue.


  114. Rosemary Nissen-Wade


    In Peru
    the blue of his eyes
    had the women twittering.
    “So handsome!:” they told me.
    (I already knew.)

    I, of course, was gazing
    (discreetly) into
    the deep brown eyes
    of slim, black-haired men
    with knife-edge cheekbones.


    In Bali
    the locals feasted their eyes
    on our fair-faced, fair-haired boys
    (they were pre-schoolers then)
    with clucks of admiring joy.

    Their father and I
    couldn’t pull our gaze
    from the quick, dark local children,
    their golden skin, black hair
    and bright black, dazzling eyes.

  115. seingraham


    Every morning — or at least the ones with sunshine in them
    I am greeted with magical rainbows flitting across my walls
    and ceilings, from the kitchen through the dining room
    and sometimes as far as the living room
    It just depends how late I get up, the time of year, how high
    in the sky the sun happens to be and so on

    I have a tiny solar panel attached to a window in my kitchen
    and it has a mechanism that makes two Swarovski crystal hearts spin
    on chains and like magic, they create multiple rainbows
    that pass over and over everything within about a fifty foot radius

    All the regular rainbow colours appear of course – red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, blue, violet,
    But it wasn’t until I received the treasure, and it was a gift,so even more precious for that reason,
    that I realized how subtle some these colours are and how much I love one of them

    Indigo has to be my favourite colour of any in the spectrum
    Not quite blue, nor is it purple
    It is sometimes even portrayed as closer to teal, a colour of which I don’t ever think with regards
    to this one…
    The definition that says it’s a dark purplish blue and says it gets its name from the plant that
    gives its name for the dye…that I believe
    And that’s the colour I love

    I have to say though, I still have a very soft spot for both purple and orange
    Especially purple…not only do I love most of the shades of this enigmatic colour
    I do love a word that has no other to rhyme with;it’s why I’ve adopted orange to champion as well
    I mean, leave it to those who created English to also dream up several words that don’t rhyme with anything.
    Do you suppose they were sitting around going, “what will really drive poets nuts?” and then, whammo…
    Perhaps not, but maybe…

  116. briehuling

    April 19, 2014

    Day 19


    When she finally put her mouth on me
    it didn’t behave like anything
    I could have ever imagined–
    She was slippery to the touch,
    a little rutted and wild just where
    the curvatures of her delicate form,
    met my disappearing angel-face.

    The things we think we know,
    those we let the body in on,
    well they die away, pretending
    to leave without a trace–
    the palms of rough hands
    pressed together as if praying or begging.

    By Brie Huling

  117. Nanamaxtwo

    Venetian Red

    If only life choices could be color coded
    like price tags dangling from the sleeves
    of shirts hanging on a clearance rack.

    Ultramarine, most precious blue,
    drowns the channel of sleep,
    the course, brief, fluid travel

    like my life, the cost beyond price.
    Chrome yellow simpers within its sun
    relations assuming warmth and love will rise

    from all who touch its rays. White lead, the true
    transfusion of light, transcends mere gold with good.
    Red warns of danger in relationships haunting

    my decision to reach beyond my reach, and black
    onyx marks my failure to comprehend
    another’s need before damage is too far done.

    Irrationally, regrets push themselves forward
    as truly significant wrongs are crowded out
    by voluminous, suffocating nightmares,

    surprising my self-pity with a cringe
    deep beneath any possible chance of forgetting.
    Assessing the process that brought me

    to this place, my propensity for risk
    incommensurate to reasonable deliverance,
    I still choose red.

    Ultra-Marine by Raymond Carver

  118. MichaelMcMonigle

    The Muted Blue

    Most times
    I didn’t know
    How to speak
    Or what it was
    I should say
    I studied
    And read
    Dedicated to
    The ways
    But could not find
    Any speech
    Mouth open
    Throat closed
    Cutting short breath
    To bring
    Words forth
    I’d stand
    Try to scream
    To blast
    Sound from my lungs
    Any sound
    At these times
    My tongue wouldn’t try
    But twist
    I’d land silent
    Injures me
    My failure
    My spirit
    Can not share
    My voice

  119. shellcook

    Prompt #19
    Write about a color.

    Sahasra, the color of the ancient ones.
    Oh astral body, crowned with
    seated awareness, the flowing water of our being.

    The soul of our universe, your violet
    rhythms sing to the soul of human kind
    waiting for us to awaken.

    Ancient rhythms of God
    Wholly clad in purple velvet
    With the setting sun around your head.

    You are the color of the great ‘I AM’.
    Pulsing and pushing this matter of universal consciousness
    Into the heart of man, coming to us,
    as gently as you can, so as not to frighten us
    with the high nature of our connection, our concept of self,
    awakening in the wee hours to the sparkling purple dawn
    of our own god selves.

  120. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Bright red fresh berries
    Feed the soul vitality
    Flight fight energy

    Juicy juice of orange
    Perks up and awakens us
    Appealing to all

    Yellow bananas
    Gather in bunches up high
    Like joined families

    Fresh green vegetables
    Mother Earth gives for our health
    Keeping our heart strong

    Blueberries give joy
    Nutrients fill our system
    Inspiring us

    Dark purple good grapes
    A growing community
    Fully insightful

    White cauliflower
    A taste of what’s possible
    Earthly bit of strength

  121. peacegirlout


    I know I’m not to speak about this
    But just in case you didn’t know
    There are burning bodies everywhere
    And many more in the rivers flow

    I just can’t sit and be still about it
    When I see so much apathy
    How far have we come from a short while ago
    When strange fruits hung low from the tree

  122. feywriter


    key to an unknown door
    clang and bang of factory
    power coursing through wire
    cranking gears and steaming pipes
    rattle of minecart filled with goods
    tick tock of the clock
    a tattered beggar beside the way
    metallic taste of pennies
    queasiness from blood loss
    cauterizing heat

  123. Nancy Posey


    There is no Braille for his condition—
    this world is black and white and grey,
    no compensation, hearing more acute,
    taste buds on full alert. He wonders
    why he misses what he’s never seen:


    He memorized the stop lights:
    red on top—stop stop stop
    green below—go, go, go

    He trusted his mother, then his wife
    to match his clothes. At art museums,
    he took his time appreciating
    while others oohed and ah’d
    over the splendid colors.

    He dreams sometimes, like Milton,
    that he almost catches a glimpse
    of a rainbow,
    a sunset,
    the exact color of her eyes.

  124. bethwk

    Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider

    First is the fire of forsythia,
    constantly enkindling in the April chill.
    Second, is the eye of dandelion.
    Third, the fluted trumpet of the daffodil.

    Fourth, the sunny yolk within the egg
    in the nest in the sycamore tree.
    And last of all, the turmeric hue
    of the pollen carried by the honeybee.

  125. Debbie


    A yawn, a stretch, a loving stare.
    The day begins with no compare.
    Please get up and tend to us three.
    Our wish is but a loving plea.

    The back door opens for great relief.
    Otherwise, there would have been much grief.
    But that didn’t happen so we move ahead.
    To start the day from that jump out of bed.

    We hear that sound, that sound of kibbles.
    Falling one by one ready for joyous nibbles.
    A breakfast for kings, queens, and all.
    Who were thankful for that call.

    The call was a blessing oh so great.
    To be released from that unwanted crate.
    Now in a fine home with love so full.
    Each day is adventurous and never dull.

    The mornings, the days, and even the nights.
    Keep us from feeling empty and out of sight.
    Our tails wag happily as true believers.
    For we are proud Labrador Retrievers.

  126. break_of_day


    poppies in a Van Gogh painting
    the star on the Winter Soldier’s arm
    cardinals chasing each other before the sun rise
    I see red
    and it is beautiful


    pouring tea into the soil
    was a bad idea
    the flowers died
    so now I know
    not to do that again


    why did it have to be yellow
    instead of purple or blue
    or ruby red?
    yellow-brown, even,
    which is worse,
    the color of dirt.
    you get the birthstone you’re stuck with.

  127. RuthieShev

    Ocher is the color of earth
    A yellowish brownish hue
    Underground long before our birth
    In a way only God can do.
    Bright orange ranging to red tones
    Made from the earth’s natural dye
    Beautiful as precious gemstones
    A delight to the human eye
    I first heard it mentioned in song
    About a coat that had been made
    Of a colorful list that was long
    With Ocher as one of the shades
    People often try to paint
    And put this color in print
    But the end result is often a faint
    Replica of this brilliant tint.

  128. BDP

    “Navy Trident”

    The Strait of Juan de Fuca. We’re bluff tall,
    Olympics’ bucksaw ridge across from us
    where mountains cut gray clouds and open wounds
    sky blue. Below, a submarine’s on stroll
    from Kitsap Naval Base, top hat of steel.
    It’s rare enough, brings out the curious.
    We wonder what the gentleman consumed
    at dawn: the count of crew in bellied hull.

    The nuclear atop the water! Boats
    press on in, motors, sails unfurled, canoes
    no less. Two fast patrolling runabouts
    push back, an escort swivels guns, we’re out
    classed this day, witnesses to message, who’s
    free to sprawl this king’s blue park, and who’s not.

    –Barb Peters

  129. Janet Rice Carnahan


    For sure

    Bridal dress and veil
    Food containers before going stale

    Cotton balls
    Fresh bathroom stalls

    Clouds we know
    Also snow

    Sea foam

    Uncased pillows

    Toilet paper on a roll
    Fresh writing paper or a scroll

    Any white paper just needs black ink
    Still my favorite color, sink!

    Some dogs are white like a Maltese
    Also found in a Great Pyrenees

    Some Christmas lights
    Brand new white candle . . .

    To warm our nights!


    Love the color of ink
    It expresses poetry well I think
    It is why we have the stars
    It adds class to the cars
    It is good to be in the black
    Best choice of formal wear on the stack
    It takes a white, white page
    Lets a writer’s expression . . .

    Out of its cage

    (Please pardon the pun . . . but I had a run on colors today, I had to write and write, they had a lot to say, they all ran together, truly all day!)

  130. arlingtonscribe

    My Blue Love Letter

    It wasn’t blue because
    it was sad
    or contemplative
    or particularly creative

    I remember it as a thing
    that moved me
    from one state of consciousness
    to another, hopping time
    distortion rifts in storybook form
    held together by
    family photo album adhesion
    your blue love letter pressed
    in amongst time-worn
    oddments, one vaguely
    appearing to be an autumn
    leaf ripped from the ground,
    a time capsule in waiting,
    brittle and darkened by
    a now forgotten rain

    you’re a catalogued memory
    (a few pages over)
    that leads back to a ghostly
    presence whose voice
    I’ve lost in memory-rewind
    on this blue stationary,
    a confession, a hope
    you asked if I liked you,
    “yes” or “no”

    peeling back the transparent fold,
    it’s clear it might have been
    scented; if your scent had lingered
    it might have given a clue
    to your origins

    prescience notwithstanding,
    this blue love letter carries
    a brief fragment pushed forward
    in time to present/me,
    leaving blank, present/you
    it’s captured here in four
    fragile corners living amongst
    other memories

    You lose time, like scattered
    coins across a diner tabletop
    recently wiped clean
    streak-reflections contrasting
    with spinning detail the distance
    traveled, tracked by GPS
    your turn navigation pushes
    you north toward discovery

    a path where paper memories
    remind us of crossings assumed,
    and crossings left untold,
    leaving the path ahead touched
    by blue, an unsigned
    declaration of love’s groovy drift

  131. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Who knew
    Fresh blueberries
    All I can take

    Hottest part of fires
    If one’s favorite color is blue . . .
    Blue is everything one has


    A bruise
    Only if you lose
    Grape drink

    Only pushed . . .
    By my least favorite aunt!

  132. kh42711


    The lights turned out
    She rolled over, the familiar
    snoring of her twenty year
    bliss beside her, lulling her to sleep
    as he always had
    her hand trailed slowly through his hair
    down his neck; then something
    sharp, metallic
    the lights turned on
    fearing a bug she found
    an emerald earring
    she did not own.

  133. Janet Rice Carnahan


    A ripe banana
    Inside fresh peaches
    A young girl’s summer bandana
    Sand on sandy beaches

    Great color for Easter eggs
    Daffodils, day lilies and some tulips prefer it
    Not a healthy hue on our legs
    Most blonds . . .

    Refer it


    Pretty good stuff if you ail

    Like eating green apples in the shade
    St. Patrick’s Day and the parade

    Money, please
    Green trees
    Too much fresh green growth in spring . . .

    And we sneeze

  134. Janet Rice Carnahan


    An orangutan at the zoo
    Fruit that is not a pear
    Halloween pumpkin, bring two
    A rainbow color in the air

    Monarch butterflies
    Swooping so high
    Not to see it, a surprise
    Against a sunrise sky

    Haze in the air
    When there’s a fire
    And smoke we can’t bear
    Circling even higher

    A block of cheddar cheese
    Little oranges, Mandarin
    I’ll have more please
    And orange juice with Darren

    A cantaloupe
    Carrot soup
    Not a good color to elope
    Good cough medicine . . .

    If you have the croup

  135. diedre Knight

    Burnt Copper Cup

    Whip-cracks of canyon thunder echo in the distance;
    reluctant to end the onslaught,
    as the gulley-washer slowly recedes
    and clouds drag feathery feet to reveal the denim sky
    the setting sun demands access to.
    A smile snakes across his face of russet suede
    As his time-leathered hand grips
    a burnt copper cup,
    raised high for a toast:
    “Here’s to ninety-nine candles
    and a ten-gallon hat to blow em’
    out with!
    To every one of the many fine friends
    I’ve outlived.
    Rattlesnakes and whiskey and a spindly colt
    snared in barbed-wire as his protective mother
    snapped the bones in my back.
    To the redhead, gone nigh on half a year,
    She asked me to hurry, and do you know
    I wish I could?
    Seems like whether you’re going out or coming in
    to this world,
    Someone always wants to thank you for coming.”
    He sets the cup down, leans back with his dog
    and his gun by his side,
    and closes his eyes as the sunset blazes a fireball
    on his burnt copper cup.

    diedre Knight

  136. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Santa’s suit
    Rudolph’s nose
    A sassy cowboy boot
    A lover’s rose

    Delicious apples, many berries
    Rubies and ketchup!
    Measles and a rash that carries
    Fever that goes up and up!

    Bites into a summer watermelon
    A bright new red fancy rug
    Rage on the face of a busted felon
    A teenage boy’s . . .

    First hug!

  137. Janet Rice Carnahan


    In the sun’s rays
    Sunrise or sunset, most days
    An opportunity or coin that pays
    A retriever that obeys
    A band on the left hand . . .

    That stays!

  138. Taylor Emily Copeland

    My knuckles are pink

    and curled into a fist,
    holding the sides of a
    pink hoodie, pushing them
    in towards each other.
    The zipper is broken
    from when it was stuck
    half way up and you yanked
    it too hard and snapped metal.
    The day has turned cold
    and I hold only myself.
    Pink streaks the sky,
    sends the light to sleep,
    sends me to retreat.
    I boil water for coffee,
    carelessly splash myself
    while pulling it off the heat.
    Pale skin turns red, turns pink.
    Pain becomes a welcome visitor.
    I hurt to forget what you took
    from me.

  139. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Some think you are too plain
    Who are they to complain?

    You may be colorless but they don’t know
    With added fruit your colors show

    Stir in black cherries, here comes pink
    A lemon taste, it is yellow, I think

    Add peaches make it orange, light
    With blackberries, purple delight

    Blueberries give us that hue of blue
    This we’d guess because this we knew

    With strawberries, a hint of red
    Golden pineapple is best before bed

    To make it green add lime,
    It is good, have it sometime

    Nothing for turquoise or aquamarine
    Nothing left for dessert, what do you mean?

    Just found another colorful choice, hello!
    Now pick your favorite . . .


  140. Jerry Walraven


    We still pretend that the Sun sets.
    That the sky,
    streaked with vermilion and alabaster
    is created by the motion
    of the Sun around us.
    This small conceit of language,
    born, one suspects,
    from short lives
    and earthbound perspectives,
    harms none,
    but the dizzying dance
    of Sun and Earth
    through the Milky Way
    seems far more majestic
    than paint by numbers
    created only
    for us.

  141. Taylor Mali

    Fire Orange

    is the color of the sky tonight
    as we turn down our street
    after dinner in our neighborhood,
    hand in hand, so beautiful
    you could almost forget
    it’s the burning
    of a midsized star
    bound to die.

    1. Janet Rice Carnahan

      Enjoyed your poem very much, Taylor, and also the message of it! We can get so caught up in the visual of something we forget what else is occurring. I saw a group of whales once that seemed to be dancing up in the air. When I heard they were all males fighting violently underwater, it changed my whole perspective!

  142. emmaisan0wl

    “we are warriors.
    we will take back the colour
    of so-called love
    and use it as war paint,
    stamp it on the lips of
    whoever gets in our way,
    leave them with fake numbers and
    run. hold my hand and
    run with me.
    let me wind my fingers into your hair.
    let me be the heat in your cheeks.
    angel, let’s be a forest fire;
    kiss me, and watch the world
    burn around us.”

  143. k_weber

    Slate Blue

    Sometimes my eyes
    but often the cooling

    What I want on my skin
    after the arch of orgasm

    How I love the sky playing
    against orange autumn leaf

    When is the scrolled design
    on the pool liner

    Chlorine trapped in my teeth
    and want grey, long sleeves

    Hint and hue because family
    with the grandmother iris, father

    Warm before the cloud
    where thigh on your thigh

    – k weber

  144. DanielAri


    These are names of colors on the gradient from near-white to near-black through red.

    White as a Ghost
    Rose Under Frost
    Cheeks of Isolte
    Box of Donuts

    Bathing Piglet
    Raw Hamburger
    Discount Copy
    Ruddy Sunburnt

    Tow & Ticket
    Ruby Plunder
    Arkansas Black
    Cheap Zinfandel
    Forensic Clot

    Eclipse Shadow
    Black’s Dream of Red


  145. Astrid Egger

    Both Stendhal La Chartreuse de Parme and Matthew Arnold La Grande Chartreuse wrote about Chartreuse but not in terms of a colour. So here is my attempt


    It isn’t for the faint of heart and still
    ash blonde ,I’d look washed out
    wearing a suit between yellow
    and green on the colour chart.

    Such boldness does well when
    paired with a strong equal like
    magenta or aubergine, even
    blue, grey or white will do

    but it is striking when bottled
    like the liqueur after which the
    colour is named; developed by
    Carthusian monks, for sale only

    we are told as ascetics aren’t
    known for imbibing, but how to
    get around the pesky tasting
    stage? someone had to have

    risked his reputation all in the
    service of commerce and sung
    the glory of God behind the walls
    of La Grande Chartreuse.

    Someday I’ll make it to Grenoble
    and take a sip, but until then
    I hear the sound of the word
    squishing out from underneath

    my gumboots, stepping on rocks
    covered by fucus spiralis, rockweed
    until its inflated wing tips disappear
    courtesy of the tide.

    And curly hypnum, a true moss
    on logs, yields to my bodyweight
    as if sighing; step lightly or you will
    never dance a chartreuse.

  146. jclenhardt


    At best, you could always
    close your eyes,
    imagine the sound
    of her footsteps,
    aren’t really hers, but mine,
    or at best, you could always
    try, and tell yourself
    you love her, make her into
    someone she’s not, or let
    your mind wander
    while in the act of making love,
    if you must, to survive,
    in this life of getting by,
    in the many years to come,
    you’ll have to spend with her.


    you can just bow out now
    and save yourself the sorrow.

  147. dandelionwine


    Peepers pined for propagation saturating
    the sodden field as I ached for a tender
    season I’d barely met and for you – away,

    out of town, out of state. I had little right
    to miss you while you traced back temporarily
    to your initial plot, adding lines I wouldn’t read.

    I had no right to be jealous but I was

    camouflaged with envy for a woman who
    would have had every right in the wide green
    world to be envious, if she’d known, of me.

    Sara Ramsdell

  148. RebekahJ

    Heartbreak Hill

    It’s half a mile
    But it’s where it comes that hurts
    After such aching
    And with the gray bare branches
    Still just veiling green of spring

    Kimberly Gladman Jackson

  149. KatNalley

    The Color of Money
    (excerpted from the names of money-related color palettes on colourlovers.com)

    How do I sleep, shake your money, shake yo money maker, show me the money, money is everywhere, $$, let the money talk, I suck with money, slim money, generate money, money talk, money hungry, make money online, extra money, extra money, nothing was the same, mint money fade, American currency, the color of money, money for nothing, one for the money, old money, rent money, faded money, cash for junk cars, how to use junk cars, neo-money, money salad, saving money, dirty money, t-money, money honey, conversion factors, options in life, new money, purchase, getting spot cash, old change, green money, o my money, power and money, Fiat money, I’ll raise the money, funny money, start-up blues, rich lullaby, money but no weed, weed but no money, one for the money, free money, no money no care, love da money, Greenback, greedy human race, money makin, G-money, 20 quid, Monopoly money, 105 Tunisian francs, money talks, out of money, rich bitch, pussy money weed, pocket money, with money only, money in the bag, money to blow, money business, eye on the money, go money, money master mind, money stealer, towers of money, too much money, no money, let’s make money, money grows where?, not about money, love money, no money for old men, money entourage, money market, global market, green with envy, Irish envy, Savannah old money, money isn’t gold, money tree, check please, overcharged, collecting the money, money over matter, moment over money, money can’t buy love, money runs outs, blood money, time is money, everything has a price, money is the root.

  150. cbwentworth

    Beyond Desert Brown

    Wrapped up in blue,
    rain taps the ground
    Spring’s last goodbye,
    kissing pink stones

    Hibiscus red,
    salutes the sun
    Summer winds blow,
    cinnamon sand

    Purple mountains
    catch the sunset
    Evening skies,
    coral monsoon

    – – –

    C.B. Wentworth

  151. Alpha1


    Ancient African woman
    Whose name remains unknown
    Is Burial #009
    We will never know
    Her life and culture
    Determined in excavation by
    Burial dress
    Waist beads around her hips
    Beads of cowric shells
    Of glass
    And amber shades
    Of black and white and
    Blue beads around her wrists
    Symbols of wealth and power
    Blue beads to denote she was
    Loved and respected
    And so
    Had been buried
    With care

  152. Connie Peters


    Fairy dancing in the moonlight
    A stallion galloping at dusk
    Mystery, fantasy, adventure

    A calm nighttime sea
    A spectrum of the rainbow
    A fat bird named bunting

    Seductive, sexy, smooth
    Voice of Marilyn Monroe
    A cowboy’s new jeans

  153. ToniBee3


    crowds rejoice in His
    Resurrection upon the
    fragrant Spring fields while

    tender-aged gigglers
    frolic in pastel yellow
    and green sundresses

    hunting for tie-dyed
    eggs to add to ribboned straw
    baskets stuffed with Peeps

  154. beale.alexis


    Is the feeling you get
    when you are forced to talk away
    from something you want so badly.
    Walking away with your head held high
    as you fight back the tears.
    It describes the days
    where you can hardly get out of bed.
    The days where you stare at the stars
    and wonder why did this happen
    to me. Was there a purpose or
    did I just strike a bit of bad luck. But

    It’s also the days where you’re
    swimming through a sea of wander.
    And with every stroke you get closer
    to your destination
    but at the same time,
    you’re far away. You wander and you wander
    because something inside of you
    pushes and pulls you simultaneously
    in all sorts of directions. And you’re
    not sure which is the proper one
    but you go on anyway because you have to.
    It’s a rhythm that never breaks. A rhythm
    that never ends. It’s constant as the sea.

  155. shellaysm

    (A Ghazal)

    Purple is royalty’s new blue,
    and a most velvety plush hue

    Among springtime’s first floral cue,
    it’s violets’ and pansies’ hue

    Inviting a sweet slumber’s woo,
    lavender is both a scent and hue

    The birthstone of month number two,
    the gem with a deep purple hue

    Alexandrite, a birth gem too,
    a diamond-amethyst mixed hue

    Yellow, from the color wheel’s view,
    purple’s complementary hue

    Raspberry parfaits for a few,
    purple is one mystical hue

    Michele K. Smith

  156. Walt Wojtanik


    Waking up in a purple haze,
    it’s one of those days where you fight the urge
    to stay in bed and splurge on your comfort.
    The warmth of blanket and bodies pressed
    together again as best friends; lovers
    of life and each other. It’s in your eyes.
    No surprise begins with a flourish of trumpets
    or raucous guitar riffs. Just butterfly eyes
    and a silly grin. I’m in for one of those days
    when being alive gladdens your heart.
    It’s always a fresh start waking up
    in joy and elation; a celebration.
    Excuse me while I kiss the sky!

  157. pomodoro

    Red, The Color of Paradise: A Prose Poem

    I thought about my father today because the tomatoes are coming into season. Heirlooms, the old ones with the past curled up inside. I love the heft of them, these fleshy female fruits that fit in your palm just so, that one heavy for its size, this one cleft in two, plump lobes so like a heart it almost beats in my hand. Who knows what their names are? Specials, he called them, from Italy. He carried their seeds wrapped in small squares of white linen to America, to the stew of rich earth on Hospital Hill. The ground mist rising, my father plants the seeds grown from what has been, nurtures them to what will be. Seeds from a distant place, paradiso, before. I can almost see him in those fabled fields, snow still thick on the peaks of the Apennines, listening to the tread of soldiers tramping through the village and through his head. But old nightmares settle into the soil, even the memory of war erased, as he plants in lines and curves like the graceful handwriting on creamy pages of old journals. I do the same, sow seeds like pearls, see stems rise like delicate pale sprites, dark green leaves curl, unfurl, forks of branches spread out and up. I watch bees pirouette and pollinate the clumsy blossoms -extravagantly yellow- and eye the red sloppy tomatoes, etched with brown scars that zigzag over healed splits like lightning flashes and, on stem ends, sport green bits like vestiges of dragonfly wings. The scent of them ribs the air, these caricatures on sprawling vines, infused with light, decadent crimson and gold, hidden in shy tangles and laced with dew. One calls me over. With a flush of pleasure, I oblige, pick it, and cut a piece. Warm from the blade, I taste its freckled cheerfulness, and decide to leave the poem, following the row across curves of continent and ocean that stretch all the way to paradiso.

  158. Angie K

    A Gray-Grey Day

    What is the need for a dusty shade
    to spell its name with “a,”
    but to use an “e” at other times
    when the sky is the color of clay?

    Chinchilla fur is dusty, too,
    a soft, inviting gray,
    but a hammerhead’s fin protrudes straight up
    and looks a frightful grey.

    Why do our friends “across the pond”
    prefer to use the “e” –
    could it be that London fog drags down,
    or perhaps the breakfast tea?

    But I must be honest, they have a point,
    that at times, to best describe
    a Grey-gray day is to simply say
    that the choice lies with the scribe.

  159. Walt Wojtanik


    “If you bruise, you lose!” my brother said.
    “Don’t feel bad, you could’ve been dead!”

    For some silly reason, it didn’t make me feel better
    as my bloodied nose made my shirt get redder

    and my two front teeth strewn on the street,
    (how can I function without my front teef?)

    Touch football games from pole to pole
    and an errant pass throw out of control

    Not another kid alive would be so dumb
    To take a dive to catch one thrown into the gravel.

    Sliding face first up the curb, abrasions and all,
    It’s amazing I even hung onto the ball.

    But with my face battered and my tongue sticking through,
    I looked so raccoon with my face black and blue!

  160. Kendall A. Bell

    Forsythia yellow

    Along the top of the street I grew
    up on, there are at least twenty
    feet of forsythias lining the sidewalk
    that would open in April, as long
    limbed arms welcoming the change of
    season. I would pick some on my way
    home from school and give them to my
    mother and she’d put them in a long,
    skinny juice glass with some water.
    They never lasted long after I broke
    the branch awkwardly and stunted their
    growth. I see these yellow flowering
    bushes dotted along the train tracks
    in my town now, and I’m reminded of
    running past them as a child, running
    from bullies, playing next to them by
    myself, of being the outcast.

    I don’t mind, sitting in the way, way
    back. I don’t mind lying to my friends.

    I didn’t have many friends to begin with
    besides the friends in my head.
    I think of forsythias and I hear Nina
    Gordon’s voice singing about being the
    weird child, singing about spider monkeys
    and twenty years later, I still know
    exactly how she feels.

  161. Clark Buffington

    You don’t have the Blues

    I’m the first place ribbon everyone craves
    I’m the achingly beautiful spring sky
    I’m the ocean water brimming with life
    I’m a child’s favorite color
    I’m a baby’s eyes seeing the world
    I’m not the color of sadness

  162. Clark Buffington


    Dark light absorbing black
    Not one color but them all

    Black as the night sky
    So the stars may shine

    No contrast without black
    Severe stark statement made

    Good guys wear white
    Everyone loves donning


  163. Clark Buffington

    Green please come back

    Eternal winter without respite
    Grey skies laden with storms
    White snow’s blinding glare
    Brown skeletal trees covered in ice
    Black mud from the melting
    Green of spring nowhere to be seen

  164. Walt Wojtanik


    You live with the cards you’re dealt,
    when it is felt that it’s a losing hand
    you throw all in and try again.
    Shuffle the deck and say what the heck,
    you’ve nothing to lose but a lot of green.
    Life is not a game, but all the same
    it’s not that easy being.

  165. Alfonso Kuchinski

    White (harsh lights)

    Squinting through mesh screens 
    Connective tissue discouraged
    Shut the shades, sheer shine subsists
    Excessive coloration combined crispness
    Blending to brightness of
    burning clarity uninviting 
    Still yielding, currents unconquered 
    Leftovers voices that refuse to refrain
    decibels grinding 
    Please please let streams slip
    and basic forms take their course
    Glacial valleys that shaped flows
    where ice slowly melts. 

  166. Cameron Steele

    Third write-thru. One of those days, yall.


    Nearly 30 before my blood
    felt red not yet a third
    decade not quite a virgin
    not that what matters.

    Spent winter afternoons
    tucked in coffee shop corners
    back curled against straight wood
    a church pew but more like something

    to steady me steady bleed
    the new season coiled through my spine
    like a spring my ears sweatless palms
    too hot to be wet to leave a mark

    on the glass not enough
    breath for that. Which is to say
    I couldn’t breathe like a woman
    my lungs my lazarus jewel box.

    Raise me from the dead
    the red sea in my old dreams.
    Hollow throat swallow swallow
    swollen little corner like every little girl –

    It’s OK to want the man you love
    to call you baby. I think. Nearly
    certain something matters,
    something beautiful in that too.

  167. kldsanders


    A spring afternoon sky.
    My daughter’s beautiful eyes.
    A depressed mood.
    A calm swimming pool.
    The beauty of the sea.
    Blue means so much to me

    -Karen Sanders

  168. Connie Peters


    A soldier dreams in black and white
    of deadly visions in the night,
    his buddies sleeping side by side.

    Memories move in shades of gray
    of loved ones all so far away.
    His hopes and longings all denied.

    When he awakes the world’s still dim.
    He wonders if they think of him.
    Moves on, not knowing that he cried.

  169. Karen H. Phillips

    Day 19

    Write a poem with color in the title.

    Smoky Topaz

    Not my color, the ring was huge,
    bunglesome on my small hand and slender fingers,
    but I should have kept it.

    The ring, with a gold–or gold-like?–setting,
    fit my index finger and had a funky sixties
    look; reminiscent of her wedding.

    Maybe my love of daisies dates back to that day,
    because she wore them with her bridal gown,
    her hair dark, upswept, glamourous.

    My cousin Jennie and I–skinny, awkward, braces
    on our teeth–kept the bride’s book. We were in awe
    of Aunt Judee. marrying handsome Buddy.

    Later, Judee become quite the bargain hunter.
    Her manic moments of yard sales, Loveman’s Thrift Day,
    Black Friday, blessed every family member and friend

    with everything from “Persian” rugs by the carload
    from Tuesday Morning, to a Bulldog sign for my husband
    Judee brought to the family reunion,

    “because I saw it and thought of you.” She was only seven
    years older than I, but her exotic beauty and popularity seemed
    unattainable to a shy seventh grader all those years ago.

    I came into my own, not exotic beauty or popularity, but finding
    my true self, but often Judee’s self got lost in the illness that raised
    and plunged her spirits and required drugs that wasted her body.

    The last time I saw her, at the nursing home, it was hard to believe
    this was the fun, young, beautiful aunt. She was ready to fly from
    that place, and the funeral felt more like a party, missing only Judee’s laugh .

    The smoky topaz isn’t what I need, to remember. Even without it,
    I see her smile when I visited with my toddler son; I recall the time
    Jennie and I stayed at her newlywed apartment.

    Now I smile because
    Judee must be the glitziest saint in Heaven,
    decked out in big rings and bright colors, dark hair coiffed just so.

  170. Ashley Marie Egan

    Cerulean Eyes and Blood Red Lips
    by Ashley Marie Egan

    He lurked in the darkest booth
    The shadows couldn’t hide his cerulean eyes
    He should’ve been displaying his youth,
    But the book in his hand suggested he was too wise.

    His stunning gaze found me peering,
    And the way he blushed was beyond endearing.

    She stood just outside the dance floor
    The lights illuminated her blood red smile
    Not artificially colored by anything from a store,
    She’s tasted blood just to wear it with style.

    Life’s nectar had stained her luscious lips,
    And I wished that blood was from my fingertips.

  171. Lady S Poetic Thickness


    The way he looks at me
    Without words
    His passion is felt

    Red fiery flames
    Encircle me
    Bringing pleasure

    Not once have we physically touched
    But he has graced my walls
    Leaving his imprint on my body

    In the rays of his red haze
    I am intoxicated
    Under his magical spell

    ©Sheila Moseley
    Lady S-Poetic Thickness

  172. Kevin D Young


    A is RED. Not a disease
    in the usual sense – a condition,
    perhaps a gift. Tell me you love me.
    I will swim in cobalt blue waters
    sloshed into my peripheral vision.
    Tell me we will have onions
    for dinner. A cream-tinged brocade
    will ascend as a shade lifted
    by the white underneath. When
    I say, “Hello,” the calindrical
    panes of the future, pasted
    on opaline wings, compass you.

    Red is a man, a landlord, an itinerant
    grandfather with a house worth twice
    what we can pay. Every day we stay
    he pockets his loss. What could have been
    is not. What is is Red. A is RED.

    B is chartreuse, or something close
    enough not to matter.

  173. Emma Hine

    Aqua Marine

    She was not the most beautiful ever to be seen
    at the bottom of the sea.
    Hair the most vibrant shade of aquamarine,
    the colour of the sea.
    On land, not done to blend in,
    rather to be seen.
    In the ocean, to hide
    tantamount to sin.

    She was not the daughter of a queen, or a king –
    no underwater princess.
    The angels did not stop to hear her sing
    with the voice of a princess.
    Not for her, the call of land,
    but with the dolphins,
    in the ocean, she swam.
    Her days were not planned.

    She was not like the other maids of mer –
    courting watery ideals.
    The others vilified and ostracised her
    for her lack of ideals.
    Beneath their gold and coral heads,
    they did not comprehend
    the simplest of pleasures
    of the ocean bed.

    Oft, she swam alone her hair a fan
    of silky aquamarine
    washed to transparency in the ocean.
    Tail, also aquamarine,
    sparkling like jewel arrays –
    yet invisible
    wrapped in the ocean when
    it reflects sun’s ray’s.

    Named for her hair and fins was Aqua Marine,
    the colour of the sea.
    Solitary but free, not being seen
    at the bottom of the sea.
    No place on land for this mermaid.
    No barter with a witch,
    no song to sing.
    Living unafraid.

  174. Cameron Steele

    second write-thru … sorry !


    Nearly 30 before my blood
    felt red not quite a third
    decade not quite a virgin
    not quite what matters.

    Spent winter afternoons
    tucked in coffee shop corners
    back curled against straight wood
    a church pew but more like something

    to steady me steady bleed
    the new season coiled through my spine
    like a spring my ears sweatless palms
    too hot to be wet to leave a mark

    on the glass not quite enough
    breath for that. Which is to say
    I couldn’t breathe like a woman
    my lungs my lazarus jewel box.

    Raise me from the dead
    the red sea in my old dreams.
    Hollow throat swallow swallow
    swollen little corner like every little girl –

    It’s OK to want the man you love
    to call you baby. I think nearly
    certain not quite clear but something
    matters, something beautiful in that too.

  175. flood

    A Color

    Minutes peel away
    faster than I can count to sixty
    and all of them are
    marching out the door
    like they were setting
    a beeline for the ark,
    or to the office door of whoever
    was responsible
    for the difficult task of
    assigning a color
    to all things.

  176. Mark Windham


    to him, it is more than a color,
    it is an identity,
    a mantra,
    a way of life,
    a culture and a belief.
    It guides his actions
    and determines his friends,
    chooses the place of his home,
    the nature if his church
    and the power of his convictions.
    It is the cross he bears
    and the flag he waves,
    the box he checks
    and the first word used to describe him;
    more important than gender
    or place or date of birth,
    almost taking the place of a name.
    He would prefer to be called
    a man —
    no preceding adjectives —
    but differentiating descriptors are a
    societal requirement,
    so, he clings to it and waits.
    Black is his creed,
    his motivation and his history,
    a thing he could no more shed
    than his skin.

    1. shelaghart

      Amazing. You’ve captured much of what it’s like to be born with certain skin shades. I think your poem and the preceding two (including mine) are linked … and I don’t believe in coincidences.

  177. Cameron Steele


    Nearly 30 before my blood
    felt red not quite to a third
    decade not quite a virgin
    not quite what matters.

    Spent winter afternoons
    tucked into coffee shop corners
    back curled against straight wood
    a church pew but more like something

    to steady me steady bleed
    all the red coiling through my spine
    ears sweatless palms too hot
    to be wet to leave a mark

    on the glass not quite enough
    breath for that. Which is to say
    I couldn’t breathe like a woman
    my lungs my lazarus jewel box

    raise me from the dead
    from the red sea in my dreams.
    Hollow throat swallow swallow
    swollen little corner like every little girl —

    It’s OK to want the man you love
    to call you baby. I think nearly
    certain not quite clear but
    something beautiful in that too.

  178. DanielAri

    “Translucent white”

    After dancing hard
    I drop to the floor
    and look at my hands
    floating there between
    eyes and heaven—
    in this case, white ceiling
    with white vent pipes.

    Oh, complications
    of matter!
    How you twist
    to shed yourself
    into some simpler

    a translucent kind
    of flesh, closer to clear,
    not the meat,
    but the membrane,
    and finally not
    even that,

    but what may be
    between the membrane
    and the ceiling,
    and heaven.


  179. julie e.


    When he was young, plaid
    was his favorite color.
    Today in his 20s he
    still sees life in his
    own spectrum, in colors
    too vivid where others
    would rather dim
    -inish him, but I, his
    mother, still smile for
    his unique world where


    is still
    a color.

  180. Elizabeth Koch


    I bring life.
    Yielding bushels of all shades.
    Some call me gold, though I am not.
    In winter I lie in wait
    under cover of purest white.
    My dampened spring scent
    transports a woman back
    to enchanted childhood.
    Brightest green adorns
    my parallel crests through summer.
    I am left to myself again
    when autumn leaves arrive.
    I labor to bring what all require.
    I am the beginning and the end.
    Darkest of black,
    sustaining soil.

  181. Walt Wojtanik


    We came as nine.
    Perfect for this game.
    Third base line seats tucked
    behind the opposition dugout.
    Every cheer and shout directed
    at the pristine field. Five brothers;
    one by proxy. Three cousins, close.
    The ninth, a long time compatriot, a brother
    of sorts; cohorts in this simple game. Hit. Catch.
    Throw. Wouldn’t you know it would be so simple?
    “A sky so blue, it’d hurt your eyes to look at it!”
    A strand of clouds lined the outfield. Contrasting,
    completing; highlighted in pinkish tones. No bones about it.
    Our father was punctuating a perfect day, in “the land of the free,
    and the home of the brave”. Play Ball!

  182. jean2dubois

    by Jean Dubois

    orange is the color of warmth and happiness
    but I never write about it because no word rhymes with it

    at one wonderful time in my life
    I painted my bedroom furniture orange
    the night stands
    the bookcases
    grandma’s ancient rocking chair
    and I covered the seat and the back in orange and red patchwork

    I sit in it today smiling to myself

    but orange is not a private color
    it flames up at day’s end filling the western sky
    saturating our hearts with happiness enough to last until pink dawn

    but don’t worry don’t shrink
    don’t let your heart sink
    don’t think for a minute
    I’m going to write about pink


  183. miaokuancha

    April 19, 2014

    Prompt: Color

    The color of the dyer’s art
    White skeins dipped and dried
    Dipped and dried.
    Red upon red upon red.
    Past the color of dried blood
    Past the shade of
    Sunset darkened
    The color of the mysteries
    The warrior
    The hidden
    The infra
    Pulsing with its past.
    The radiance of black.

  184. Walt Wojtanik


    Such a mirage, a vision
    off in the distance like a sunset
    bracing for the onset of night.
    My heart lightens at the thought
    of auburn brilliance.in the stillness
    of my dreams. It seems you haunt me,
    and taunt me. You flaunt me
    like a well worn gem. You were
    my jewel, my priceless pearl.
    You were the girl of my heart.
    When I think of you, I see red.
    I can’t get you out of my head.

  185. tunesmiff

    G. Smith
    In my mind I’m going to Carolina,
    In my mind I’m on my right now.
    In my mind the road unwinds before me,
    I know I have to get back there, but how?

    In my mind I’m in the Smokey Mountains,
    In my mind I’m holding her so tight.
    In my mind I’m on the Blue Ridge Parkway
    And not in this damned foxhole in the middle of the night.

    And I can almost see the sunshine in the pine trees;
    I can almost feel the moonshine in air;
    I can almost smell the wood-smoke of the home-place fire burning,
    In my mind I wish that I were there.

    In my mind I’m going to Carolina,
    In my mind I’m going to her right now;
    There’s something in the way she moves and calls my name,
    I know I have to get to her; but how?

    I know I have to get to her;
    but how?
    With apologies to J.T.

  186. Kit Cooley

    Blue Eyes, Green Eyes

    Sometimes blue and sometimes green,
    The color reveals him. My man has mood-ring
    Eyes. When he is tired, their color ebbs to
    Vague aqua. Invigorated and
    Excited, they are brilliant sapphire stars, and
    Zealous, meet my brown-eyed stare.
    Unique, this gaze that finds me,
    Kindles fire in my heart, and all my
    Understanding of the rainbow
    Scatters in the prism of our love.

    ~ Kit Cooley

  187. priyajane

    Grey Hoverings
    The sky leans down, and opens its chest
    A silent request from the earth’s thirsty breast
    Grey smoking oceans come circle around
    Boosting the green, and calming the brown
    The birds are quiet, and cleaning their wings
    No shadows around, just a glazed hovering
    A cold appearance, with a warm intent
    It slowly streams in, moist gleaming accents
    Its color-free stew and haunting rendition
    Enhances soft tones for a deeper transition
    A soothing presence that strokes my mood
    And makes me reflect and soak in its rue

  188. Patricia A. Hawkenson

    Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Day 19 Color poem

    Yellow Eggs, Over You Easy

    There’s a button
    that you have to press
    to turn the coils
    red hot,
    and it only took
    one minute, forty-two seconds
    for my toaster to go
    from brown to burnt,
    but you managed
    to blacken my soul
    in the second it took
    to unbutton
    her shirt.

  189. TomNeal

    Judy Benjamin’s Insider Fashion Tip
    (It’s olive drab this season)

    To all would be fashionistas,
    Wherever you happen to be,
    Pay attention now you touristas,
    There is nothing that screams “me” like O.D.

    It looks great on a belt or bag,
    And don’t forget your backpack too,
    You won’t need other shades to brag
    Let this one alone speak for you.

    T-shirts and trousers and tanks, most agree
    Look better with a splash of the drab,
    Purple and pink are passé don’t you see,
    But trust me, you will never O.D. on O.D.

  190. ASperryConnors


    mauve is what i called
    my grandmother’s
    twin sister…
    mavis-n-mauve, mauve-n-mavis
    but in fact her sister’s
    name was mildred
    two sisters who
    loved fine things
    grand pianos, tiffany lamps
    divan’s covered in mohair
    colored in a dusty rose
    we used to tease about the
    color, saying ‘ma-oove over’
    or ‘maaa-ve outta my way’
    whenever we sat down
    i never minded how
    it itched my legs like cockleburs
    i found it a comforting and warm
    place to sit looking out the picture
    window from a safe womb to the park
    grandma served homemade butter-n-rolls
    on the brass oval table that bejeweled
    the arm of the divan and the one good
    thing about mauve is
    it can hide a jungle of
    crumbs and memories

    1. acele

      You’ve captured this color! – like the crumbs and memories! My mom always called my great aunts the “Aunts in Mauve” so this gave me a smile!

        1. Dan Collins

          Thanks cholder! I wish you could post photographs here. This Haiku was inspired by a ring of red tulips in Hiroshima. Of course the site is difficult enough to navigate. Photos would probably only make it more difficult. :(

  191. DCR1986

    Coral Crush #515

    Mmm mmm my lips.
    I love to dress
    And matte them down from nude.
    Curve with sensual at the left and seduction at the right,
    then softly whisper in his ear, “I’m no cover girl tonight.”

    —Danielle C. Robinson

  192. CristinaMRNorcross


    Red shoes,
    ruby mind –
    you were here.

    My Oxblood Doc Martens
    were always on my feet in college.
    I’m surprised I didn’t sleep in them.

    Those bouncing soles took me
    I would walk through Byward Market,
    collecting delicacies of landjäger wurst
    and German chocolate.

    A flash of red could be seen,
    as I escaped down the stairs
    of the used bookstore.
    I remember picking up a copy
    of Mary McCarthy’s, The Group,
    and losing myself in fiction.

    I was red-infused –
    wearing a pair of teardrop, Carnelian earrings
    and a deep burgundy scarf.

    With Oxblood feet,
    my root chakra energy
    walked with me –
    rooted me to the ground,
    centered my many facets,
    leaving a trail of invisible footprints.

    Cristina M. R. Norcross
    Copyright 2014

  193. Gabrielle Freeman

    by Gabrielle Freeman

    The color of cheap fabric wrapped
    around the bodies of the dead.
    Binding leg to leg. Arms to body.
    Lower jaw to upper jaw
    and skull. What color must it turn

    strapping spices to skin, aloes
    and myrrh, ointments of unknown
    origin. Bodies carefully washed,
    dried, swathed in aromatic salve.
    Oils absorbed by fibers ripped

    in strips by hands mourning
    moving on. The body a box
    of jewels. Hardened case. Ruby heart.
    Dried in a desert, compressed
    in dressings wound by hands holding

    court. Lazarus rose, wrappings
    unfurling, fraying from furtive
    movement. A frilled outer shell.
    Inner, nacreous layer
    gradually exposed as he walked,

    dazed, from the chiseled hollow.
    Iridescent in the shallow
    light. Free the body hinged
    to harbor skin, the body fixed
    to everlasting stone.

    Let me know what you think at http://www.ladyrandom.com. Thanks for reading!

  194. EbenAt

    Red 19

    Wednesday, April 19th;
    Massachusetts was a tinderbox
    and my home town
    was the match head.

    The match was struck in Lexington,
    Hancock arrested,
    ten Minutemen dead.
    Only Dawes made it to Concord
    where arms were hidden,
    the flame rekindled,
    the meetinghouse burned.

    Near Buttrick’s farm
    rebel ranks swelled,
    a cold west wind blew.
    They watched Captain Laurie’s
    hundred red coats
    approach the north bridge.

    A British regular fired first,
    Hosner and Davis fell
    and Buttrick yelled
    “Fire, for God’s sake, fellow soldiers, fire!”
    The British broke and ran.

    South, down the road
    they met more militia;
    A tense standoff while
    crazy Elias Brown
    sold hard cider
    to both sides.

    On the road back to Boston,
    by Meriam’s Corner,
    a thousand rebels
    shadowing through the woods.
    At the Bloody Angle,
    the trap sprung,
    Payback time from the
    men of Lexington,
    so sayeth my relative,
    Ebenezer Munroe.
    Guerrilla tactics against
    British aplomb.
    Red Coats fell in droves.

    All the way back to Boston
    green, brown and gray ghosts
    flitted through the hardwoods
    hunting blood red jackets;
    the shot heard round the world
    ignited a new nation.

  195. Hannah


    Three doesn’t know how to name details
    but thirty six has learned most of them
    and I know now, what memories are made of.
    They’re formed of itchy wool – vest on my cheek
    as I momentarily rest my head on his chest,
    breathing deep of a sharp, heavy scent;
    robust pipe tobacco and smoke residue.
    I can nearly feel his holiday heartbeat,
    it’s hidden in a striped silken inner-pocket
    his voice is a lion’s low rumble caged within his ribs
    and his breath expresses a pulse of spirits past my nose –
    he laughs at his entertaining way of play with me
    and my two siblings – I believe, almost as much as we do.
    A rich cascading low-toned laughter bellows
    into the hollow of this high-ceilinged pine-poised house;
    this dining room peers at me with many eyes,
    dark knotholes of all-encompassing wooden paneling
    and I don’t think I’d need the picture to remember
    the luxurious look and smell of fine polished furniture –
    the mahogany china closet just behind where we’re all lined up,
    layers of kids and adults and me on my grandpa’s lap.
    I look up with a certain palpable wonder in my eyes
    gathering him in not knowing then what I know presently:
    That this would be one of my only real sensations of him –
    all that I’d really be able to recollect in my now – this grown up life.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

  196. Poetess

    Red Rose Forever

    I saw her perfect face
    A smiling withered rose
    Looking to her sturdy stem
    Holding her upright and strong
    Impeccably through the years
    With honor her petals held
    Delicately in high esteem
    No thorns no broken beauty
    The face of an aging Venus
    Completes his elegance
    His red rose forever

  197. Bartholomew Barker


    Such a drab color
    Color of my hair
    Color of my eyes
    Nothing special

    Color of tree bark
    While the green leaves
    Get all the attention

    Color of rock and stone
    While gold and silver
    Get all the attention

    Color of leather boots
    Knee high under a wrap dress
    Cool to the touch
    Contrasting the warmth
    Of her thigh
    But I digress

    Brown provides the foundation
    For the bright and vibrant
    The necessary material
    Like granite for buildings
    Speech for song
    Prose for poetry

  198. Poetess

    Beautiful Black Tears

    dripping from my eyes
    black gives way to blues
    purple and red rewind
    orange yellow green
    paints with my fear
    darkened skies smiling
    on the other side
    your hue appears
    a shiny lucky penny
    copper and clear
    sunshines my eyes
    water-coloring my mind
    and heart crying
    beautiful black tears

  199. De Jackson


    Ooooo. The sky is the color of my
    wedding dress,
    I breathe
    into your shoulder. I mean
    cornflower, of course,
    carefully chosen all those
    years ago to be most definitively

    Yes, you smile, say periwinkle
    for perhaps the one hundredth time,
    with a twinkle in your eye
    that mirrors, matches
                 all this blue.


  200. Nancy LaPonzina

    Crimson Fuchsia and Russet

    I discovered when bothered with
    What’s your favorite color
    early on,
    That indeed the wow for me
    happed with a trio of colors.
    But it took time to develop that perspective.
    I never got the rush from only one …
    Yellow, yes
    Red, too fire engine-y
    Green, okay
    Blue, island-y leaning toward aqua.
    But colors dancing off each other,
    telling completely different stories but influenced so strongly by each other?
    Now that is living color.
    Crimson, Fuchsia, and Russet.

  201. geetakshi


    You’re betrayed for being depressing,
    your hues are tiresome too,
    yet, you’re the first sign of a bright summer day,
    and you’re the measure of water
    that is supposed to be colourless;
    Dark- you contain galaxies,
    light- you’re cool, sandy beaches,
    your wounds are too diverse to be recounted,
    and your lives too deep to be measured;
    Your deepest secret is your ability
    to metamorphise
    into words,
    inky words that create worlds
    and emotions,
    actions that despair
    and celebrate:
    you are the colour of victory
    of life over defeat:
    you are the colour of
    the defeat of courage
    over red rage.
    your waters wash away wounds gently,
    and yet,
    you are demolished,
    to a small drop:
    you are merely
    a colourless
    saline drop

    © Geetakshi Arora
    April 19, 2014

  202. taylor graham


    Not the rose that burst open
    yesterday where I sprinkle old coffee-
    grounds – its blossom a shade of orange
    mixed with blood and saffron,
    a hint of blush, its beauty already fading
    after this morning’s dawn swept
    crimson-peach with a brush of orange
    promising another hot day.
    That’s not the orange I’m talking about.
    In the dark before first-light
    I carefully slid open a dresser drawer
    and pulled out a cotton T-shirt
    blaze-orange with a Search-
    and-Rescue logo. From down the hall
    by the front door, my dog caught
    the scent/sound/thought-waves/who-
    knows-what in the sensory palette
    of dogs. Instantly he was
    blocking my path in the dark, sniffing
    the fabric of an old T-shirt
    imbued with places I’ve long
    forgotten. Paths through woods and
    crosscountry forays, orange-
    yellow poppies in a field of grasses
    already burned summer-gray;
    my dog pulling me along invisible
    crumb-trails of scattered scent
    to find someone hidden
    at the end. The color of his life.

  203. starrynight3


    Heart of a soldier girl
    Home from the war,
    As close to combat as they’d let her.

    Sits at the table with her brothers’ wives
    Not a word to contribute.
    Mani-pedi, the cat’s hairballs,
    A trip to the mall, something girly.
    She can’t find the purpose

    Down range she had a mission
    Earned her place at the table,
    She didn’t flinch from duty
    Learned what it means to be “sister,”

    They’re downsizing the war now
    Bringing soldier girls home with the brothers.

    She puts on lipstick once more and her hair
    Down, maybe high heels and a dress.
    Walks back into the homes, the waiting hearts
    Of the ones she left to go serve her country.

    But no one can see her here in the States.
    Invisible girl, she thinks, like a ghost.
    Her heart is purple now.

  204. Lori DeSanti

    Sky Painted Lilac

    We tore through each other like a tornado;
    I dimmed the sun and you spit lighting so
    deep it split me in two. I’m not sure when

    the storm started— how we became caught
    in a cloud so thick that we didn’t even hear
    the thunder roll. It wasn’t until I saw your

    eye, a hole so deep no amount of destruction
    could fill it; and the funnel we had woven so
    tightly broke open, the clouds parting like two

    unhinged hands. We let the sun shower wash
    away the darkness, the rain smearing the colors
    like acrylics; we left the sky dampened with lilac.

    1. julie e.

      If anybody has a chance to read this and has a second to weigh in, I’m conflicted by whether to use “silenced” or “muted.” I like the sound of that inner rhyme-y thing “muted” provides, but then again I like the knife sharp sound of “silenced.” Anybody?

      1. De Jackson

        julie, I love “silenced,” because it presents the wound as sound, which of course, many wounds are. Read out loud both ways (which I did), it also provides a softer transition to the last stanza, which is where the emphasis should be, in my opinion. I also prefer the assonance in “wine” and “silenced” to that of “wound” and “muted.” Just my two cents.

        I LOVE this. The juxtaposition of red and white is stark, strong, and vivid.

          1. De Jackson

            Awww. Thank you so much, julie. That means a lot to me. Wish I had more time to read this month. I’ll have lots of great poetry to read for months to come, that’s for sure.

  205. intheshadowofthesoul

    Lydia Flores

    Love is a red rose
    thin petals but thick
    with blood held up
    by thorny stems.

    My heart is just the
    same, alive and pumping
    with thick maroon blood.
    The color of life.

    There is a man who
    gave up life, sweated
    blood out and gave up
    his spirit for the finished
    prophesy by his blood.

    When the colors of our skin
    fade and the boundaries of cities
    break into the roaring ocean sea
    we all are blood, we all are red.

    Love is blood, love is blood
    blood spilled from the wounds
    of a man that have paid the
    ransom of our own red hearts.

    Red is the color of blood
    the color of death taken
    from the body and the color
    of life given, a channel
    to the pulsating thing inside
    of you and inside of me.

    The color of love is red
    blood, red, blood shed
    for a price, paid by a
    man to buy a life no one
    can attain on their own,
    Because bloody is the wound
    red drenched sin and red the
    color of sacrifice for that stake.

    Blood, red, the color of love
    sacrificed with wounds for
    you, for me, our own blood
    is his and blood is red the
    color of the gift given…
    life, your heart pumps red.

    Love is a red rose
    your heart, your heart
    thin petals thick with
    blood, blood of his.
    Blood of Christ, red
    as love. Red as love.

  206. beachanny


    baby boy blankets and summer skies
    wedding good luck gifts and sunlit seas
    swimming pools in grand hotels
    hollyhocks, hydrangeas, dangling bluebells
    describe the essence of what’s blue

    late day shadows defining your soul’s low
    that skin smeared dark inky show,
    the pain wracking your mind, the last throw
    of the dice, betrayed, abandoned, snowed,
    beguiled by the blow ..that’s blues ..indigo

    dark stormy seas
    that man that would never please
    that phone call that was only a tease
    that loss after you’ve been deceived
    that wreck in your nerves, that sinking slow
    that ain’t blue….that’s mood indigo

    © Gay Reiser Cannon * 4.19.14

  207. P.A. Beyer


    The vase we steal from the hotel in Leidan,
    we fill with tulips from the market square.
    The sunset glows across the North Sea.
    Each step we take, no worries, no cares.

    We waltz along the Danube river.
    Your white dress, soaking, in the rain.
    The rose between my teeth is wilting.
    The candle’s out but there’s still a flame.

    The night blankets the hills of Vienna.
    The cobblestone doused in piss and beer.
    We flee the scene like its September
    when summer’s gone, but oh so near.

    The water in Venice looks polluted
    but the wine flows like a springtime stream.
    We cry like drunkards in the gardens.
    Our vase it shatters, yet still we dream.

    Picking up the broken pieces,
    in Athens, it’s always been Greek to me.
    I know you know that I’m no stranger
    still, now, you hold me like a thief.

    Your boarding time is 7:30.
    My train departs at 8:15.
    We say “goodbye” in French and English
    and laugh about life’s little in-betweens.

  208. Domino


    First, the smell of the roasting coffee beans
    A more decadent scent none could devise
    Grind into earthy shards by all means
    Ah, the smell of the roasting coffee beans
    Brewed black ambrosia in mystic machines
    Poured in a cup, promises paradise
    And the smell of the roasting coffee beans
    A more decadent scent none could devise

    Diana Terrill Clark

  209. uneven steven


    is not brindled
    nor mottled light diffusing
    layered leaves leaving us cold
    on our school picnic
    or calamitous jane fingering her 6 gun
    except in our imaginations
    nor is it muslin or linen
    or a trifold hat
    no matter how much it would like us to think so –
    she purrs such a small defective motor
    blind and deaf
    to all else but hunger and touch
    maternal mammalian desire insistent within us
    we comply crowding the cage to be next
    in line to bottle feed the writhing
    rough cloth of tongue and paws
    certain traits are always carried on we are told
    as are the anomalies

  210. madeline40


    One of the places
    on Mr. Rogers Neighborhood
    was the Planet Purple
    where all Purple People looked alike.
    All girls were called Pauline
    All boys called Paul.

    Our son Paul watched
    the Mr. Rogers TV show everyday
    and yearned to be
    one of the Purple People
    who could teleport themselves
    just by thinking about
    where they wanted to go.

    Paul, in his favorite
    purple shirt and hat,
    walked around our house
    declaring in his robotic monotonous voice:
    We are the people from the
    Planet Purple,
    and we’d applaud.
    Now I lay purple flowers
    on his grave.

  211. jojo1127

    In the Red

    I get flustered-red faced
    every time I hear your voice
    You make me blush
    when we caress and hold hands
    With you, everything is rosy and bright

    I can’t say I feel the same, my dear
    it hurts my heart to hide these feelings of pain
    I feel shameful–embarrassed
    I try to say the truth but these words get jumbled
    Our love isn’t rosy or bright it’s in the red

  212. pcm

    Unimagined Mango

    My towheaded boy
    was lanky and lean
    scrambling up trees
    eyes keen to spy on everything
    that anyone was up to—
    squirrels on the roof,
    neighbor pumping iron in the basement,
    a determined beetle inching toward
    an empty paper cup
    the wind would bob just out of reach.

    Never studying the Arts and Crafts
    Movement as retaliation against
    Victorian excess,
    without consulting color wheels,
    feng shui or paint catalogs,
    he listened to the walls
    of our bungalow
    on Fourth and Main
    and chose mango.

    His room felt warm and strong
    gentle and playful
    capricious and solid as the day is long
    full of peace and calm
    and infinite potential.

    Mango said,
    I have a clue.

  213. TomNeal

    A black and white character sketch of a great patriot with a mention of rose thrown in

    He has a paunch and double chin,
    And white hair that is rather thin,
    But he still talks a warrior’s talk.

    When it comes to war he doesn’t balk,
    Send in the troops, don’t miss a chance
    To show some steel, to prance and dance
    Like a statesman on the world stage.


    It has been no bed of roses
    For this man of martial poses,


    In the sad past- at an earlier age,
    He was eager to fight, but a damned [grad student]
    Deferment blocked his way to Ho Chi Minh.

  214. HoskingPoet

    Pink Sky

    Still waters
    Memories flood in
    Rowing out under dawn’s pink

    Out in a canoe, waiting
    Fishing pole in hand

    Today is my Dad’d birthday. I wrote this poem for him.

  215. Benjamin Thomas


    I stand,
    a vibrant man
    of orange,
    whole in bold tones,
    full of courage.

    But the crux
    of my heart;
    in it’s inner
    is primary blue.

    Now if I’m to choose
    between these two,
    what on earth
    am I to do?

    Slice me
    and tell me
    which one
    I bleed?

    On which hue
    to lean, in times
    of need?

    Do I keep myself bright,
    in a secondary tone?
    Or drift home alone
    in a solid blue?

    But what if I mixed
    and married the two?
    Would I turn
    dookie brown?
    I hope not.
    I’d turn that down,
    for sure.

    Would I slant
    to purple pansy?
    Not my true.

    after all,
    I would bleed
    crystal blue.

  216. AleathiaD

    The Boy with the Ice Blue Eyes

    while we walked
    the dog in the afternoon,
    she told me that
    if she liked


    they would
    have dark hair
    and ice blue eyes
    and be nerdy
    and funny.

    I tried not to look
    frightened or be too quiet
    and give away my panic
    and deep sadness
    at how much older
    she is getting
    and slipping

    Aleathia Drehmer 2014
    April 19 Color

  217. JadeWr1tes

    Jade (4/19)

    Hard jagged lines, defined iron
    with soft curves of mint;
    sweet tints of pearl, whirling
    into the quartz of true stone.

    Grown in harsh fire, floods,
    unknown to man; true forms
    jadeite- crystallized, magnified…
    Becomes good luck charms
    and birthstones.

    Beauty radiates through magnesium
    deposits of love, swirls of soft green,
    trickling down the silhouette of girls.

    Wisdom seeping through cracks
    of teal and blue; ornaments, buttons,
    color stained décor across my floor,
    all new.

    You feel my cold eyes watching you;
    melting your heart, I take you
    to a world you never knew.

    © 2014 Jada Lopez Poetry

  218. Renada Styles


    On heaven’s cloud
    Where choirs
    Of ordainment
    Preach the bellows
    Of airy salvation

    I imagine an air
    Of clothe
    Swathing my pallor
    Like an angel wing
    Or seraph glow

    Its purity
    Of sinless rebirth
    Bathes me in white
    That is more luminesce
    Than fresh snow

    The tones of death
    Do holler
    With a wailing mourn

    And the decay of flesh
    Yellows and greens
    In a slipping stench

    No wings burst
    From blades
    Of humanity

    And the alluring light
    A torrid bleak

    An off-white

  219. Michael Wells


    I love Circus Peanuts
    those bright orange
    peanut shaped candy
    which have nothing to do
    with circuses— I love the way
    they get tough and chewy.

    I crave tangerines
    year round but the best ones
    the brightest orange ones
    with the loose feel
    to the peeling
    are the juiciest.

    I love the Giants baseball team
    they do black and orange better
    then anyone, even Halloween.
    Each year I swear the team plays
    in the spirit of orange.— it’s like
    anticipation on Adderall.

    I love everything
    about the San Francisco Bay area.
    The Giants, orange sunsets
    on the Pacific, and International Orange
    the color the Golden Gate Bridge is painted.
    Seeing that shade of orange ignites
    the orange spirit within me.

  220. rachelgrace


    Often misunderstood you mean so much
    Absorbing all that is around you
    No matter what anyone may say
    You are every color in one
    Unlike white—your cousin that reflects too much
    You ponder your shadow

  221. Roderick Bates


    is the color of Joni Mitchell and The Jesus Lizard,
    of a bride’s garter and kind of Miles Davis,
    of depression and a bright summer sky,
    of Union soldiers and varicose veins and the sea.
    It is the color of Leonard’s raincoat and Elvis’s suede shoes,
    of Sinatra’s eyes, Billie Holiday’s lower tones,
    of police lights, baby boys, the litmus test for alkalinity,
    and the higher frequency of the visible spectrum.

    Further bent through the second prism
    of thought and tradition, blue spreads again,
    becomes beauty and sadness, faithfulness,
    loneliness, stability, wisdom, and trust.
    Like all that we understand, it splinters, bends,
    and crumbles, until it is at once all, and nothing.

    by Roderick Bates

  222. susanjer


    There’s a saffron yellow house in the painting on the wall. An
    improbable color for a house–the brash yellow of a Caterpillar
    bulldozer. The color of paint my father salvaged from work,
    painting the basement stairwell so daily we descended the throat
    of a daylily into its dark womb. Van Gogh lived in a yellow house
    of light that year in Arles when he painted yellow cornfields,
    yellow haystacks and yellow sunflowers in a frenzy of creativity.
    He sat in a yellow chair, ate at a cafe with a yellow floor and slept
    in a yellow bed. I write with a yellow No. 2 pencil.

  223. LizMac

    A Child’s Color Kaleidoscope

    Before words come,
    Color saturates understanding
    In moving patterns
    That blend and swell,
    Before breaking and falling
    Back together again,
    In new and startling
    Prismatic coalescence.

    Deep blues conjure magic and Mary,
    Midnight and mystery,
    Yule peace and a deepness
    That runs forever in
    Pools of comprehension,
    Trust and safety.

    White forms diamonds glinting,
    Sparkling and startling
    The imagination,
    Pages asking to create;
    & Impossible purity;
    Endless possibilities
    That suddenly catch the light.

    Green sap rising
    In the tang of broccoli bitterness,
    Energy, promise and participation;
    Newness rolling forever
    In calming restlessness;
    Light filtering glowingly
    Through cool aquarium calmness.

    Delicate audacious surprises
    Of pinks and yellows suddenly
    Splashing confident assertion
    Across meek suggestion;
    Giggling liberation,
    Wild statements of flirtation;
    Bold, bright, brief belief.

    Royal reds and russets- Dignified
    Soulful significance,
    Stately magnificence
    Of a grand final assertion.
    Crunching, munching on
    Satiated ripeness, oozing
    Present contentment
    And fading fire.

    And all the impressions,
    The synaptic connections,
    Roll up and store,
    Return and rearrange
    In patterns not seen before
    But the colors remain,
    Burn distinctly and deeply
    In our brain directing
    The symphony of senses,
    That channel our perceptions
    Towards the shifting screen
    Where pictures collapse and unfold
    Revealing to us moment by moment
    Who we are.

  224. Michelle Hed

    Cerulean Frost

    I sat in the parking lot
    gazing at the sky,
    not really seeing
    but absorbing
    the pale, frosty blue
    of the sky on
    a frigid winter morning.

    With a sigh
    I opened the car door,
    walked across the parking lot
    and through the automatic doors
    of the hospital,
    unconsciously taking
    a bit of the sky with me.

    I don’t know why
    but in a situation
    where the living
    only has moments left,
    all colors leech away
    to a pale taupe
    and it’s the sounds
    particularly the beeps
    which stay with you.

    As the life was slipping away,
    we raised our voices in song
    to lift them up on their journey
    and carry them away;
    and around the edges of my mind
    was this pale blue pulse
    which flashed once
    as she slipped away.

    When I walked out of the hospital
    I looked up into the cerulean sky
    and there was one wisp
    of white slowly dissipating,
    so I raised my hand
    and waved good-bye.

  225. aphotic soul

    I had a better title than a color… but I did make a mention to the color theme in the first stanza.

    Emotions Deciphered Into Words
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    What is poetry?
    Is it some color that’s intangible and indistinct?
    Is there some set answer to which we’ll all agree?
    Maybe it’s to movies that it’s linked,
    Where rhymes are high class special effects,
    And to which meaning could equate to a solid plot line,
    But to this comparison my soul rejects,
    For that seems to portray too listlessly dull of a shine,
    To me, the goal of poetry should be empathy,
    To unlock emotions with a key,
    And to transcribe them into words so that others can understand and see,
    At least merely to some degree,
    When I write I pour my soul into my words,
    Leaving my feelings like a worn down pair of shoes,
    To which I discard in the garbage afterwards,
    And part of my heart I lose,
    But that’s what life is all about,
    Finding what’s worthy of your love to pour,
    And following that windy route,
    Until there’s nothing left to explore,
    Poetry is like dancing a dream,
    Where you decide the set and scene,
    And deem what’s worthy of a motif or theme,
    Without need for a T.V. Screen,
    It’s the ability to draft and compose in,
    An art of an ornate and forgotten dead language,
    Of one who stands at the edge of a cliff with an ending he has chosen,
    And here I stand on that same ledge,
    For we live life once in this poetic dream,
    Swimming down a river of a one way stream,
    Some band together and go it as a team,
    While others drown alone with a silenced scream,
    There is no finish line to escape this fate,
    For Death’s grasp is something you can’t avoid. only abate,
    All you can really hope for is to find your sole mate,
    While you’re continuously pulled down by life’s insurmountable weight,
    But before you’re pulled down to that aphotic despair,
    Write a message in a bottle for others to share,
    So in writing they can get to know you and can compare,
    Before into death’s abyss they… and you… stare.

  226. jclass527

    Dim Rainbows

    I swim in purpled dreams and crash through
    breathless, on the flip side of consciousness,
    breaking through the skin like a silver pebble
    eschewing whispers from the mountains. Standing
    walking wading knee deep bluely into fairytales
    of forgotten lore. I prance down blood stained
    brick roads, tripping over false promises and leaving
    yellow hazard lights in my wake. I’m falling falling
    destroying white clouds into blackened smithereens, and
    it’s the sirens that wake me up flat, breathless on
    the red and blue brick that’s crushed underneath me
    into unforgiving gravel, biting graves into my palms.

    -Jessenia Class

  227. alan1704


    Dancing damson embers
    To the hollow core
    Suffering change
    Strawberries, raspberries,
    In barbed wire
    A world of bliss,
    Torn by a volley of comets
    Strike and seize
    The vine
    Divine wine
    Eternal stain
    Wounded and healed
    The undying tide
    Cold incision
    Cast aside in driftwood grace.

  228. Jane Shlensky


    We learned to color feelings, states of mind,
    mistakes we’d made along with thoughts sublime
    or dull as mud. His starter colors sown,
    bloomed into expressions, entertained.

    “Just color me a horse’s ass,” he’d say
    when he discovered he was mostly wrong,
    or “Color me amazed (excited, blessed),”
    never gray tones or rainbows fading fast.

    There is no box of crayons for this feat
    of coloring someone what they’ve become.
    Non-colors, like nonsense, would make us smile
    and color ourselves fortunate a while.

    It never lasted long: colors will bleed
    as all emotions do, as memories
    will shift a little as we change and age.
    Imagination has a bluish stage

    like shadows stretching on a winter lawn,
    like mist that’s burned away by budding dawn,
    like veins rise under skin as if they’re drawn.
    You color life a poem, then it’s gone.

  229. Eibhlin

    Burnt Umber

    What was Umber,
    and why was it Burnt?

    In the paintbox
    which came in a parcel
    from America,
    Burnt Umber lay
    beside Siena,
    two rows from the top,
    at the right,
    three columns in.

    It was like toast
    – but not burnt toast
    which was black
    when it went on fire
    under the grill,
    and smelled of burning.
    Burnt Umber smelled
    of paint, like
    all the other paint-squares.

    “Is Umber like toast?”
    My mother told me
    eat my breakfast
    or I’d be late for school.

    I painted short,
    solemn streaks
    of colour,
    and wrote the names
    Burnt Umber.

  230. novacatmando


    The other table groupings grabbed. From piles dumped in the center of their pie-shaped desks. We moved in measure sorting overseen by Adam Byrnes, a red-headed Napoleon who kept visceral colors for himself, the bittersweet, blizzard, & burnt. My aim was to sweep the ultras collection. I could be happy with one hot magenta. Anything to create a fluorescent protest against an avocado refrigerator. Slovenly boy didn’t care which crayons laid before him, though he claimed the food-inspired names tasted best. My friend Jeanine wanted only two colors, raw sienna & raw umber. One day we talked her into black, that’s not raw, she whispered. Jeanine was not exactly a friend. I was friends with the person inside her, the one that needed an extraction. A patience, not unlike waiting hours at the shell of my pet turtle. And we were ready to begin, portraits of dead Americans, canvases of rainforest ecologies, the map of fifty states. Until we heard, draw anything you want. That day changed everything. I didn’t understand why— the teacher cried, the principle took Jeanine, crayon boxes were confiscated— rules are sheer swiftness. Justice moves slower, as I saw on the last day of school. In Jeanine’s secret wave, the waxy contraband in her hand: sienna & umber, raw.

  231. Cin5456

    Candy Apple Red

    Today, luscious, and verdant;
    yesterday, vibrant and bright;
    the day before, subtle, hinting –
    not impinging.
    One catches his notice going by.
    His eyes follow, but
    his feet carry on.
    Fascinated by hues of life, of
    living, he strives to recall shades,
    moods in tonal shifts
    with pallet and brush. Add a touch
    of one to mitigate another;
    adjusting by daubs and blots.
    His artistic sense of frustration
    aches deep inside his hands,
    finger control inadequate.
    Life is choices, but
    his pigments cannot be
    joy, sadness, melancholy,
    and boisterous hearts on canvas
    if he cannot recreate
    the colors of lipstick, street cars,
    and seersucker suits.

  232. Gammelor

    For today’s prompt, pick a color, make the color the title of your poem, and then, write your poem.

    Red and Black

    Red is sex, black is death—
    the best colors for a fast sports car.
    That’s what you used to tell me,
    when I used to wear red,
    when I used to feel alive.

    Gammelor Goodenow

  233. pamelaraw

    Mandarin Orange

    I inhale the sweet
    sting of citrus
    then strip skin
    in one long
    peel. The plump
    petals of flesh fall
    onto my tongue like
    samurai on swords.

  234. Margie Fuston


    You’re all black and white and hard
    edges. Safe. But shadows give dimension.
    I’m looking for shades of grey, maybe
    not fifty, but at least one or two.

  235. Michele Brenton

    Octarine Dreams.

    You and I can see it kitty,
    “Kitty want more fish?”
    I wonder if you are really here kitty,
    or are you imagine-ish?
    I wave my magic wand kitty
    to see the lovely sparks.
    Watch the octarine flare – that’s if you’re really there
    Don’t you love how it lights up the dark?

    Shall we dance round my books of enchantment?
    Shall we sing by the light of the moon?
    Shall we dream of more fish on an octarine dish?
    Shall you purr soft while I try a croon?

    There’s a certain magickal odour,
    that could be just fish,
    you and I sense it kitty
    whether or not there’s a dish.
    What I get up to is tricky
    couldn’t call it a walk in the park
    but the octarine gleam comes with magickal dreams
    that make all things a frolic and lark.

    Do you wonder if I am here kitty?
    Though you couldn’t if you don’t exist.
    And if we neither are not, then we can’t be forgot
    and that means we will never be missed.

    Michele Brenton 19th April 2014

  236. dextrousdigits

    BLUE vs GRAY

    When I think of Blue
    what pops into my mind simultaneously
    is blue skies, blue ocean, and blue eyes.

    When skies are blue with clean air,
    it’s time to hear birds chirping
    watch butterfly’s nonchalantly light on nearby leaves
    as I smell Mr. Lincoln, Angel Face,
    Memorial Day, and Sentimental roses.
    This sets the stage, for a gardener’s delight
    for time when hands touch life
    from birth to harvest.

    Many a time the family would
    pack up blankets, ice chest and sunscreen
    and drive over curving highway #17 to Santa Cruz.
    Walk across warm sand
    diving in cool foaming waves
    from the blue Pacific.
    Then warm up by sitting on the blankets
    watching and listening to the waves
    hypnotized by the rhythm and smells.

    Yet, when “I am Blue”,
    there is no feeling of
    beauty, wonder, awe
    and certainly not play.
    NO, it is being locked in a room
    trapped, defeated, helpless
    then my Blue eyes water up
    trying to wash away the sorrow.

    When I am Blue,
    I feel Gray, dried up, lifeless.

  237. Jane Shlensky


    She dabs makeup around her eye and jaw
    to tone down purple swellings to shadows.
    He’d smack her harder if his clients saw
    his handiwork; he thinks nobody knows.

    She used to wear a purple flowered dress—
    her favorite—so striking when she smiled.
    Purple pisses me off, his fists confessed
    and showed her why she didn’t want him riled.

    She misses smelling lilac, iris, sage,
    a hundred purple flowers come to mind.
    He’d beat the color from her in a rage;
    he thinks she bruises purple by design.

    She’s trying to like yellow, green, pastel
    of fading bruises, residues of hell.

  238. Jacqueline Casey


    My song has color of some Herrick scene
    or the Earl of Surrey’s soote, ‘sweet season’.
    Tasting of flora and the country-green,
    Keat’s drowsy numbness; nightingale’s treason.

    They say the hemlock offered Socrates
    was same as shade of poison parsley.
    To that dim forest glen, I bend my knees
    become light-wing`ed dryad of her trees.

    I list in morning’s light those poet’s dreams
    so splashed across their canvas, varied tones
    and tempos; luscious, ebullient, soft sheen
    that I may choose as sheltered, final home.

    My window open, shades of green appear;
    both life and death do love this cover, dear.

    (Day 19, April PAD Challenge. Prompt: write about a color.)

  239. James Von Hendy

    Gray Matter

    “Remove one color from the world,” a friend
    At dinner said to us. “What would it be,

    And why?” I thought in a pinch of pink,
    But someone spoke up for gray, a color drab

    And lifeless. “Just think,” she said and brightly smiled.
    “Men would have to wear color and wouldn’t that

    Be grand?” But then I thought of loss, shadows
    Vanishing into air, the infinite shades

    Of light that play across the spectrum gone,
    Subtlety and nuance merely black

    And white, all else a riot of overwhelm,
    The stark distinction of hard-edged primaries,

    Vivid, bold, and hot. All shades of meaning lost.

    1. Jane Shlensky


      Blue skies can turn on you,
      backslide to white under summer suns,
      snarl into slate before a storm.

      I trade October skies for a kissing color,
      sky merely a backdrop for dawn’s blood
      in watery blue, a daily heart broken

      for me, newborn rose leaching down
      to breathless pink. She’s back at sunset,
      fierce now, smeared with orange and gold,

      fighting back the night, retreating at last.
      A child, I reached to peel rose from the sky,
      handle its silk, make it my mantle.

      Now I cup rose reflections in my hands,
      drink them in, smell their garden breath,
      their berry bubbles rising up in pies

      or jam before it jells. I kiss the dawn
      and dusk in my grand-daughter’s cheeks
      that make her blue eyes shine.

    2. Jane Shlensky

      I like this, James. When I was a kid with adults espousing the blacks and whites of existence/rights and wrongs, everything looked pretty gray to me. Still does. I’ve been noticing your work here during PAD and hope you’ll continue here so I can read you.

  240. Clae


    What color is water
    what color is light
    How is heat depicted
    which color is night

    With so many colors
    to choose from none fit
    What color is music
    How do we paint it

    T. S. Gray

  241. gmagrady


    There once was a time
    when I’d saddle up to the bar
    with the girls.
    We’d order whatever color
    fit our fancy…

    Amber Ale
    Blue Hawaiian
    Golden Martini
    Lemon Drop
    Orange Blossom
    Peach Schnapps
    Pink Squirrel
    Red Merlot
    Strawberry Daiquiri
    White Russian

    Now it’s simply
    coffee – black
    tea – green,

    but every once in a while
    I remember the rainbow
    of drinks that made
    my youthful days less

  242. hojawile

    Chartreuse Compromised

    Ah chartreuse!
    Ever the charlatan,
    You’ll trick your mother if you can.
    You’re a double-minded man.
    You deceive even your own self.
    Equal parts cowardice and envy
    Wistfully you drool peering at others’ lives,
    yet too timid to brave your own.
    What seeds have you sown
    to accomplish your dreams?
    No, you’d rather scheme
    some darksome plot
    to pilfer what others have got.
    Whatever was true blue in you
    is dissipating
    as you pursue
    a life of hating.
    No wonder you are increasingly fearful,
    always needing to look over your shoulder,
    trying not to get caught
    as your heart grows colder.
    Fear’s cast out by perfect love
    but you’d rather shove
    and cringe
    and crave.

    1. hojawile

      Preposterous Purple

      Purple grapes
      Purple plums
      Purple eggplant
      Purple gum
      Purple-kerneled popping corn

      Purple flowers
      Purple clothes
      Purple cars
      Purple glow…
      from a black light,
      well, what do you know?

      Purple dishes
      Purple luggage
      Purple pills
      might make you sluggish.

      Purple carpet
      Purple house
      Purple pathways
      Purple cows?!

      Purple trashcans
      Purple sheets
      Purple brushes
      Purple- toilet seat?!

      I think my heart has skipped a beat!
      I love purple,
      but pardon me, I must say…
      too much purple makes me burple!

  243. elledoubleyoo

    Hereditary Blues

    I wanted the colt-dark eyes of my grandmother,
    Slavic, sly, and sharper than those of her husband’s,
    his, like faded jeans, passed down to my mother:
    hand-me-down blues.

    Blue’s the dominant gene in this clan–from that pair,
    two of thirteen cousins have Barbara’s near-black eyes.
    My own gaze grows gray and cool with time,
    the Adriatic in winter. A storm-clouded sky.

          1. elledoubleyoo

            thanks, Candy! Funny enough, that’s the name my mom goes by (though her name is Theresa… we’ve never quite figured out where Candy came from)

  244. Azma


    The wound
    just after the blood has dried out
    The eyes
    just after the tears have dried out
    Crossing the edge
    where sorrow gets exhausted
    and anger sparks up
    throwing flatters of infuriated red
    wherever it pierces
    The energy of the day has exhausted
    the sun sinks
    in the irate ocean of crimson

    -Azma Sheikh

    1. Azma



      The wound
      just after the blood has dried out
      The eyes
      just after the tears have dried out
      Crossing the edge
      where sorrow gets exhausted
      and anger sparks up
      throwing flutters of infuriated red
      wherever it pierces
      The energy of the day has weared out
      The sun sinks
      in the irate ocean of crimson

      -Azma Sheikh

  245. Gwyvian

    Shades of green

    The words in your letters are blurred, emerald ink
    running to morph into a vague painting of
    green meadows burdened with memories—
    memories that you shared with me, all laced
    with fondness and anguish at their loss—
    and my heart is green as I read, my heart is the green
    of the sympathy of weeping willows, but though
    my shade is a welcoming place for you to rest, I am
    in truth only a shadow in your eyes, invisible
    to your empty arms, and only thought of in jest;
    you told me of doubts plaguing you, despairing
    that you should ever be loved so deeply, yet you
    wear your imperfections on your sleeve with pride—
    and your imperfections seem perfection to me,
    perfection my heart is green for, green
    as a budding sapling brimming with hope,
    gracefully bending before the storm of feelings,
    but parched to know your tears, thirsting to give
    the understanding you do not want from me;
    you say that you have spurned many around you,
    for the attention they give to you undeservedly, so
    you keep saying, and my heart is green, my heart
    is the green of poison ivy, an itch that slowly
    saps my mind of sanity as I keep trying, crawling
    over and through your walls with tendrils unnoticed;
    you continue to take advantage of my enigma,
    a person only known by letters – that spells safety,
    my words a brief comfort you read with the stigma
    of not wanting to truly change, and my heart is green,
    my heart spells out the green of a jungle of complexity
    that your words evoke in me, but forever a lonely island
    whose shores were never even glimpsed from your boat;
    we keep talking, though I think I must stop trying,
    but your letters were wrapped in olive ribbons
    begging forgiveness that provokes an unwilling smile—
    my heart is green for your tact and your attention,
    and as I imagine whoever finally captures your heart,
    my own will be green, a green so deep it’s almost black:
    the green of envy, and I know I’ll despair of ever
    getting you back – though I know you wouldn’t have me.

    April 19, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  246. writinglife16


    The wife had stopped trying
    to please her husband.
    Red was his favorite color.
    She used to buy red lingerie
    that she thought would excite him,
    but he would just yawn.
    It had made her feel ashamed.

    She knew he still liked
    women dressed in that color.
    She would find the pictures
    of scantily dressed women.
    He thought she didn’t know
    and she had laughed at that.
    She cleaned every inch
    of their house.

    So, she never wore the
    red lingerie to please
    her husband.
    She wore it to please herself.
    He still yawned and collected
    his pictures.
    She didn’t care.

  247. candy


    At last a harbinger of spring is seen
    In hues of yellow, pink, and shiny red
    A scrumptious, ovoid jelly bean

    Down endless supermarket aisles serene
    I push my cart and there ahead
    At last a harbinger of spring is seen

    And now I spy my favorite flavor, green
    Just when I thought all hope was dead
    A scrumptious, ovoid jelly been

    Mid-winter, major holidays between
    This sight will pull me gladly from my bed
    At last a harbinger of spring is seen

    No craving for rich chocolate or caffeine
    My appetite for sweet can now be fed
    A scrumptious ovoid jelly bean

    My sack so full it could be called obscene
    My car for home I quickly head
    At last a harbinger of spring is seen
    A scrumptious ovoid jelly bean

  248. Benjamin Thomas


    If I were a color
    I’d be a magenta pearl
    Just hurl me to sea
    to be back
    in my world—
    of dark oyster.
    But if that were true,
    I’d be quite hidden
    from view.
    With no light from above
    just tucked cryptic
    in mystic blue.

  249. Bruce Niedt

    NaPoWriMo’s prompt is to write a poem that uses one or more of a list of strangely-named seashells. There are nineteen on the list. I couldn’t seem to work in “Woody Canoebubble” or “Snout Otter Clam”, but I did manage to use ten of them, resulting in a somewhat surreal poem.


    Come walk on the calcified beach with me
    tonight. Be sure to wear the resurrected pearls
    from your Lazarus jewel box. Come barefoot
    so we might wade in the incidental surf.
    After awhile, take off your Peruvian hat,
    that heavy bonnet with the Andes peak,
    and I will remove my triangular nutmeg
    colonial cap, that ghastly miter.
    Then pull off your seaweed shift over
    your shoulder blades, sea cat, and shake out
    your strawberry top of hair, while I slip off
    my shirt of Spanish moss. Sparse doves will flash
    in the periwinkle sky as we swim out to the breakers
    professing love, unequal, bittersweet,
    and drink light from that false cup-and-saucer,
    the bleeding, incised moon.

  250. Karen Pickell


    Research unearths connections
    as the French word for eggplant
    the shade of its flower and the dress
    my maid of honor wore
    my signature color with tones of gray
    like the sky all that morning.

    Why not lavender, periwinkle, simple
    violet? The word itself enchanted, similar
    to the Celtic music that always feels familiar
    to my Irish soul. The sun shone

    in time for the important moment
    and I’m sure an eagle looked down
    as it flew back to its nearby nest,
    unknown to me then as the home of
    my father, the bestower
    of those cells of mine imprinted
    with fleur-de-lis yet to be discovered.

  251. alana sherman


    The world seems right. Often we don’t say a word
    but sit here on our lawn chairs facing south
    to catch the honey golden grasses bent low
    in the unmown field. The trees change color
    as morning becomes evening, the sharp emerald
    turns to celadon and finally verdigris. Sparrows
    race through branches of a crooked loblolly pine
    near the fence. Are all these passings an indication of failure?
    Why do I ask you this when you have already
    recognized it? How naturally we speak to each other
    about the obvious. It’s the way we love in this part of our lives.

    Another just because

    The Golden Angle

    Of all shapes
    the star is best. Starfish
    mimics a perfect
    pentacle. Apple, cut
    in half reveals the same figure.
    pine cones replicate the tree. Whorl

    of sunflower seeds,
    the nautilus’s shell, pineapples,
    chrysanthemums honor the golden
    angle. And all
    these patterns fascinate, hint at an answer
    to the universe’s riddle. However

    that cloud, arched
    like a horse, floating past
    my window, wait—
    now it looks
    like a fish, a cow—
    is also intriguing.


  252. alan1704


    Violet shadows
    Windows warn
    Ghostly moths swarm in expectation
    Dancing on the edge
    Summers forlorn moon
    Steal the light
    As rust on branches
    Crackled and burned
    Mauve petals of twilight
    The threshold of the moment
    Crimson legends of the night
    Scarlet and golden
    Steal the dawn
    Perishing candles flicker
    The mirror holds the presence
    And the stars are hidden
    Lost forever in
    Violet shadows.

  253. Andrew Kreider

    The blood of angry men (spoiler alert)

    Fantine dies of something or other, and is very sad.
    Gavroche takes one in the chest. Eponine too.
    Grantaire dies on the barricade. Also to go
    on the barricade are Courfeyrac, Feuilly,
    Combeferre, Joly and Enjolras.
    Javert jumps off a bridge after much deliberation.
    Valjean expires of old age and a lot of high singing.
    Marius and Cosette somehow survive both acts
    (though you sort of wish they wouldn’t).

  254. laurie kolp


    couch I sit upon and rue upon
    the years a railroad track
    lacking direction
    no stopping point, this ride
    called life deserted
    in uproarious sky- –
    until the day
    a rainbow came to view
    and suddenly the couch of blue
    became a relic

    *Note- My first poetry book, Upon the Blue Couch, comes out today! Check Amazon for more info.

  255. Lori P


    Can you see between the lines?
    Fast and fancy fantasy
    That furrows brows and hangs heads.
    Who lives and who is dead?

    Pterry, where have you taken me?
    I’m breathing new wavelengths through the fog
    Because when you can see magic coming
    You never know which way to run.

  256. Nancy Posey

    Crimson and Houndstooth

    Long before the opening day of football season,
    we recognize each other without words, college
    football fans whether we ever ventured across
    the campus or not, rabid, loyal fans, sorority
    girls who know all the stats, liberal arts majors
    who take tail-gating to the next level. In-state,
    we give the silent head nod; out on the road,
    we high-five and “Roll Tide” strangers. Today
    I heard a girl explain, while waiting to board a plane
    for Birmingham, in her soft Southern drawl,
    “My favorite colors are crimson and Houndstooth.”

    1. writinglife16

      Had to smile at this because it is a unique(and true) way of describing college football. Took me a little while to figure out the last line, but I did. :)

  257. Linda Goin


    Nothing fixes a ritual faster
    than rainbow duct tape…

    …just ask a woman named Joy,
    an ironic assignment for someone
    born into the bluesy end
    of the economic spectrum.
    She might say that rainbows
    always appear opposite the sun
    on the dark side of the sky.

  258. lionetravail

    by David M. Hoenig

    Such a word of wealth, is yellow,
    because while it might find me mellow,
    it, too, could describe cowardice.
    It’s flexibility means this:

    Mitchell’s Taxi, Beatles’ subs,
    Hyland’s teeny ‘kini dubs-
    reflections all, of our sun’s gift,
    cheery, without bluesy shift.

  259. SeekingSoltitude


    White is my soul when I first came
    White is the stranger’s teeth as she smiled at me
    White are the walls around me

    White is the uniform I where today
    White is the chalk that scratches on the board
    White is the notebook on which I first wrote

    White is the I pod I’m listening to
    White is the board on which I learn Algebra
    White are the books whose author is Agatha

    White is my mind as I try to understand Engineering
    White is my face as free time gets lesser
    White are the lies I tell my professor

    White is the spacecraft I have to travel on
    White is the moon I step foot on
    White is my vision as I embrace my parents

    White is my wedding dress
    White is the bundle I hold in my arms
    White are the feelings I cannot express

    White is the birthday dress she twirls in
    White is the car she drives to office
    White are the flowers on her wedding day

    White is my hair as i rock back and forth
    White is his coffin as he lay there in silence
    White are my dreams as the Mighty comes forth

    White is the clock on the opposite wall
    White is my girl’s soul as she cries beside me
    White are the walls around me

    White is the cloth they cover me with
    White is the colour of my Grandson’s shirt
    White is my soul as I pass it beyond.

  260. Nancy Posey


    Just days ago, I rode through mountain
    greys, as dull as our old Sylvania set,
    the threat of snow still riding in the air.

    On my drive home, I fight to keep
    my eyes on the road, drawn toward
    trees flaunting their spring finery.

  261. mimzy13


    Sometimes when I watch her
    pinning the yellow
    sheet on the line, how
    switching the grasp
    of her left thumb and forefinger on
    the corner of the cloth to
    the wooden pin in her right first

    she must unhitch the pin
    from the billowing hem
    of her loose blouse she must
    locate one pin
    among the others
    without looking

    imagine its coordinates
    where they float
    below the horizon of her gaze
    (what is she looking at?)
    before her right hand
    begins its retrieval,
    (assuming the thought—
    her estimate of the pin’s point—
    let alone the movement towards
    doesn’t somehow stray

    wayward the moment the reach)
    meanwhile pinching the yellow
    cloth to the line
    the idea
    is to bring the tension

    of the pin squeezed between the fingers of
    her right hand bring that
    up and up to
    the exact point she means
    on that line
    through the air her left hand holds.

  262. Snowqueen


    I’d write how do I love thee, let me count the ways
    But those are someone else’s words
    Seriously though – how I love thee color green

    You have so many shades, my favorite a dark
    Grassy green, so serious yet refreshing

    The seventies loved you in the shade of avocado and
    Many still know what I mean because stuff back then
    Was made to last – just ask my stove, shower and bathroom sink

    Mix you with a bit of yellow and people everywhere will
    Yell GO PACK!!! I speak of no other than the Green Bay Packers
    The best football team of all time

    I can’t forget Mr. Green Jeans on Captain Kangaroo
    For a while I wasn’t allowed to watch that show
    Until I tied my shoes – I learned to tie my shoes real quick!

    Green you are so versatile
    Some are green with envy
    Although I don’t think that’s
    A good way to be

    When a painter is painting the forest or
    The stems of William Wordsworth’s “host of daffodils”
    You are the color they go to
    Green makes the world a more beautiful place

    Green is the color of life, the color of growth
    Through life giving green-vines tomatoes grow
    Ivy crawls and my eighth grade teacher’s philodendron plant
    Literally encircled the entire class room

    Oh green I could go on and on
    Certainly you deserve it
    But alas I am at the end of my
    White page

    Karen D.

  263. Nancy Posey

    Just Plain Old Red

    The other kids painstakingly search
    through their brand-new boxes
    of 64 Crayola crayons, in the green
    and yellow box, with the sharpener
    built into the side. We could afford
    that one too, I know. My big sister,
    the oldest, surely had them all
    packed in her brand-spanking-new
    pink My Little Pony backpack.
    My brother didn’t mind her hand-
    me-down crayons, at least 63
    inside and only one or two peeled
    naked, none broken, few worn
    flat as Mother’s old red lipsticks.
    By the time we came along, unmatched
    set, they grumbled at the lists
    they’d have to buy in twos, everything
    that couldn’t be passed down. He
    got the black and blue Spiderman
    backpack; My Little Pony was mine.
    We had to make do with the smaller
    set of crayons, no subtlety of shade
    and hue in our world: our grass
    not Forest Green or Shamrock,
    just green; our tree trunks, brown,
    not Burnt Sienna, Beaver, Tumbleweed.
    The five lines forming my house
    are black, the roof is blue. The apples
    hanging on my tree, just plain old red.

  264. mbramucci

    I am Green
    By: Michelle Bramucci

    I am the shade of welcome days
    That lead the walk with eager eyes
    I call to you from hills ablaze
    With all the love that God implies
    To ease the woe of subtle mourn
    Inspiring glimpse of youthful heart
    If rain should sweep with grey forlorn
    My hues will burst a fresher start
    And I was chosen for the shade
    To dress the earth in in boisterous pride
    I bring the day that God hath made
    In which his children will reside

  265. eileenonguam

    Color poem


    in the dry season
    red bougainvillea shimmer
    in noonday heat

    flame trees afire with
    red blossoms compete
    with the blazing sun

    twilight with its reddish hues
    colors away my lonely blues

    tonight I will eat ripe red strawberries in bed, sleep
    in red pajamas and dream of you giving me rubies.

  266. grcran

    (this is my first attempt at a luc bat, learned about the form from Robert, right here on this blog… thanks, Robert!)

    Rosy Dawn
    By gpr crane

    The dawning sky streaked pink
    Best not let your eye blink, don’t miss
    the coloration kiss
    a hopeful chance for bliss this day
    if you’ll show me the way
    around these dues I pay. How long
    is the best three-way prong
    of you me her? How strongly do
    we mind old custom’s queue
    of mourning? She died. You live now
    all fresh, the cat’s meow.
    Do I dare, disavow my grief
    Cut flower and a leaf
    From rose? Aperitif, perhaps,
    A little love relapse…
    Fear falling in those traps of woe
    Fear, too, falling in glow.
    Rose planted long ago, for her.
    First blooming did occur,
    Tear-jerker connoisseur, on the
    Day she died. True story.

    Wait, that dawning’s not exactly pink, I think…

  267. Joseph Harker

    Red Lights

    All night across from my hostel in Amsterdam,
    bare red bulbs gleamed through drapes
    heavy as stage masking.
    Five stories of windows beset the #9 tram
    looping through De Wallen. Here and there, dark shapes
    posed and shifted, undoing and unfastening.
    When I walked out into the night, cracked hands
    reach out and shocked me with their weight.
    They halted my passing
    through the narrow alleys– all the tourists ran
    this gauntlet of press-on nails and budget taste.
    This was the neighborhood fashion.
    But I hadn’t come for women, or weed, just barely a man
    discovering how out of place
    he was here. I begged off with my minimal cash,
    asked where to find the gay bars, gave every sign
    of disinsterest, avoided each attempted kiss.
    Along the canal, the reddish crush
    escaped onto space, boat parties, the stink of wine,
    and the warren of cheap perfume and men’s piss
    kept to the edge. Still, it cast a blush
    you couldn’t help notice. It was like a shift in rhyme
    or a truth unsaid; like a minor stain of old blood, passed
    off as something we don’t discuss.

  268. jakkels

    Brown is the colour of our winter skies
    The pyres of the poor burn day and night
    Tyres and plastic and painted wood
    Their black incense rises like pillars to the sky
    Anything to call back the God of Warmth.
    Year upon year they multiply
    As all Africa seeks a slice of our pie.
    The skies revolt and place a lid on the City
    Temperature inversion with winds that are still
    Our lungs protest every foul breath of this soup
    Congestion breeds diseases making us bark like dogs
    And our eyes weep for relief from air that burns

    At last the winds take pity on us
    And blow a respite for a day or two.
    But brown are our skies
    ’till the Spring returns.

  269. candy

    Burnt Sienna/terra di sien

    treading slowly along the
    aisle I touch the rugged
    texture of old bricks

    and feel the hands of
    men who formed them
    their hue the color of

    burnt earth their smell
    of candle wax and incense
    they absorb the echo of

    my foot steps and give
    back the halleluiahs
    of the ages

  270. Mama Zen

    Yellow Hair

    Fingers scythe
    the white-headed dandelions
    and sprite the air with wishes
    that seed the tongue.
    A lock of yellow hair
    long as summer sun –
    is all I’m asking for
    to braid and daisy chain the door.

    Kelli Simpson

  271. JanetRuth


    We press through life’s marketplaces
    Winter cold and summer heat
    Holding hands and kissing faces
    Arabesque of bittersweet

    We fill baskets with life-moments
    Amethyst and baby’s breath
    For we cannot see the fulcrum
    Pivoting twixt life and death

    …as we dash through fields of flowers
    To a skyline out of reach
    Save to sundry sweep of hours
    Washing over brawny beach

    We embrace knowing tomorrow
    Bids us suffer parting’s pain
    Yet we cannot quench with sorrow
    Love; and so we love again

    Asking nothing of God’s favor
    But perhaps, if He would deem
    Here and there a little picnic
    On our own wee patch o’ green

  272. barbara_y


    I’m sorry
    but the slaw
    I thought would work
    with warmed-up pizza
    as supper
    has gone bad,
    and I was writing again
    today and haven’t shopped
    again today but
    we have apples, sliced
    with honey
    and cinnamon
    like in that place
    in Florida.

  273. CLRichardson

    Absence of Color

    The northern waters drown in darkness
    An abyss
    In every shade of black

    Southern waters radiate with life
    Rejuvenating playfulness
    In every shade of blue

    In every direction, river waters are temperamental
    From peaceful calm to treacherous turbulence
    In every shade of brown, white, blue, black, grey, purple and green

    In my glass
    An absence of color

    Christy Lynn Richardson

  274. mzanemcclellan


    Huddled together are the vaulted spires,
    on the Pacific mountain leeward slopes,
    majestic trees that breathe for mother earth,
    felled in their prime for furniture and boats.
    Mountains dressed with evergreen foliage,
    the air perfumed with their aromas, sweet.
    Denuded with a frenzy for profit.
    Thousands lay dead at the lumberjack’s feet.
    Trucks move with ant-like regularity,
    to and fro on roads that scar the forest.
    Transporting the bodies to the butcher mills.
    Insult to us all that we should detest.
    Wanting a home paneled with her red wood,
    a dining table with which to impress.
    Turning blind eyes to illegalities,
    tropical rainforests under duress.
    Earth cries in a primordial language
    we refuse to acknowledge that we hear,
    lamenting the deaths of these, her children.
    Climate shifts out of balance more each year.

    ~ M. Zane McClellan

    Copyright 2014
    M. Zane McClellan
    All rights reserved

      1. mzanemcclellan

        Thank you for those kind words, Kimmy. I feel the same way, it’s a tragedy unfolding like a car accident. Happening right in front of our eyes. Two speeds at once; the blink of an eye and slow motion. Peace. ~ Michael

  275. Kimmy Sophia


    Science fiction shows have too much metal,
    I’d die in a spaceship, give me
    green spacious canopies of trees
    sunlit new green leaves,
    delicate young green shoots,
    pine needle green northern forests,
    heat soaked green jungles,
    foot soft green moss,
    fragrant sun soaked grass,
    cool green branches overhead.
    I want to live
    in the green wheel,
    where the heart spirals outwards,
    like a galaxy.

  276. Mark Danowsky


    is one of those colors you find
    on paint charts in the home
    improvement store. Not a real color
    you can find in Nature. If it was
    you could use Burroughs’ exercise
    walking the streets thinking
    cloudberry, cloudberry, cloudberry
    taking note of each appearance of it.
    Burroughs’ shared this lesson
    with Naropa students and I wonder
    how many of them actually tried
    the tactic. He’s right you know—
    our perceptions are limited
    and we don’t even realize it
    until we limit ourselves.

  277. Deborah Hare

    I Love Blue

    I love the blue sky over my head,
    and the soft blue blanket on my bed
    I love to watch the blue bird that flies
    and I love the blue in Mommy’s eyes.

    from an unfinished poem of mine about color

  278. Jezzie


    Nothing rhymes with purple, so about it I shouldn’t write
    but it’s my favourite hue, so for once I think I might.
    Purple always draws me to it, I cannot resist it
    and my wardrobe is now too full of it. I could list it.

    Seven multi-coloured, basically purple, blouses;
    a couple of purple skirts; four pairs of purple trousers;
    four purple hats; two pairs of purple shoes; five purple coats;
    a couple of purple track suits for messing about in boats.

    A purple tartan cloak with a matching beret and scarf,
    I bought them when I was up in Scotland, just for a laugh;
    oh, and I probably own at least seven purple scarves,
    these days it seems that I never do anything by halves.

    Purple doesn’t just pick my wardrobe to monopolise:
    my bedroom is duck egg blue, but with purple butterflies,
    pictures of purple flowers, amethysts and purple lights
    I am amazed that I never dream in purple at nights!

    In my bathroom are purple towels, and a purple rug.
    I think I’ve been intoxicated with a purple drug.
    I love purple, violet, lavender, lilac or puce
    and I am now even drinking purple blueberry juice.

    My garden is always full of pink or purple flowers.
    I’ve a purple sunshade, or umbrella for rain showers.
    Purple cushions sit on the seats of my patio set
    and I think there could be purple rain falling when it’s wet!

    To the colour purple like by a magnet I am drawn.
    It is just as well that I have not got a purple lawn.
    In fact I’ve a gravel garden, without a lawn at all
    although now I am thinking of painting my garden wall!

    What can I do to conquer my purple addiction?
    I’m starting to think that I have some sort of affliction.
    I started my collection when I was sixty three.
    “When I am old I will wear purple”. Was that penned for me?

  279. acele


    Please, excuse my forwardness
    I’m just wondering
    how can one say yellow
    and expect me to know what color is implied?

    For you see…

    There is the woody assertive fresh yellow
    of forsythia
    That draws sunlight through itself
    and waxes green.

    There is the delicate nodding shy yellow
    of daffodils
    that makes one imagine sweet girls
    in frilled Easter dresses.

    There is the familiar friendly tenacious yellow
    of dandelion
    that plants itself firmly in the earth and transforms sunlight
    into forgotten wishes.

    There is the speckled sunlight golden yellow
    of St. Johnswort
    that hides within its flesh a mysterious
    healing red balm.

    There is the rich fuzzy nourishing yellow
    of mullein
    That offers its pollen, a heavy laden
    treasure on the legs of bees.

    There is the calm sweet milky yellow
    of honeysuckle
    that reveals peaceful affection
    in generous curled back petals.

    There is the majestic abundant true yellow
    of sunflower
    that draws vitality up its sturdy stalk
    and showers strength down upon us
    with its nodding head.

    There is the arenaceous wafting sneezy yellow
    of goldenrod
    that hangs in late summer haze
    and reminds us to not take its slowly fading hue
    for granted.

    So when you say yellow
    can you kindly be clear
    as to precisely which yellow you speak of?

    A. Cele

    1. Kimmy Sophia

      I agree, my solar plexus got a brighter yellow just reading this, and it made me very happy, all your observations, I could just see all those flowers out there straightening up to get your attention and preening in the love

    2. acele

      Ha ha! … Thanks for the kind comments and I’m glad to have brightened your solar plexus Kimmy! Few things inspire me more than the progression of blooming flowers through the seasons!

  280. dsborden

    D. S. Borden

    in your feathers
    to updrafting hope
    with sky song
    and cloud heart
    where the sun’s brilliance
    keeps dominion
    and we
    the small creatures
    take solace
    in the promise
    of tomorrow’s

  281. spinzo


    You are hope
    And promise
    Filled with strength and courage and life and all that can ever be

    In a long, hard season you remain ever
    Vigilant and a reminder of what was and what will again be
    A gentle and persistent encouragement
    Humble yet resplendent
    Filling the spaces between

  282. carolemt87


    Dark circled eyes

    snared in the glare of
    the midnight moon,
    my naked feet pace
    cold and cracked cerulean tile

    Icicle traitor eyes

    and the way I felt
    that day you said goodbye

    my heart
    on the floor
    when you wiped
    your indifference
    on the indigo dishtowel

    Carol J Carpenter

  283. lina

    Mistaken Identity

    Van Morrison’s brown eyed girl
    was originally brown skinned
    but he changed the title
    for the record.
    He says it was a mistake
    and didn’t even know it.
    Which was a mistake,
    the brown skin
    or eyes?
    Why did you do it, Van?
    Why do i still dance to it?

  284. kelly letky

    unequal bittersweet
    (outside the lines)

    you told me once that green was the color of life
    and then you left my heart floating in its own red tide

    i asked for help and you laughed in ripples of reduction
    neon notes of avarice slipping through your yellowed teeth

    but you held my hand the day the world turned violet
    and didn’t let go until my moss-eyed stare
    rose to hold your reflection

    i knew right then there was no getting free
    of the boundaries we’d blurred between us

    you were my cornflower and i was your olive
    and everything else was left in the box

    two empty spaces perpetually waiting
    for someone to turn the lost page

    ~Kelly Letky

  285. JanetRuth


    If had to choose
    only one hue from life’s color spectrum
    it would have to be you
    …You who rouses me from sleep
    in aromatic pleasantries
    Let others steep virtuous green teas
    I prefer you; Platonist teaser
    of Colombian romance
    filling my taste-buds
    with morning’s first dance
    I close my eyes now
    …ah yes, supple and slow
    you unleash the miracle
    of Colombian glow
    not in the east
    or past hills to the south
    but swallow
    after swallow
    in my mouth

  286. dhaivid3

    Poem Title: The suffering colour

    There is one colour that apologises for itself
    It may have changed it’s ways – or, quite frankly, it may be someone else
    But as long as man has memories
    As long as he has hate
    There is one colour that seems always
    Tied to a shameful fate.

    The world’s a stage they tell us
    and we all play our parts –
    But life is more than drama
    And we do more than play.
    So whatever your colour
    Stand tall and proud today.
    You did not choose your own shade
    It must not dictate your fate.

    You may’ve been called The Sinner
    For what your parents did.
    Here, have a brand new canvas;
    Let’s get painting
    Creating new shades
    New realities
    I know we can
    We all just need to let go:
    of misplaced prejudices and rage.

    We cannot all be painted in the same shade; that would be very poor art.

  287. ambermarie

    Pink Persephone

    A goddess kidnapped to the underworld
    Shown her worth by the devil himself
    She for a time forgot her name
    Until she had burned long enough
    To realize her own immortality

    Her spirit ignited rather than destroyed
    She believed in her passion over her prison
    And exploded as a great volcano
    Drowning the surface-bound with her molten power
    Until the entire mass was set afire

    1. dhaivid3

      Lovely, lovely, lovely. The picture helped – except now I want to jump into my monitor and run, run, run across that expanse of land!

      Well done.

  288. dhaivid3

    Poem Title: Red

    My love has a shade:

    It’s feisty red when angry,
    Subtle blue when calm,
    An ugly brown when hurting –
    A shade that makes you frown.

    I know we said forever
    When yellow was the sun
    But dark’s the storm that’s coming
    So run, my darling run!

  289. drnurit

    On The Way To An Art Garfunkel Concert

    By: Dr. Nurit Israeli

    On the way to an Art Garfunkel concert.
    My granddaughter is driving.
    In the passenger seat – her father, my son.
    I am sitting right behind,
    my eyes focused on his salt-and-pepper hair
    next to her reddish-gold hair,
    on his hands holding a map
    next to her equally graceful hands
    holding the steering wheel…

    Vivid images of earlier car drives
    flash before my eyes…

    Homebound from the hospital,
    a 23-year-old new mother,
    my mother – a first-time grandmother –
    in the back seat delighted:
    the salt-and-pepper haired man,
    just born 7 days earlier,
    angelic, with reddish-gold hair,
    reportedly grabbed her finger,
    and they are now “holding hands”…

    Driving to Boston twenty some years later,
    holding 2 teddy bears – one blue one pink.
    Just got a call from the salt-and-pepper haired man,
    that my first grandchildren were born, The Twins…
    Getting to hold a tiny 3 pounds preemie –
    now the lovely young woman driving me –
    in the palm of my hand,
    tears of joy streaming…

    Driving to the hospital more recently,
    I am the patient, my grown boy – the doctor –
    taking me for a consult, arranging all the details,
    helping me navigate the mud of confusing uncertainties…
    Back home, his all-grown-up kindhearted daughter
    (just got a driving license) coming to visit –
    teaching me how to use the icons of my new iPhone…

    A compact disc playing Simon and Garfunkel’s songs
    is now interrupting the sounds of silence,
    and I am humming the familiar lines.
    A glorious sun just set ahead and,
    as evening falls hard and darkness comes,
    I smile at the backs of my silver boy and his golden girl,
    grateful for being here,
    for being able to sail right behind them,
    for being able to glimpse at their time that has come to shine,
    at their dreams that are on their way…
    And – like a bridge over water –
    over a river of love,
    I can see the links of a sturdy chain
    connecting the dots,
    crossing us over time…

  290. Gwyvian


    Gilded silver goblet trembles, blood red wine
    brimming with noxious fumes—
    I listen to the silver-tongued man of black and white
    and accepted his wine and his thoughts without
    the pinch of salt he surely deserves; for he gave me
    clarity I thirsted for so; the land is parched,
    my predicament ominous in a hall that eerily resembles
    a grand chessboard… perhaps his invitation
    was sincere, and perhaps I am a prisoner until I agree,
    so each night I wish wishes upon a silver full moon
    that someone tell me why these explanations bother me;
    on one hand, he says, what we do is justified
    because we’re in a constant war with a great evil
    that has no face, no voice, yet continually spreads lies—
    but the wine turns to vinegar, and food at his table
    tastes like ashes: the silver-tongued man is a preacher
    who has an explanation for everything; he is
    a man of black and white loyalties,
    his goals have forever been clear – why, then, does he
    need to keep me so near? the gilt is peeling off the mirror,
    the reflection a silvery haze: I do not think this man
    has ever used it, else he might see something unnerving;
    conviction is mercurial in a mind like mine,
    a maze, he says, where it’s difficult to find his way,
    difficult to latch onto clear, whole thoughts and sway me,
    with his silver-tongued ways… I am free, he says,
    but why, then, all these restrictions? I am in a palace
    where he speaks of inexorable poverty, walking across
    a room with a chessboard, and I can’t help but feel
    I’m just another piece to his grand scheme; he cares,
    he says, about the people he’s never met, he desires
    with a passion that all get their deserved shares; but that
    silver is starting to wear on me, I don’t think I can believe;
    I saw a pawn today, a broken man with eyes milky white
    and he said to me that after he was paid, the promised
    silver penny – he put out his sight to stop the dreams coming…
    the gilt is flaking, I remembered, but the silver-tongued man
    has pockets lined with gold: only a mirror gets this treatment,
    and the minions amongst whom I am being recruited—
    I fled beneath a silvery sliver of the moon, and doffed
    my silver coat; fine though it was, gift as it is, I knew I was
    wearing silver livery – and he will never willingly let me go.

    April 19, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

      1. Gwyvian

        Thank you, it was a fun exercise to try and examine single colors from different angles, and silver has so much potential – some of it not even needing to be named silver as such! Concentrating on it like this gave the subject a wholesome feeling to me as I wrote it, like a full circle.

  291. Phil Boiarski


    Spectral in its
    noctilucent presence,
    the crocus opens
    with the sky,
    saffron stamens
    stretching toward
    the sun. Viola
    turns it’s tryian
    note and the stripes
    of fairy spuds
    their lines.
    near the invisible,
    an ecchymotic light,
    an amethyst shadow
    in the furrow
    of our eyes,
    in time for us
    to see what it
    is saying
    about the

  292. drwasy


    Sepia stains these walls
    with time passed, time mourned,
    choices made—or not; hands
    jaundiced, swirling

    amber anesthesia,
    ice clacking to moments
    metered by the hissing
    thump of canulated

    air coursing to make red
    what is blue in you; air
    now yellowed, smoky-scented,
    canyon-carved, starved for space

    enough to gasp, “Sorry.”
    The tip flares, wanes to ash.

  293. JanetRuth


    I lost her in your endless eyes
    While she was chasing butterflies
    Through fields of periwinkle youth
    Before the cuff of crimson truth
    Dragged her through mud and umber dirt
    Where still nature’s four seasons flirt
    With things like holding-letting-go
    And emerald isles and white-white snow
    She turns, startled to realize
    She lost herself in azure eyes
    …forgetting that in tick of clocks
    Come silver sighs through golden locks
    While morn to night
    Flows dark to light
    Its ebony, chartreuse disguise
    Yielding at noon to azure eyes
    And there, ah, there, she twirled and danced
    To melodies by love enhanced
    Letting the hour have its way
    Before your azure turned to gray
    And giddy kiss of coral dawn
    Drew charcoal shadows on the lawn
    Beneath an awning sequin-swept
    And where your azure laughter wept
    She disappeared; you kiss her face
    But now a woman takes her place

    © Janet Martin

    1. TomNeal

      And giddy kiss of coral dawn
      Drew charcoal shadows on the lawn

      Those are very good lines.

      I am not as sure about:

      While morn to night
      Flows dark to light

      1. JanetRuth

        :) I paused there but sometimes my days are darker than my nights and it is a turning of those darks and lights that fills time…(but then again, it is rather backwards the way I put it here)…since I can’t play with it here I might shuffle it a bit on my blog. Keep your constructive thoughts coming, please. I am touched that anyone is reading, let alone sharing ‘helps’. thank-you.



    I can’t believe we said I do
    Through sickness and health
    We vowed to be true
    But now you’re leaving
    While I’m going through this
    I can’t believe it
    I never could have guessed
    Why would you give up
    I thought we were strong
    The couple everyone admired
    Is somehow gone
    This injury has ruined me
    But I had you by my side
    I was trying to be strong
    But now I just cry
    I never thought it would end
    Not ever, not now
    We vowed our love so long ago
    Why would you leave me now?