Star BG Jan 11
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
and compassion.

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
and dance.

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
with power.

I’m a walking RAINBOW,
divine and blessed
as I walk below sky.
Inspired byMel K Thanks
Quitterie Nov 2017
Look at the skeletons – they’re dancing in the yard –
And the violet smells in the new day forward.
Yesterday is so far, and the party is done;
Gone are the petits fours and the sound of the drums.

Today the wine is red and I push with my thumbs
Some leftovers of bread on the table, some crumbs.
Wasps are nibbling the grapes and the time can’t rewind:
How cold are the graves; I am losing my mind.

They’re clicking the laughters and clapping all the bones;
Their pidgins are swishers in cages of the zoos:
Mariette and Amir went all the way up there,
– Like an old souvenir – and it makes me shiver.

Look at the skeletons – they’re dancing in the yard –
And the violet smells in the new day forward.
Amir was a poet and Mariette a dove.
Who can tell that the death is watching out for love?

Yesterday the river saw us throwing some stones,
And drinking cans of beer. The sunlight and the glows
Of tiny water hints: we had to fold the eyes.
Who can tell that omens were these water lilies?

Mariette was wearing her pretty yellow pearls,
Her simple golden ring. The long mane and the curls
Of Amir, and his mood, were like hot butterflies
They were so young and proud: Why can't I stop my cries?

Look at the skeletons – they’re dancing in the yard –
And the violet smells in the new day forward.
Of what kind is this waltz, this triple meter dance,
This strange time with no source, which always starts and ends?

Yesterday, tomorrow; this day: a stunning ride
On horses of sorrow where I cried as a child.
Knucklebones of my hands, and my feet in the snow:
Of what kind are these wounds spoiling red my pillow?

Mariette cried and laughed, this all at the same time,
As Amir depictured the story of their fine
And very first kisses under the almond tree.
Their sweet and calm faces have fired poetry.

Look at the skeletons – they’re dancing in the yard –
And the violet smells in the new day forward…

(c) Quitterie Kerlach
A beautiful violet dancing in the wind.
Without a care, she bloomed.
Picked from the field by a heart matched with Hers.
The Violet eyes, now downcast and filled with grief,
Looked out towards the grassy knolls opposite the battlements
He had made up his mind and left for the last time.
Lost in His own turmoil, He was blinded to their future.
A Violet without its fragrance.
She wilted at the lack of Him.
Written by Cristina Rivera and Mercedes Caballero
Pre-AP English 9 Mr.Quinn 2015-2016
ambient Oct 2017
when the sun screams,
the violet is choked
while others feed from
their natural mother.
when the fluffy clouds
piss their dirty water,
the violet despairs
while others sip it
through a bent straw.
when bleary eyeballs look,
the violet is imprinted
while others take pride
in being noticed.
when there is darkness,
the violet wakes
while others cow from it

and the violet shrunk
no more...
10-4-17, 22:30 (best thing I could sum up...)
Noah Guthrie Jul 2017
Drive by my skyline
Dip in my highlight bath
Drink the dew from my small world

Ashes of branches
Keep up with me my son
Don’t you dare fade inside me

Please don’t evade my thoughts
And go hide away
I will rejoice and cling to you all the way

Stuck in this fun world
Too many colors
Now can we get to the plotline

Let’s stage a robbery
Get lost in silhouette
Live for the big one, Run for the giant gates

Shiny apartment
I love the smell of walls
Shrink into the thick carpet

Don’t run away
I’m just letting go of me
Sometimes I am free

Violet times are exactly what I need
Dip in the wild
Slingshot my child far
sarah s Jun 2017
the violets in the window box are pungent
sitting on this old wooden floor
ankle over ankle
eyes closed
intertwined with consciousness
i press my tongue to the back of my mouth
create a vibration
nung nung nung
the amethyst vacillation
it pulses from the root of my skullcap
i am united
with everything around me
the sahasrana chakra, or crown chakra is the chakra of inner-connectedness. this poem is to describe the setting and feel of crown chakra meditation. vacillation is just another fancy word for vibration. i will be doing more poems on the chakras starting from the seventh to the sixth, fifth and so forth.
Look at their hearts
How they light up for you
For you are a flower
In these barren fields
Nourishment for tired souls
Your eyes are our rose colored glasses
You make this world beautiful
And you can't even speak
Anyone who gazes upon you
Wonders how anything could be so good
In this world full of so much ugliness
Yet here you are
So sweet and precious
A little Violet smiling up at the sun

~You make the rest of us Smile with You~
WJ Thompson Mar 2017
It was an atmosphere
It was an atmosphere
It was an oxygen mixed with southern fog
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind
The rolling hills behind property lines

It was the question you asked
It was the question you asked
not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass
as I leaned against your Corolla
And we sang under the overpass

It was graffiti
It was graffiti
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple hair and acid wash jean jackets
melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement

It was the way the reverb spread the major seventh across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor ninth
which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars)
and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd-
surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.

It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat
soaking up the air of my A/C heat
and the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall
and now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all

But I'll let this night be interstellar
I'll take a bath in the Big Dipper and write you a letter about Orion's Belt
or how I miss the stars sparkling in your eyes making contact with the E.T. in me.

Phone me home, darling.
I'm lost at sea.

-W.J. Thompson
A repost but with a different ending.
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