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Poetoftheway Jun 17
it’s a daiquiri colored morn, countlessly
as I, gazing never tiring, of a vista I’ve seen,
awoken to, endlessly changing, voyagers of
birds and boats, the redecorating minimalists,
moving pieces on a latticed shadow lawn

the Sun eastern, asking the trees to turn and bow,
hence the shadows their branches cast are a waffling,
hopscotch pattern irregular, so jumping from/to
yellow-green sunspots, the children are delighted by a
new game, moving to and from and between an ever
changing crazy chessboard of light-patches unsquared

described, written of, yet here I am, once again, a servant
despairing, looking for new combinations of superlatives,
though I never spoke before of it as a vista,
until today, wondering why, perhaps because
it’s here, one lives, one doesn’t conceive of  being
part and parcel of a vista, humans, just visitors,
pawn observers, gallery visitors, art appreciators,
transient hobos after forty years, truthfully claiming
that they’re merely still, passing thru, passing by

9:40 am, respectable hour to meander over
to the throne room, the four Adirondacks, them,
the year round poetry nook authorities, are equal
sunned, shaded, simultaneous, stately shadowing,
observing, advertising as perfect for composing,
willing to make verbal suggestions, rhyming notions,
especially when the poem pays proper obeisance

and so it does, and so it is, as you can clearly read

9:53am Sunday Jun 14
Year of the Pandemic
see cover photo
Sparks fly, and people die;
A cycle that tends to repeat

Bullets fly, across the sky;
People mourn and cry for love lost;
Grieving for their future days
That would never come,
That has paid the cost.

The cost of what may you ask?
The cost of being black.

Sparks are shot into the sky;
Blood is shot into the sky;
Sweat is shot into the sky,
Tears are shot into the sky,

For being of color,
An eye for an eye?

No? / Then I wonder why?

Why nothing is done until
A fatal outcome?
Why peaceful protests urge uproar,
While unarmed men lay pinned
In the street...
Beneath someone’s knee,
Unable to breathe?

Tell me.
Tell me what the answer is,
To stop the violence,
But most importantly,
To feel safe in my skin
With my melanin.

I love humanity, but this is a message
That needs to be known;
In hopes for all to be seen equally;
Not to feel estranged,
Or be a victim of prejudice,
Or alone.
Black lives matter. I wrote this when the protests and riots in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and the world started. This poem is only the start of what I have to say and is certainly not the end. This is the first iteration of this piece, and I will not be responding to any hateful messages on this. It's all about love. It's all about understanding. That said, let us spread love. Let us understand in finality that hate doesn't solve a thing. This is only a fraction of the pain it causes, especially for those of color, which I understand firsthand. I will continue to hope for peace, and for an everlasting love that will bring forth the mutual and equal freedom for all that we have yet to reach. Keeping that hope alive.
Serene May 2
I’ve seen in many different shades
Painted from a plethora of palettes
Worn glasses that changed my world
That obscured my vision at night
And worn the wrong prescription some days
I’ve worn rose colored lenses
Far more than I’d like to admit
Ignored signs directly in my line of sight
Because I didn’t want to see it for what it truly is
I also have a bad habit
Of seeing things in black and white
Seeing things from only two sides
I forget about the gray areas
And the entire color spectrum
Decide if things aren’t going perfect
Then they must be on the verge of falling apart at any moment
I jump from one extreme to the next
From black to white and back again
I have to remind myself to take a deep breath
Step back
And admire the range
That life is actually a rainbow
Bright and spectacular
But also sometimes dark and brooding
And that it’s all apart of living
It’s all just as necessary
You have to observe the entire canvas
To really admire, fully, the masterpiece
In a time of only black and white I am half past colored,
choking on grey.
Relentless in my decent I am sent into the fray.
Sentimental sense gone and washed away.
Clean like our hands dipped in dismay.
Can we interest you in a few "I guess it's true" well that's too bad, it's all that's being offered. And it's awfully absurd.
Can't recall when it occurred but here it is. Inside my every word. Within my every waking moment I am observed in blur and slapped with a slur attached to defining my ability to serve. Smothered in the debris of everyone before me, my book is 30 chapters of the same story.
I break from the mold demanding the ever intensifying focus of eyes wide open as I preach from the curb screaming from within my own skin. But I am speaking in tongues
and these ones, well, they are deaf anyway.
In a time of only black and white I am half past colored,
choking on grey.
Kalarav Feb 6
If this sobriety, plainness and
feeling of contentedness
Isn't enough
for your ever-hungry eyes
for the bottomless greed
of your mind
Go ahead
and split paths
Try to look
for something better
Meanwhile, I will keep insisting
that the grass under me
is greener.
Amanda Sep 2019
Roses are colored red
Also can be blue
Artificial dyes turn white ones
Into shades of every hue
A silly note I wrote after I found a rainbow pen at work hahaha
Colm Sep 2019
Dark clouds cover cold
Golden hay shines like the Sun
And colors become
One with the grey eternal
A flood of song into one
Storm Colored
Ruby Tuck Nov 2018
I'm sitting at my desk after a math test
And on my math test, I really tried my best,
But now, thank god, I get to rest
And play with my colored pencils.

I feel like it's been so much time
since I've written in colored pencil rhyme,
But I find, it really is sublime
Writing in something other than monochrome grey.

As I sit and gaze at my pencil collection,
I am realizing that it has turned to obsession,
But there are twelve colored pencils for three stanza perfection,
So, for poetry's sake, I guess it's okay.
I actually did write this the first time in colored pencils after a math test.
sushii Nov 2018
the colored light forms the hours
the minutes

time ticking away
there is nothing left for this day

but i cannot go to sleep
for i always have light on me

you can’t unplug me either,
because then you cannot wake up

i can’t wait for the power to go out forever.
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