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I speak colour, I smell light
I see at speeds that are out of sight

I speak Blue, I shout Green
I sing Yellow, and Lime in-between

I hear Redder, I taste Whiter
I dance Lilac, I climb Amber

I run Orange, I walk Silver
Saffron, Fuchsia, Turquoise, Magenta

I speak colour, I whisper flavour
I sleep in spectrum, I dream wider

Take a colour, chose a shade
See each light from which you're made.
Colour is everything
Internal battles meant to be discounted
And anxieties rumored as dismounted
While nothing could have amounted
To the tales within those mountains
Regarded and enabled as fountains
Of flowing wisdom which hasn’t counted
The melody of life yet to be sounded
A treasure seemed and well-rounded
Singular rhyming sequence based on my ruminating about worries and fears.
Martin Boško Apr 12
Hear the bells of Freedom sing
Promise of normalcy the ringing brings
Joyous people dance in the streets
This Sound of Joy is what the world needs
Written after the 2020 US election results
deadhead Apr 12
i will take the
melodic
sound of your
voice
and bury it
deep
within my
heart
so that it may
never
forget how
sweet
your words were
Juliana Apr 9
The silence is a dream not even sleep
could fix. In a universe where this blue
and emerald orb turns around
a fiery sphere, throwing itself further
into the heavens, quiet is no more
then a pipe dream.

A dull wrrr of the air conditioner;
buzzing of the fridge, freezing
of ice.

The wind and all its power, causing
the tide, letting a butterfly take flight,
the flapping of fragile wings causing
the slightest of shifts in the timeline.

It only takes a single grain of sand
to cause an avalanche.

It is an avalanche that consumes
my most waking thoughts. It is
two lovers, dancing in my mind,
stomping their feet like hooves
in a field.

It is the static. Static of the unknown,
the terror, the excitement.
What will tomorrow bring?
The next hour? Minute?
Second?

Am I who I am now, or am I
just the sum of my past selves?
Do I exist, or is my body just
the host for a colony of bacteria;
a breeding ground for the splitting
of cells… a science experiment.

The thump thump thump of my beating
heart overtakes the racing of my mind.
I am alive. I am human.

The red liquid which runs through my veins
is nothing like the green which allows cars
to soar over the highway. Green, which turns
to brown, polluting our skies, hiding the blue
of a sunny day, the reminder of the ocean.

The cars, and their voices, the beeping
and vrooming and crashing,
are a little city, a life of their own,
a world in which humans aren’t
necessary. It’s fake, a childhood
imagination.

The screams, those are real.
The screams of said children falling
off play structures, of a teenage girl
planning a date, of another taking
a brisk walk, walking home
from her night shift.

I wonder if any of them count sheep.
If the numbering of one, two, three
Quiets their thoughts, four, five, six,
relaxes their mind, seven, eight, nine,
turns their daydreams into dreams, ten.

I wonder if the hot morning sun
awakens their thoughts, the blaring
of an alarm, a symphony, a dull song
of childhood nostalgia.

I wonder if they keep that song playing
preparing for their day. Dragging plastic
bristles along strands of hair, the minty
fresh scraping their teeth, the crunch of
cereal and breakfast toast.

The click-clack of heels out the door, a
quick “I love you,” peck on the cheek,
closing a door, opening another, tires
rotating, “hello,” “good morning,”
computer keys.

Does the buzzing fly bother them?
Does the fly feel out of place? Not
cut out for the office life? Did he
escape his egg, bringing a briefcase
and tie with him?

Does he miss the outdoors?
The wet heat of summer, the
humidity, not yet moist, the
comfortable burn of fire
lighting the air.

The air that makes you want to breathe,
run in the flowers, take photographs,
holding your lungs for just a second
while you secure the perfect shot.

Sitting down later that afternoon,
the couch you’ve had since college
squeaking underneath you, showing
the pictures to your lover, remembering
that their eyes are blue.
Strikingly blue.

Not the blue of ocean, of the tides,
but the blue of them. Their soul.
The man you fell in love with
on a Tuesday at a coffee shop.

You ask if one day
you can go back there.

He grabs his laptop, fingers
pecking the keys like one
reaches for a worm, hoping
there is some early bird special
for tickets to a different kind of bird.

A metal bird which wings flap
almost as much as a dead body stirs.

The want and need for nostalgia
is the faint sound of scales,
skin scraping, scratching
at one’s own skin.

One longs for quiet
like the pain of a dull itch.
LC Apr 7
a person with a mind and soul
made of colorful, vivid ribbons
quietly walks through the world.
she expects to feel the warmth
of their smiles on her face.
their eyes softly crinkle
when they're with each other.
when they walk toward her,
they grimace - every single time.
their voices fade until
she can only hear the sound
of her loud breathing,
feel the chill in the air,
and blink the tears away.
#escapril day 6!
Valleys and glens
I search for them
Some have gone dead
Some have gone alive
Valleys and glens
I search for them
I look at the sky
I ask the planets and stars
If they see them from afar
Please tell them
I search for them
Valleys and glens
Forests and rocks
Streams and rivers
Caves and caverns
Please tell them loud
Through cosmic sound
I miss them, I miss them
I love them, I love them
I search for them
Valleys and glens
Some have gone dead
Some have gone alive
I see thisles and shamrocks
Blowing in the wind
They're no where in sight
I look at the sky
Knees down the ground
Hands upward
Let peace transcend
Let peace transcend
I love to walk along streams, rivers, valleys and glens. I love to walk in forests, on rocks. With my golden retriever. I miss and love those lost dead or alive over time for we shall never meet again in this life.
Sara Brummer Mar 17
Sweet, loud frog, harsh voice rising
like a climbing vine in a green world
of ponds and leaves thin as filaments.
The sad frog has never acquired
grace or flight, yet multiplies
geography of night.

You may want to be a fish
or a bird, yet there is a steady
wholeness about you, a settled
resignation of lowness –
no particular ambition.

You are a being both firm
and subtle ; with your webbed
feet you cling solidly to the
wet earth. With your perfect
camouflage, you enhance
the beauty of your verdant
surroundings.

Emperor of the archipelago
of lily pads, you astound
observers with your acrobatic
leaps. Nocturnal creature, you
are a visual enigma.

So, hold your head high
and with your rough harmony,
sing me a star-lit serenade.
selina Mar 14
silence rings aloud
waiting to be broken by you
with a litany of praises
my name as interludes

murmured against my skin
falling from your tongue
slipping through your lips
squeezed between the steady pulses

                                  this is truly all we need
                                  there is something so beautiful
                                  about the tranquility of silence
                                  but: my name sounds so lovely
                                  when you are breathless
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