People speak through colours
But they don't realise
Sometimes they hide behind them
Their a reflection of the eyes

Colours are a language
That each of us convey
A way we all communicate
In a subtle kind of way

When we choose  the colour yellow
Our child within seeks fun
The heart feels warm and gentle
Radiant like the sun

White displays purity
A need to start a new
A calmness found
Security sought
When we choose the colour blue

Red speaks of a confidence
Of one who likes to dance
One who dares
One who dreams
Of beauty and romance

Green it tells a story
Of one who's brave and bold
Not afraid to speak their mind
But doesn't like being told

Orange speaks of someone
Full of energy and zest
One who likes to sing out loud
And always does their best

Purple wearers like the peace
Of quiet natures sound
They are not ones to meddle
Their feet firmly on the ground

Pink reflects a gentleness
A reluctance to fight
Preferring nothing heavy
Keeping all things light

Black ~beige and grey
All neutral
Speak of those in the background
they'd rather be spectators
Of others all around

My aim when writing this poem
Was Simply to amuse
But has it got you thinking
About the colours
That you choose?

Chances are, you're going to meet a birdman,
at least once, in your lifetime.
And when you do, you shall be captivated.

He will have a certain appeal,
a magnetic force so enchanting,
that you'll want to keep him, and make him yours.

You'll be tempted to spend fortunes,
to build a pretty little cage,
made out of gold and tears.

But be fooled not!
For he is nothing but a birdman,
whose nature is to roam and be free.

And at the end of the day, I find myself asking,
Why do we always want to possess,
when we see such thing of beauty, roaming 'round so free?

Is it the beauty we desire?
Or is it the freedom?

She
asked
him then for
sanctuary,
to run, hide away
from pain and death calling.
He let her in. Could he not
see, would he not know...? A stardust
path she silently draw... Never was
his thirst fulfilled, her heart unfolded.

......And she wrote in a frenzy
Breathless and thirsty.
Words to feed her mind
Stories to feed her soul.
And she kept writing, incessantly,
As if it was akin to breathing.......

He must be deaf
God, that is
I've been cursing him for days
And I'm not dead yet

Sitting up there on his throne
Eating cheese on Ritz
All gray-haired without a care
Not hearing my pleading tones

Maybe the choir's making too much sound
Or perhaps he's jamming with Townes
Possibly; passing a bottle 'round
Gettin' down to Snake Mountain Blues
With Townes Van Zandt. Yeah. That's it.

r ~ 5/16/14