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el Mar 20
a perfect canvas can get away with anything,
even destruction.
nothing done to it will destroy it, only make it shine.
add this, and add that.
pile on all the things that made everybody else undesirable.
instead of revolting, you become art.
was it a transformation of the hands or one of the eyes?
it’s like you had become adorned with colour and shine
instead of a veil to hide your reality.
the blandness beneath,
or the stark truth behind you.

mayhap it was a transformation of the heart.
it seems as though one may have bartered their life
just to be worthy of a glimpse
for five more minutes.
perhaps not merely a glimpse,
more, a lifetime.
what is it about
Steve Page Mar 9
Pallet is just a trick of the light
Echo a deceit
All we have is reflected
- for all that
it's no less sweet
I heard a radio interview where someone referred to the colour of a birds plumes as a trick of the light.  I shouted at the radio at that point.
Zywa Feb 9
Dawn: the world takes on

colours, becomes lifelike, but --

remains elusive.
Personal transmission-composition "Occam ocean" for orchestra (2015, Éliane Radigue), performed in the Organpark on February 3rd, 2024, by ensemble ONCEIM (L'Orchestre de Nouvelles Créations, Expérimentations, et Improvisations Musicales) and others - @orchestra

Collection "org anp ark" #359
AE Jul 2023
Colour blooms
Onto a canvas of black-and-white impressions
Left behind are brush strokes from the blues and greys
Overlayed are the yellows and pinks
Flowers drift left and right
A sunset glows until dark
Transforming into midnight bokeh
With every blink, something new
A painter paints
A thousand places all here at once
A thousand dreams
A thousand wonders
All here, in the colour of you
Unpolished Ink Feb 2023
Our connection
is a pale moon above
and stars that shine
they are yours as much as ever they were mine
we feel the grey of falling rain
the warmth of joy and the chill of pain
we live and we love, we laugh and die
under a yellow sun and the same blue sky
Last night for just a few moments
I could feel my heart.
It was a shock
To feel so

Like the monochrome
Just for
Those few



I was breathing mindfully while trying to fall asleep and my heart came to life. It was wonderful. Written feb 2022
Steve Page Oct 2022
'No,' she said, as we waited, 'that’s not right.'
Not fading, but returning, rising through
full spectrums of radiant light until,
to the human eye it appears to fade
       (pale white to a silver grey)
but it simply steps into a vision
that is reserved for keener eyes than ours.
       (like ultraviolet)

Not fading, but transforming, travelling
at a speed forever known as its own.
Always keen to get home in a fit state
to enjoy a few hours with its feet up
by the ebb and glow of its evening fire
       (red with blues and greens)
before rising, rested, to greet the dawn
recharged with the full force of the sunrise.
       (bold yellow and blood orange)

No, not fading.  That fails to see the truth
that it’s taking paths through deeper shadows
       (purples and blues mostly)
which our deceptive eyes struggle to grasp
and in our weakness, it is lost to us.

Then she gasped, and I saw that she was right,
the light didn't fade, but it stepped ahead
waiting at the next bend of hope’s rainbow.
       (a glow of pure gold)
Written for a poet's circle given the theme 'fading light'.
nick armbrister Aug 2022
The boots were blue in colour
Painted to look like the sky
And worn by a gal with other things
She was aged 18 to 45
And looked timless ageless  
It was the blue painted ex army boots
That she used wore to gigs
Pubs and clubs when she was free
Not working as a programmer
In the Italian civilian aviation industry
The job was boring but paid well
She'd done it for 8 years
Was a legend at the plane factory
The lady who wore her blue boots
Even in the office a different pair
She got results delivered the goods
Had worked on 36 different projects
They simply knew her as Azzurro
The blue booted gal
Shofi Ahmed Aug 2022
When the paintbrush of the day
is tucked away
and the sunset dipped
in the forest of the night
the moon wanes and waxes
down the hills of stars  
atop that shady wrap.

Who peeps in
where the sleeping beauty wakes
is any one guess
nor it's a amateur's business.

Far from the half lit astral canopy
any bucket lowered  
deep down on the ground
into a barrowed well of colours
comes up with a Joseph of Cannon
the firesome story goes on.
The same fire burner
is also the same fire extinguisher
Alexander the Great intrigued life water
cool serene cup of Ab-e Hayat elixir!
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