I have just written a wonderful Song
For with words I have painted nature
It is so beautiful and not too long
Watch as it turns into a new picture.
Come join me let's all just sing along
For we have all eaten a bit from nature
Nutrients that have kept us going strong
Come and help me care for her like a fur.
I am going to leave nature here someday
And when I sojourn to my earthly roots
All my kids will dig nature's soft clay
Wearing few pairs of black muddy boots.
I've just written a beautiful new song
And way up to the hills I go climbing
Just to prove to nature that all along
It's about her we have all been singing.
Ivan Brooks Sr
Stay clear of the green that
longs to take over the blue area,
it represents what should not be
forgetting that what would be
is also in existence.
The need to understand overshadows
the requirements for a person’s sanity.
Insanity probes, forges and let’s go
but does it stop in the midst?
In the midst, it grows and
reproduces but also, can be lost
in the midst of a deep gaze.
The deep gaze is that that
let’s us go on in the midst of it all.
In the midst of blue,
so many things happen but one thing is constant
jealousy would always be green and
blue peace and tranquility.
My favorite color is RED.
It gives me a chance to let passions rise.
MY favorite color is ORANGE
It adds to my joy and creativity
letting me be serine.
My favorite color is YELLOW.
letting me shine inside love
My favorite color is GREEN.
It aligns me with balance
and stability for peace.
My favorite color is BLUE.
helping me shine light on sadness
and expand consciousness.
My favorite color is purple.
It aligns me with heart to have wisdom
My favorite color is INDIGO.
reminding me of my soul mate,
who I love very much.
My favorite color is VIOLET.
It reminds meI am full of magic
I’m a walking RAINBOW,
divine and blessed
as I walk below sky.
I collect crayons,
that I coloured eyes upon.
All where closed but I painted them
Death can only have you when you
shut those lids of sight open to life.
But when there vacant it comes instead.
I coloured there lids that were
closed tightly shut,
Why should I give it the fulfilment
when I have so much fun left.
I use blue, green & brown,
such pretty colours, I use hues of both.
Remember eyes are mirages
of not one but three.
But I don't want it to take you,
that treats for me.
I colour you in, ill open your eyes.
But death will never have you,
as only I can colour in your eyes.
Only I can paint those baubles of the soul,
only I can colour in what's left behind.
l'll colour you in, ill keep your eyes open wide.
even though your gone
ill keep your memory vividly alive.
Some old woman knitting
in a brittle rocking chair.
Mothballs mixed with
white stubble on her upper lip.
Heavy lids weighted
the clicking sound of
pungent odors swarming
by lantern light.
through mouse holes
Tinged in green
and nicotine stains
Once upon a—-
tripped on her cheroot
was left behind.
After Neil Hillborn
Dear Past Self,
I have become a meteor, searching the universe for something to destroy in a blast of glory. Do you know what happened to the dinosaurs? They were killed by something like my current self, and now people wear them as rings and necklaces. Their bones are like caves, empty except for too much darkness. I saw a necklace of a Tyrannosaurus Rex's skeleton made out of silver, and it made me think about how when I die, in thousands of years, if people will mould my skull and wear it as a ring. Is anyone that valuable?
Dear Past Self, I have been the main character, the sidekick and the villain in my own story, like a John Green novel gone off the tracks. I never had a spiritual revolution, never died from cancer, and never found the reason to be alive. But I became okay, without ever being normal. I learned I am stronger on the road back from broken. I learned how to chew water, how to leave earth to find a planet where everything is pure and sound. I forgot the bleach and drank rain mixed with stardust.
Dear Past Self,
Monsters have never been real to you, but you will meet them. There will be blood-boys and soft-boys and every other creature you may ever encounter. You will learn to create art in ugly things and people, like Warhol taking canned meals and making millions. You'll have your own version of pop art, and you'll call it writing. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's bad. All artists die from their art one day, may it be spiritual or physical. But you'll live on even after you die inside.
Because you're that strong.
Dear Past Self, I want to reach out and touch you, hold you close and tell you it will all be fine. You could have it so much worse, be adrift in the cosmos.
But instead you know where you are going, that light, that planet.
And too herself she gently sings
'be still my child, you must be brave'.
Bearing the gift of loving patience,
silent waiting in her cardigan cave.
For soon she will be free again,
and her beauty will reign supreme,
knowing every place should have
its very own shade of green.
© Pagan Paul (04/12/17)