In the gallery of a town, art was duly contained
and cared for carefully without contamination.
There was a painting there, painted with oil
paints that rained and formed a picture of a bird
on a canvas of vivid blues, browns, and greens
that fixed eyes on it like webs to hair.
The artist spoke:

“We are all swallows: proud, free, agile.
We are all oceans: formidable, hostile.
We are all stormy weather: thunderous.
We are all columns: supportive, calloused.

Entwined we will walk,
down to and up to the sands,
into elixirs made with salt;
swelling our joyous hands.”

Men, women and children all strolled by,
and let not one of them see the lows and highs
of the artist's soul. A boy stood there with
no-one: his uncorrupted eyes walking up and
down the mined canvas. He felt no sand
under his feet; he felt no wooden skin and
complexion in his hands.
He spoke:

“We are not swallows: ashamed, caged, stiff.
We are not oceans: defenceless, mild.
We are not stormy weather: soundless
We are not columns: defective, defiled.

Like slaves, we sing
on top of the wings
of new-born Spring.

The ground we sowed and toiled,
reaped dangers of fantasy untold.
Soul-reaping bird-singers
singing the siren song to us.
But we must not fuss.

I bleed the colours
of a deadly rose garden.
Red, yellow, blue, green:
colourless eyes remain unseen.”

Sanjukta Nag Apr 1

When our home first felt the dark
You illuminated your thoughts,
And light flooded the porch of moon.

Poems were born, and I fell for you
Deeper than sun's root inside wind.

Like a child's friendship with colours
Fills the gap of rainbows,
You inked my words with voices of spring,

Turning love's tint into unaged green.

Scarlet Keiller Mar 31

His eyes were gleaming
in her wake; black and white
yet holding all of the colours she could see.
If it was possible for eyes to refract
in prismatic glory, his did,
and only for her.
Her hair, blowing
in front of her eyes and half obscuring
her wild laugh,
being brushed aside by a straying,
tender hand. They tried
to stay so solemn, so serious,
but they couldn't help it.
Love like that, when it shines like that...
It can't be dimmed.

~~ A poem based on an old photograph I once saw. ~~
Delta Swingline Mar 21

Over the logs and dirt of a camp ground, you still shine. A blazing, bright fire.

Fire is also an element of destruction, of rage, but also of love. The burning red love you have for someone.

But my favourite type of fire is blue fire. Looking like the polar opposite of burning red hot, blue fire is hotter than red.

And to think that a full rainbow can come out of the flames of chaos.

How beautiful is the colour of destruction...

Poetry prompt: Use the words "Red" and "Dirt" in you next poem. So here's what I got.
Talia Grace Mar 20

Have you ever loved brown eyes?
No?
Maybe look at them in the sun
See how they become gold
Not a dull gold,
They shine like the sun itself
Hints of browns, golds and dark grays

Try falling in love with someone with brown eyes
Look at their eye
Look and find the stories
The love
The care
Try to look away after locking gazes
Impossible, right?

That little freckle
On the edge of the vibrace
Plunges deeply into my heart
And holds me there
Like it's where I'm meant to be
The warmth of your body,
The love in your eyes
The richness to your voice...
They all hold me close
And tell me that you'll never let go

Deep browns and vivid golds
Tug at my heart strings
And leave me gasping for air
That you return to me with a kiss
Vowing to never let me go

I've always had a thing for brown eyes... I never knew why until a freckle faced boy sat beside me watching the sunset
Nylee Mar 14

Paintbrush and paints
can make empty canvas
               change its identity

I'm the ship that doesn't sail right:
no wind is strong enough.
Weak in strength
and short in length,
I am tired and over-rough.

I'm the colourless sunrise:
never beautiful enough.
Red in the wrong ways
and blue on warm days,
yet here I am, if I'm enough.

~~ Need me. ~~
JΛΧδΡ⑧Z Mar 3

I'm seeing polka dots when I close my eyes.

Darkness holding each dot in place.

No colors.

White on Black.

Together,
Complementing existence.

When I open my eyes there are no polka dots but I see the same thing.

"They" keep telling me what I see is impossible.

Hannah Feb 27

A sad painter
Paints a sad face
With sad colours
Onto a sad canvas

His sad eyes
Grace his sad painting
Sitting sadly opposite
And he smiles sadly

Any ideas for a title would be welcome.

02.09.16
Sasha Ranganath Feb 26

black can be two things:
nothing
or everything.
black can tell you stories
or stare at you in silence.
black can be the depths of hell
or the limitless universe.
you can get lost in its darkness
or be found in its unparalleled dimensions.

black can be cold and idle
or etch an agonizing fire in your heart.
it can invite you for dinner
or devour you whole.
you can hear your blood rushing in its quiet
or be haunted by the resident banshee.

you can fall in love under the swirls of black ink when your tears touch the wet brush strokes
and you can lose yourself in the intricacy of her black pupils at midnight under the moon.
but you can also look death in the eyes and submit yourself to it
you can feel your heart blackening with the poison of heartbreak and grief.
you can feel the raging sun and the crumbling constellations if you close your eyes hard enough.
thunder jolts through your body like lightning on live wire
intensity builds up leaving  you breathless but begging for more.

black can be the moment you took your first breath
and black can be the moment you take your last.

Next page