"colorfully" poems
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
My younger brother and I heard strange noises coming from the beach again…
We looked up at the ceiling and then the window…
As the voices from outside, in a lively allegro…
Grew softer and louder in repeating crescendos…
We skittered out the door and stared in fascination…
For what we saw must have been our imagination…
The door closed with a creak as our feet hit the grass…
It was at that moment we got a look at the mass…
Of stubby foot, hunchback creatures from which the sounds had amassed…
There was about six of them chanting like a choir…
They danced and paraded around our burnt out fire…
As we looked on, we saw our fire raise…
It got brighter as they lifted their hands in waves…
As light betook the blue beach night…
A crowd of colorfully masked gremlins caught us in their sights!
Their feet slowed to a stop and they quieted down…
They stood still as the fire flickered off their weird wooden frowns…
One reached out his hand in a come-here motion…
They seemed to stand and wait with an encouraging notion…
As the fire crackled and the waves tumbled onto the beach…
All I can remember, is for the rest of that summer…
My younger brother and I served as the drummers…
For that quirky marching band of lake sprites…
With which our burnt out fire we’d reignite…
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Dangling bangles in rhythm of light,
colorfully shining right into the night;
Caressing my ears with magical tones,
dancing on air while my mind gently roams.
Lovely to hear and so sweet to see,
the motion of sounds in a song that's free;
Notes call to the sky with a fresh melody,
my very own voice sings the harmony.
In Autumn we sense those mystical sounds,
of spirits awakening this time around;
Each breeze sends the chimes out into space,
with pleasure and smiles no cloud can erase.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
There’s an assembly in the making
and the suits are all shuffling in for the big event
making way to their front row seats
****** in nose
hanky in hand
and all colorfully draped
in those cuffed pin stripes
and Jerry Garcia ties
*now what would the Grateful Dead
or any of their fine entourage
have to say about this foul routine?*
Apropos of that
they’re talking in the 3rd person
with tight syllables
and wavy hands
and all taking a run
at the state of the union
there’s Valentino
and Freddie
and good old Sal
"look....their fiddling with their nuts!"
cries a layman from the balcony seats
the Yin and the Yang
have got even the most liberal minded
scratching their heads
as questions fly in from the field:
*don’t you know the way it used to be?
have you no morals?
which way to the exit!?*
These front row fanatics
have surely been scrimmaging
in the corn fields
all down in that classic 3 point
watching their weight
with sample selections from the
Spicy House and Yaas Bazaar
as members of the congregation look on with envy
*pass the aperitif...the big ***** lady is on deck!*
Union heads are running rogue
loading up on grievances
and lines
passing files at a make shift pew
jumping the bunkers
and stepping on clams
while the orderlies move in
for governance
It’s a bewildered state
and only for the mind of the rigorous
Jimmy D would say:
“it’s nothing you pussy...to the victor goes the spoils!
everyone has a bit of good you know...
you just have to find it!"
Unrest is growing in the ranks
and the masses are unstable
Time to hammer down
with a formidable brace
and two tick play
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
Everywhere my eyes gazed there were faces,
Today all surfaces were covered,
In the vines of brownstone buildings,
In the bag of marijuana,
In the words I wrote,
In the gone moments of the day,
In the wood grains on the table,
All chanting in colic stoicism,
Just colorfully accepting enough to hear,
The blushing remorse of,
Meeting yourself,
Under a different light,
In a different circumstance,
By different laws,
Different matter,
Under a spellbound trip.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:46 PM UTC
Mountains’ majesty
a cave of amethyst brews
confidence in its own perfection
near the peak peeking into the
crayon colored clouds.
Desire for a moment free from earth
where right above our heads
the world is colorfully candid
through a foggy wine-stained film.
Glossy sun through glossy eyes
entices the mind enough
to lift legs one thousand and two
steps up the mountain
coiling through indigo trees
on turquoise trails until
we pass the purple threshold
where it’s best to pass the time.
Pomegranate lips smile
stretching pomegranate skin
yours tastes like otter pops and ***
mine I imagine is similar
with a hint of bad decisions.
This reality is unrealistically appetizing
contorting trails contort minds
peaking at the sunset so close
I swear we’re almost there.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
The memory of her sits on a balcony ledge, cigarette in hand.
My green light at the end of a dock.
And this time I am reaching out
like many before,
in pages and poems past.
Macbeth’s face is a book.
Her body is an atlas
tracing a beautiful continent.
Follow the long tributaries that lead to shallow deltas.
This shore begins softly and forms into slender feet,
quiet but powerful when outstretched an angler waiting for prey.
Odysseus, only, can hear this Siren play.
Follow her legs, those tawny plains,
unbroken, guiding along welcomingly,
inviting curiosity and conscripting imagination.
An oasis.
And her torso is a valley from which
her laughter is ****** upward and resisted until uncontainable.
Dimples break and burst like earthquakes.
A ridgeline is all that awaits until we see her face.
She is the Americas from bottom to top.
Follow her decorated canyon mouth
but know it is merely a diversion.
Her eyes are icebergs, which shyly reveal themselves
to sink ships and drown lovers, for always.
Her hair is aurora borealis,
the northern lights,
dancing colorfully
to an unaccompanied waltz
heard by everyone but her.
As the memory of her sits the smoke billows around
like clouds traveling down a coastline
only to dissipate
and disappear.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
Take me to the days where we laid ourselves down in the grass
And you smiled at me like I was the only person who mattered
Before any of the suffering blossomed colorfully on the surface
We would talk for countless hours that felt like mere minutes
My favorite memories of growing up all have you
You made me into a woman
You will always be the one who held my heart first
Mar 7, 2022
Mar 7, 2022 at 9:33 PM UTC
Before the hurricane, in my youngest years things were extremely different
My outlook on Louisiana was a place of water and happiness
I was six years old, and boating was what I did for fun every single day
Boating was what basketball is to me today, a treasure, an outlet
The bayous were alive, the marshes were green, and the trees fruitful
You could smell the salty mud, (which smells very different from a beach)
Our white propeller boat sped to the lake, and lake mist sprayed our faces
Fishermen and crabbers littered the banks, pulling in flailing lively catches
We ate the fruits of their labor at the Cajun restaurant on the bayou, inwards
This was no commercial place, but only the locals had ever been
It was rough, light blue paint peeling, men with grey beards laughing
And the smell of fresh fried catfish had taken over the place,
Perhaps the most unique thing about it was the way to get to it, strictly by boat
My childhood is colorfully painted with these memories, however,
The real life experiences have been swept away in the muddy currents
The restaurant was knocked off its stilts and demolished,
The trees now branchless, dead, and the marshes are hues of yellow and brown
No longer is the water lively, but still, no longer is it safe to dive to the bottom
For fear of remains of houses, boats, glass puncturing our bodies
I consider myself lucky to get to experience that everyday, the bayou was my backyard
That was the Louisiana that is on postcards, not the usual experience of suburbs
That was the Louisiana I used to know, the Louisiana that is no more in my life
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
Your travel has given me freedom.
But what is freedom when
you possess a soul divided?
What is the chronic sea without
its unfathomable dominions?
My soul is thirsty for you.
My cold and naked ankles mope
around your desolated castle;
Jinn, dust, and piercing silence is all that echoes
in this darkened dungeon that I have succumbed to.
And then there is me.
A heavy-laden wasted artist with
Spiny paintbrushes and faded color.
I refuse to leave the spaces that you read and play.
I refuse to exhale the memories of your sky painted blue irises.
My skin hungers for your delicate surface.
My teeth long to bite into your fleshy thighs.
In the hour of the noontide I feel you most
For our souls sahasrara blooms colorfully in the hour
Of the sun-the ancient mother of our roots weaves
Love with all of loves children and meets us with pneumatic cosmic kisses.
This is when I feel closest to you.
Without you, the world is just as it seems;
the sun burned into cinders,
Leaving the crops belonging to the sacred
soils of my flesh to prune and wither .
Ay! the droughts that you spread with your distance.
These are the days of my reaping
These are the days of my sulking.
The gardens are now closed and the
black raven cries out to a mournful mothers son.
Your scent died along with the laughter of the flowers
And the butterflies wont even flutter
Without your lovely eyelash kisses.
To live another day without the energy
Your presence fills my heart with,
Is to live an eternity hugging
Your coffin with sobbing rage;
fain would I take deaths hand.
The suffering of your glorious dawn
Wedded the universe deep beneath my skin.
You are the light,
And the absence of your holiness
leaves me opaque and hollow.
In my solitude I have watched the hours burn
And in each hour your fragrant sighs
escape with the dust motes
Surrounding the beaming light that
breaks through the cracks of the curtains.
I sit in the depth of myself
And listen for the echoes of your sounds.
A mother am I and a pitiful one too.
Like the rawboned mother with sunken eyes
carrying a baby in the womb, draining all of
the nutrition her body has to offer,
Your distance maps a massacred trail
Of my health and happiness.
You are the mother of patience
And the descendent of beauty and love.
You are the tsunami, and the still waters.
You are the uprising cub leading and mending.
You are the sap that feeds the giving tree of life.
You are the prince of wisdom.
You are
My flesh
In purest form.
- Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
We are the Hopeful Romantics,
the Indigo Children,
the Wild Lovers with Untamed Souls,
the Colorfully Raging Light,
against the Monotoned Emotionless Masses.
We,
Are,
Unconditional Love.
∆
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
Animal’s vigor increased
Remaining as the chief companion
Legends of wrecked havoc to a costly treat
No vitality as great the beast
Furred consistency pieced
Shining cylinder eyes, intuition and love
A collectively heartfelt living bundle of fleece
No consistence as great the beast
Faithful affection released
Glistening socket filled up of lively torso
Balanced ***** of warmth and vibrational elite
No fidelity as great the beast
Wildly flippant priest
Adventuring nature’s airy crusade
Marks each day with undertakings to police
No journey as great the beast
Fruitfully sincere beliefs
Flapping the soul of tail and flexing ears
Man need emulate comrade of hellish defeats
No profit as great the beast
Once utterly deceased
Wallowing the fallen with lathered guilt
Sorrow units form a structure colorfully greased
No replacement as difficult as replacing the beast
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
Presents wrapped colorfully out on the sand
the gulf shore waves test the knots and bows
fabric triangles and strings leave just enough
to the imagination, while curves show
A stunning visual display on water and land
Bouncing like the volleyballs, part of the show
small, medium, large, some overstuffed
rogue wave washes it off and now we know
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
You paint a damaged world in beautiful vivid colors
In all the fine things you can see
As you, use optimism as your living paintbrush
Bringing impossible dreams to reality
Seen as oddly unconventional in your eccentric ways
You never seem to fit in with the crowd
So colorfully unpredictable, you are your own person
Your aura screams silently aloud
You hold an inner knowledge running in your veins
Anticipation of the needs of your brother
A wonderful gift you should never look upon in shame
As you inherited this treasure from your mother
Your tender heart is so bold and yet a trace naïve
Leaving your feelings easily bruised
As you, do not understand how some can be so cold
One day you will understand the truth
These bruises may leave you feeling vulnerable
A time to change it seems
Never forget who you are or your paintbrush
Keep on painting pretty dreams
Keep hold of your optimism and your sensitivity
As of this world, you will never be a part
Let no one else’s judgment, ever change who are
Your own person, with a knowing heart
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 6:20 AM UTC
How lonely infidel
He that passeth I;
in Phlegethon dwells.
Son of the Seas,
seasoned with algae.
Had a plea
about how he happened to be:
"When you threw me to the
depths, into the heart of the open sea,
then a very river encircled me"
Melpomene holds her Mother's dress
while sailing the temptuous tide.
Recalls the sight of hundreds and
hunches over to address.
"Lead by a primitive spirit" she wails
and solemnly stoops to ponder.
Their ship's prow now plunges deep and
through the ripples, Melpomene meets the
seedy yellow iris' of the beast
reflecting the clouds. She squints upwards
and beholds hoofs with Faithful and True.
As the river streams into Tartarus, Mnemosyne's ears
begin to ring with a thousand cries and pleads.
But the whinnies ring out louder to deafen her
while the tail of Leviathan disappears into the blue.
Through the cave and into Lethe, the earthy smell
of the tops remain as the last but dizzy to remember;
of all those who swam lightly past its mist. But to her,
tears to enter the watery abyss:
"Many must have passed through here,
lived long to see,
but not enough to learn--"
But the ship sailed on.
The stream narrows and an opening reveals. They
see melted hail with blood on the only land they recall.
A Tree glowing brightly in front of a black sky; counted many
swords gathered at the foot. Three days they traveled in
their ship, but now their oars were put on land.
Thunder whips and trumpets horn, the fallen fruit
comes ashore.
THEIR voices bellow to ask a question:
"Was it needed for a war?"
An answer, but no pardon:
"Many a pang I have felt, those aches
violently sprung up from the seven lakes,
Is nothing but a genuine mistake.
Those worthy time and day,
Will surely be given a way."
Mother and daughter wiped the tears from their eyes,
while gently lifting them to the skies.
Above them the sun shone on the wet mass,
they see high and colorfully cast:
A reassuring Promise and eternity.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 1:59 AM UTC
some seek art in sidewalk cracks
or between fragile spines of old books
and some search for meaning
through the gaps between the oak trees
where solitude exists and melts
together with the prismatic hues of
every sunset fading into memory
some find purpose in silence
or rather, the center of bustling conversation
and some find beauty in the enigma of the ocean
and the shy touch of the sun, warm,
like butter coating our lonely souls
everyone but her,
she never had to search, for her masterpiece
was herself.
her love was made of notes strung together
and played colorfully, radiating through the air
as smooth as mother's finest silk, and
with every beat, she painted the most beautiful
of images, dancing along to the hum of her heart
that never understood the meaning of silence
and her paradise meant being blinded
by stage lights and pride, each song
a testament built by bones
that taught themselves how to bend
but remain vigilant,
because breaking was never an option
in her pink-ribboned world of piercing perfection
but they will continue to search for happiness
in howling wind and steady rain,
never bothering to find her smile
fluttering effortlessly in the music,
that smile- the one that could put
the world's most beautiful dance
to shame
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
No.
The lips lock
And won't budge.
Cries of men
From the grimy depths of the trash
Rise with loud flames burning tall.
Tears ball up in the eyes of the multicolored soldiers
And their gray oppressors alike who
Spit and ****
Tears, blood, and mascara wash the New York streets
Clean.
A fresh painted face for the queen
Let's sit in Christopher's patch of grass,
So these matchstick moments that burn briefly
Can rest among us.
We'll carry them back into battle tonight
On our backs
As Diana's drum beats a smooth rhythm.
Never before has the color of stone been so radiant
As when the soldiers file out of their stone homes
To behold that colorfully calloused street.
In Grecian fashion,
The openly wild fighters pull capotes
Over their decorated uniforms
And charge.
Through the noise and through the pain,
Soft embers from the fiery battle
Float above the city.
Winds lift these delicate remains toward Heaven
Where defeated warriors like Cannon and Ulrichs
Feel the familiar consistency of these blacked bits between their fingers.
They smile and celebrate.
Finally, the bodies of men begin to wan
And topple.
Of those still standing,
Only some hold their heads high.
The victory fell upon our colorful
And tested soldiers.
Their enemies were left grimaced and gasping
On their knees begging for mercy
At the hands of those brave and beaten
Multicolored defenders.
Afraid to be burned again, the powers of gray returned
To where their world made sense
In books and sermons.
The heroes moved on
To the next street.
No,
No more.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
Boston, what a colorfully gray city you are.
At daytime Downtown seems busy.
People in suits, always walking with a purpose and defined destination.
Never stops.
People don't act if they don't have reason to.
And how the sun is hiding the people are as well.
When the bright white moon comes up, the narrow streets are quite, no soul is found.
Im the lector of the unwritten letter,
the crowd of a canceled opera,
the observer of an unrecorded satirical filmstrip of this colorfully gray city. Boston
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
Of course,
I am dropping my metal coins into the slot on the carved-cross box,
floating paper dollars into the passed around basket,
paying rent for the reading of The Gospel
& of course,
attempting to buy my salvation
with my hard-earned-mammon,
which of course,
the colorfully robed-folks love so much
and seem to get so easily.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
Days were like honey, even sweeter than golden suns
you were laughing in rainbows - colorfully ever undone
dancing in meadows, and mornings
to bloom again
Your eyes of silver spun light, did shine
flashes of soul, glowing pieces of amber nights
Voices of angels sang you to sleep in peace
Remembering all the places you've ever felt love
with letters in boxes you've looked upon
Days are just pages, they burn into ashes that blow in the wind
all of these days, where do they
begin and end?
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
creepy moss that hide in dark spots
on creaked roads and river ponds
slimy green and even brick red
they are the first terrestrials ...or so , Ive read
the stages in which a fish walks on land
or how earthquakes move continents
and how movements cause formation of land
that millions of cells died regenerated to birth new plan
that stars died for earth to be reborn ..
that there is no right or wrong
that i have no such a purpose but to exist
that life is an empty and a meaningless abbis
that the rays of the sun so colorfully stream
are shooting down at precision speed
that the rotation and direction of our earth spins
in nothing but chances ......by them we live
although facts upon facts , they reach
never coming to conclusions , they teach ....
how can we just be
an anomaly of evolution and astrophysics
how can we be
so complex ...feel ?(thoughts , emotions , ideas ?..)
or is it just chemicals that control our
actions and the turning of the wheels ?
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC
Saying things that are implied is only redundant if I am listening,
but my ears have been filled with leaking thoughts
and sounds reserved for when I flip the light switches down.
loop after loop, it all becomes static
his voice is a plant drooping from it's *** melting down the sides
like lava I'm not afraid to touch.
it is still nothing to yours:
Opening my eyes is harder than saying goodbye,
harder than letting go for one cold, shivering moment
even if all I need is enough breath to hold on tighter.
the lines of your soft skin are muted whispers against mine,
and the only visible movement dances colorfully inside of my eyelids.
why is it so hard to
speak when I am left
Alone, where thinking becomes almost excessively easy.
it is too soon to mean it, or even let it float around
while I cry, and wait for you to reach out
and clasp it into the palm of your hand, where it will seep
soak
breathe in as part of your blood;
but the feeling of not being able to convey how much I care
is more taut than a balloon on the verge of eruption.
Please let me listen a little longer,
breathe a little deeper,
tell you things like thank you and ask you things like
why?
because even I don't know sometimes.
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 12:13 PM UTC
The most elegantly glimpsed aptness of blue,
So colorfully unique in it's intending,
Of the brightest pastels found inside the Louvre,
In the depth of the sky in it's ever mending.
A cascading stain above as the dawn breaks,
A changing shade away from night brings a warming tone,
The vastness of profundity only seen in Great lakes,
These dripping streams of patiences are not yet overblown.
A color we bleed when we need a companion,
The tint we see in oceans at the eye's length,
And fills the sky on the most stunning day in the Grand Canyon,
The deepest blues are seen in weakness and less in strength.
A chagrining emotional torrent coursing to a commotion,
Water flies above as airy type materialization,
Seeing spirits crushed by the weight of a winter squall Atlantic ocean.
But reveals a illusive blue when in a frozen glaciation,
The most beautiful blue is so intrinsic,
Like the inner part of the flame burning insistent,
But with far more life that is so simplistic,
Whereas my life without blue is nonexistent.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
petals braided in her golden curls
a downright hippie child
chasing down the sunlight
with her bare feet running wild
spilling secrets from a wicker basket
that i picked up one day
to quell my curiosity
amongst the trees that sway
it whispered sweet songs in my ear
and filled my heart with honey
it taught me to feel colorfully
and smile when it gets sunny
i hope, one day, i’ll pay her back
wherever she may be
amongst the fairies or the leaves
wherever she feels free
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
I could write forever
Spill my heart upon this page
Search for the perfect rhyme
To capture you
Oh but all I want to do is
Gaze upon
What makes the flowers bloom,
And sing, oh so sweetly,
Splattered colorfully
All glory to you
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 7:52 PM UTC