"achromatic" poems
I don't consider various eye colors "beautiful" nor "enchanting".
In all honesty; I've never really understood the incorrigible obsession with iris pigmentation that is genetically inherited and beyond the control of the possessor of the same pair of eyes you deem "beautiful".
But in contradiction to the callous statement I've opened with;
I've found a pair of eyes that I can unhesitantly call beautiful.
It should be noted that I only fell in love with the eyes after I'd seen them roll back with pleasure
(a memory that still makes me shiver)
And from that night on; I started to notice every single beautiful thing the eyes did.
The way they lit up with frenzied excitement,
The way they burned with raging desire,
The way they filled up with salty achromatic tears.
I've loved the eyes for as long as I can remember.
But I don't consider myself lucky just because those same eyes look at me lustfully midweek; but because in a seemingly redundant life, those eyes became something to look forward to seeing; or feeling pierce through your skin on a warm Saturday night
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
Reality is simpler than it seems,
But it asks from you the clearest lens
Commonly what is seen, a Shadow:
Uncolored
Nebulous
Restrained
Empty
Achromatic
Larger
than you
in a sunny day of true september,
an external light however
Do not dress yourself by your shadow
Feel your body,
Feel the fabric,
Put it on
Take it off
and let your truly self decide between the blue scarf or the red hat.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
I used to live in an achromatic world
Everything was plain and simple
Yin and Yang
Salt and Pepper
Black and White
A coloring page lacking its vibrant
Rainbow of colors
An explosion of reds and lavenders
A blank page, bleak and boring
Until you came around
With your fancy coloring box
And your artistic eye for all things
Colorful
My life without you was stark and unhappy
Because I know that I am very spontaneous
That I am more than the blackest black and
The whitest white
And so are you
I am the entire rainbow in all of its excellency
And you are the first person who is not
Colorblind
- C.M. 5/12/17
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
I stand here
Awaiting your touch
Free me forever
From my crutch
Take me away
I’ll join you in your freedom
From days so achromatic
Preserved in an arboretum.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC
~
*Storms make grey the sea
And erode the surface of the shore
Cold resentful icebergs
Outside my window
A field of sinking liquid caskets
Closing in on me
I hear the sound
Of toy pianos underwater
Remnants of their music keep
Washing up on achromatic beaches
Songs that made love shine
Have fallen into shipwreck
A missing charter's rusted hull
Casts the one color heaven allows
Storms make grey the sea
And erode the stages of the sun*
~
Oct 20, 2022
Oct 20, 2022 at 9:19 AM UTC
Feeling blue today
The truest blue and slew of good wishes
And feelings
And moods.
All is clear in my field of view.
Better than borrowed
I feel new.
It’s true
I’m blue.
She’s livid
A shiver of silver
Livings and fear of what mother will say
When she see slivers of shining silver
Shattered on solid floor.
She’s shaking
Scraping silver slivers
Into shaking, sweaty
Palms.
A rotund belly
Yellow sash orbiting
A loud yellow suit standing outside
A back door bordello.
A cello’s titillating echo
Feeling mellow
Look at that swinging yellow Othello
What a fellow
Those midnight secrets he’ll never tell, no.
He is orange
And no one much cares to rhyme about him
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
Pure achromatic, immaculate egg, sits in a nest.
Shaking and rustling, exploding at its best.
Once hatched it latched to its mother’s wit.
For the hatchling knew that she needed it.
The dove it flourished as a dove should,
And it grew so beautiful as beautiful as she could.
Now with integrity and innocence,
The dove knew to find love, it would finally make sense.
My Dove found love of the falsest facets,
Honeyed words of lust; they lack it.
Flattering gestures that quicken heart beats
Do often allow the dove to glide off her feet.
But Honeyed words don’t often last,
And soon that love became her past,
And now she wanders lonely in the clouds,
But this kind of love attracts only nimbus clouds
Of which to them she was avowed.
Now a dove,
Is indeed a symbol of love,
But love so pure and true,
The kind of love
That is common to a dove
Hunger for it, a yearning sensation within you.
Hunger, Thriving, Craving for this feeling of being complete,
But can’t you see that dependency leads to obsolete.
You will never be you,
You’ll be the both of you.
Is that what you want?
You want, you need to be someone’s gaunt
Old, decrepit partner?
Not I, I am alone,
But not lonely.
I am empty
Yet complete.
I am moist,
Yet dry as a desert.
I am me,
Yet no one at all.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
February a baleful month
dabbed with deep darkness,
the calendar's mortuary
nature's own Gulag.
Its window opens upon
possible impossibilities
none of which yield joy.
Crows plummet murderously
from the heavens
vainly trying to flee
into spring but merely splat.
Roads are crushed
beneath a carpet of ****
Frosted blimps soar naked.
Boots refuse to stay tied.
Your parent's nightmares
freeze your sweaty sleep.
Snow falls like dead swans.
Eclairs crystallize into
lumps too solid to enjoy.
A month of undeserved
solitary confinement
that trembles the soul.
A deep achromatic terror
keening coldness
in a huge white wail
penetrating the ears
until march stops
the madness and hope
blossoms as crocuses,
apricity achieved,
small phosphorescent
dots of desire.
~mce
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
*achromatic.
adrift.*
in this
polychromatic world.
monochromatic views.
breed
duotone intolerance.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
I'm a piece of fiction.
Fractions of ink on a paper,
Pixelated in achromatic spectrum
Under the shadow of dim night lamp
Damp pillows and hopeless heads.
I'm a piece of word,
Tangling in soulless minds
Eventually fades,
Easily replaced.
I'm a scratch of scribbles on a paper.
Cuts through the fingers of beautiful minds
Bleeding dreams and sorrows
Until-
The End.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 6:30 AM UTC
I see you glancing at the brush,
But our bristles don't hold paint the way they used to
And for all the folly in our atmosphere, I am sorry
I know I'm the one who exhaled the most
Remember, your father told you,
"We run the most standing still,"
But my stars have remained perpetually frozen
Since my love ceased blushing your alabaster skin
If you cinch the tourniquet too tightly,
To summer's dismay, I may not heal by autumn
And whether you whisper treasons of the universe or not,
My anchor's still aweigh by first light
Broken words taste bitter upon my tongue,
And it's becoming clearer and clearer
That you were my road to Arcadia
But, as I am prone to do, I derailed us both
I see you glancing at the brush,
But our bristles don't hold paint the way they used to
And for this achromatic atmosphere, I am sorry
I know I'm the one in black and white
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 7:55 PM UTC
An achromatic photo
a tumbling rock
falling
down
A snow packed peak
Every inch of stone covered in weighted white
Rolling and growing...
growing and rolling...
the only sound heard, ice kissing ice
And my screams
Do you hear it?
The avalanche of my life
It has a sound unlike any other
A crescendo of every experience compounding on my soul, demanding to be seen, heard, felt, feared
Warning level 5 avalanche
Please evacuate the area for personal safety, hazard may cause more calamity
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 12:39 PM UTC
Frost bites the early morning air
With slight sentiments of late October chill
The stars twilight in their abysmal obsidian oblivion
Exploding supernovas in a heavy silent achromatic chasm
Gnarled swaying branches of the ancient corkscrew willow
Lashes about with a fevered frenzy of demonic intent
Howling coyote wind whips wildly
Lacerating frigid frost-bitten animal skin
Numbing and chilling both bone and marrow
The sun has yet to rise
Keeping its warmth concealed
For a few hours further
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 6:21 PM UTC
Sleeping in the palm of unformed,
time,
reading the almanac,
of the coldness of,
moon,
the first section is,
an achromatic afternoon,
the setting sun,
arranged the gloaming,
in the last line of,
a familiar paragraph,
the footprints,
awake at the end of,
the avenue,
the page turned,
stamped with deep,
soliloquy,
and it’s said that,
the illustrations on the cover,
are the unfinished snow of,
last year.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
a speck on a train of evergrowing thought,
i simply exist in your periphery
deploring each opportunity unsought
trying to wash myself clean of your mem’ry
you are certainly a skilled navigator
you make your way into every part of me
the earth was a kaleidoscope of colour
now it’s achromatic–you are all i see
my desires remain to me inchoate
whether aspiration or admiration
to be like you or be with you: the debate
either of which a mode of self-destruction
as to vertiginous heights i watch you soar
i realize it’s neither option at all
for my wings can never quite take flight like yours
lest you crumble under your great wings and fall
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
A myriad of views from the window pane
sparks buried memories.
August has always been that Augural Month
the time of Achromatic colours,
painted as crumbling stone walls
from a bygone Age.
Ice wine drank from the rind of the gourd
ranked sour, a season's poor worth -
nature's tithe ?
The colour of the meandering smoke
discernible from my window,
will count for more promises
like a laden Kaleidoscope apart.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
I wanna be artistic
**** achromatic
violence like lip biting
& brain
splattered on the walls
of some place sacred
&I; wanna be worshipped like satan.
Sweet Christ.
my hopes are high.
as am I.
you've got a mind
I'd like to **** blind.
so whenever
you've got the time &
if you like
being set on fire.
I could help.
but we aren't friends
otherwise.
& you're selfish.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
I spent all those years
painting achromatic smiles
on my sad muses.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 8:06 AM UTC
I.
black & blue
as the scissor handles
on a hospital desk
outside the x-ray room
where a scared boy
waits for his best friend
to emerge safely
six sickly pink
as the sutures
outlining her kneecap
and the pale
as anesthesia
filling up her irises
II.
black & blue
as the waterfall
of markings
cascading down
sheer breastbone
to pool in my bellybutton
brown
as the split blue moon
on ice, and darker as
the curls still unable
to rival the vehemence
of your stare
III.
black & blue
as the smeared ink
of broken contracts
bound to my skin
in sheets
achromatic
as the morning after
and the murmured reminder
to forget all about it
seeping from your pores,
as tainted honey
from bees beaten
blue & black
into blindness
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
First gelid dawn
of the dying year.
A crescent moon
shivers above
achromatic frost.
Four crows perch
like fluffy black
lumps of ice
on taut power lines.
Hungry sparrows peck
the severe ground.
The old poet
fears the cold.
Chilled eyes notice
bare ruined trees
and windshields
waiting to be scraped.
The earth has pulled
the covers up
around its neck,
wakes stiff and slow,
but stays in bed.
Cold's bony fingers
probe the old house
like burglars seeking
points of entry.
Still, the chill roads
point toward the
inevitable return
of warmth;
spring sits
silent as a cat waiting
for a door to open,
bidding its time
to counterattack.
Even on the most
algid morning
hope slumbers,
but never dies.
~mce
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
The sleet
falls harsher,
colder than
I've experienced.
The morning's color is no longer
color, simply achromatic, and
my heart warms neither
to this canvas, nor the
brushes, nor to her
smile, not even
to the dog.
–
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 12:50 PM UTC
Friday
as reminder
of how cruel the time.
(Invariability)
Of how intractable the wind and weather.
(Inevitability)
I cry the cry of the reformed mean spirited;
the once-unholy-then-unholy-again;
the backslid.
It's been so long since I've sinned,
come short of the glory,
come at all (costs)
It would feel good to make a fist again.
Please render me in subtle shades
when you paint me into your masterpiece;
barely discernable from the canvas.
A ghost in achromatic acrylics.
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC
It is a calm November night.
We are standing under the pale moonlight.
There is a mist setting across the ground,
That seems to encompass us and all that surrounds.
The wind seems to move me, closer and closer to you--
As though romance was enveloped in that mist of blue.
Everything is still. My mood it does subdue.
Staring up at the silver, sumptuous jewels in a contrasting black sky
The moon and stars are all that surround us in this fantasy.
I see something that is more beautiful than a night sky,
More alluring than the stars, more awe-inspiring than the history of the galaxies,
I see you.
You stand beneath the achromatic moonlight that highlights the structure of your face,
That seems to me more detailed than renaissance art.
Your eyes cause more of a stir within my heart than a boulder thrown in a lake.
Everything about you seems more entrancing than hypnotism.
I stand there beside you, taking in everything you say, and everything you are.
Hanging on every word that falls through your lips
Seeing someone as you is as common as catching a fallen star.
-- through my heart your name slips.
And I will not let this moment pass
No. I will not let this moment go,
I will take this, and you
To feel the pleasure of a thousand angels dancing,
Of a million birds harmoniously singing.
The sensation of a thousand seducing kisses.
So as we stand in the pale moonlight,
Can we just hold each other tight.
And drift into the night.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC