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Sarah Clark Jun 12
spare a thought
    for the
dedicated chemists

this century crystalizing
     like a          
childhood herbarium.

surreal landscapes,
               each stem staking
borders, conversions-

our daily bread.
Ma Cherie Sep 2016
Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries  
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky

And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...

Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe,
..in wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,

Finding depth and height
out  in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze
...as I am reaching

High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground

Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you  my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Wow....idk. Felt inspired.
Doug Potter Oct 2017
Bus
Two Greyhound days
final bus
hair mottled

last step down
her deformed
leg like

a frost seized
cornflower
my sister.
Vicki Kralapp Sep 2018
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as Fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.

The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.

Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.  
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.

Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Autumn Quatern.

All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Vexren4000 Aug 2018
A glowing tide,
Cerulean and cornflower,
Emitting bright ethereal light,
Lapping sandy shorelines,
Crashing and slowly flowing,
Filling the night with an otherworldly glow,
Of some alien place.

©BAS
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
✿⊰✲⊱✿
At the sound of my name, I see the faces
turn and smiles of many friends;
Queen Sue of Ruikruya in her lilac silks,
Queen Sarita of Khaikar in orange silks,
Queen Deb of Daegeral in magenta,
Queen Kim of Geniael in creams,
Queen Robin of Naeneiana in periwinkles,
Queen Fawn of Yuamor in red-violets,
Queen Dawn of Khesian in dandelion-orange,
Queen Jugnu of Enuryn in jade-greens,
Queen Yidna of Puhan in indigos,
Queen Cne of Phelyra in turquoise,
Queen Xaela of Lonusea in peach,
Queen Ayumi of Wadia in tan-gold,
Queen Sheila of Naizzuzia in cornflower-blue,
Queen Stars of Yurithireatha in green-yellow

✿⊰✲⊱✿
King Edmund and his wife in matching
forest-greens attires,
King Omni of Khaniel in silvers,
King Emeka of Ghalali in white,
King Devon of Monait in blue-violets,
King Fugue of Thavia in blacks,
King Yacov of Igrador in olive-green,
King Joseph of Eaqellurene in bronze,
King Fredrick of Emirinait in mauve,
King Rob of Balan in sea-green,
King John of Khesian in melon-red,
King Aslam of Ikaesa in deep plum,
King Brandon of Huarean in ocher,
King Kikodinho of Izugalla in taupe,
King Jobira of Zavalon in orange-red
and many many more.

✿⊰✲⊱✿
And last but not least, King Paul of
Luciuscemi himself in emerald-and-gold.
He wears his favourite emerald green
jacket with ruby buttons, bright gold
embroidery of suns and lions; his sleeves
stitched with pearls and rubies to match
the red sash across his chest; his trousers
black as are his boots, but even they have
gold laces.
I received messages saying part 7 wasn't seen...
Come on, HP! I'll have to split this in half also.
Anyway, alot of names were dropped so please
enjoy!
To Rob and Yidna in particular,  thank you very much for your kind comments! They mean alot. Don't worry, I still have them - it's just made it private.
Thank you all so so much, truly!
I'm truly grateful.
Lyn ***
jee Oct 2018
there are flowers growing in the curves of my ears
and honey dancing off the tip of my tongue.

there are roses that tint my vision with petals of pink
and hyacinths dye my skin with a faint color between forget-me-not and periwinkle.

there are vines that creep up through the gaps in my ribs, soft limbs of green to curl a cage around the rice paper butterfly in my chest.



there are flowers growing in the curves of my ears,



and yet I can still hear every word you say.


every sting, every snarl, every bite until the line between humanity and bloodlust is blurred with the plague painted in the air.

your words hurt the thread and needle butterfly, beating its wings faintly against the thorns cracking my bones into splinters.

every

beat

is

weaker

and



weaker



until the flowers wither at the corners, mourning the loss of every leaf.

until the honey tastes of vinegar, acid burning at the walls of my mouth.

until the roses turn dusty and the hyacinths are more eggshell than cornflower.

until the spun glass butterfly beats its last fight against the growing infestation.
shattering.
infinitesimal.





all that’s left for the flowers to do is drink up the leftover gasoline and feed off of the light of your apocalypse.
flowers won't stop words. flowers don't stop much at all.
but butterflies can’t live without flowers.
Rivea Feb 9
Simple
is the way I describe it.
It's in the way your hair
tumbles into your
cornflower blue eyes.
Or the way you
scrunch you nose
when you smile.
That smile,
only shown on rare occasions,
could put an end to wars.
It's in the way
your fingertips trace shapes
along my skin,
when we are together.
It's in the way
goosebumps appear
when your hand
rests on mine.
It's how your hands,
know just how to pull me in
during most needed times,
and how you smell like
home, comfort, and safety.
These are all things,
I want to get used to.

So darling,
let's keep it simple.
The day I wear my blue dress-
My hair up in a braid.
Those dark blue heels on my feet,
And dark veil held by bridesmaid,

The day I step under the trellis,
To the altar surrounded by men,
The priest, and groomsmen,
That day, beneath the sun, well it's...

The day I'll cry, walking down a white carpet,
Blue sweetpea, forget-me-not, cornflower, in my grasp,
I'll stand before matching eyes, and of his heart
I will only hedge to ask

That he love me, in provision, in familial, in sickness,
In health,
For immer and for the poor side of wealth,
For all our days, and the rest...

That the day I'll be wed,
Not far after the day we'll have met,
I will finally let the one who loves me true,
Be the one where the words, will finally be said.
In the way only we can say "I do"
A special "*******" to the one who will never see that dress, to the one who has, and to the one who said his goal was to get me to wear it.. but not for the wedding it's meant for.
Samantha Jul 2018
Colors mix in the vainest of ways, in the strangest of states.

When it's a sunset to consider, red yellow blue shine soft, exchanging compliments. If they sit side by side, pure, you get a flag. If we ask a turtle, or a fish, or a frog, yellow is the land, blue is the wet, and red we'd rather forget. But if a bird shares his view, well, blue is how to fly, how to wash, and how to feed.

What does that mean?

Pastels swirl and dance and laugh. They lift hearts and tickle heads. They don't care what's in your hair, it's only fair to give joy a chair. It's a world of wonder through their eyes. Let us explore and dance and try.

If we're feeling bold, mix in some bright orange, wild green, rich plum. Talk and share and relish in the present tick of the clock, before the paint dries and we start again.

When we're curious, change the palette to warm tones with touches of gold. Add some earth to the mix, browns and tans to keep us grounded. Canary to guide us to courage, honey to give us a hold. You are every shade of yellow, all at once, never cold.

Can I tell you a secret?

There is wonder in the deep hues. Magic in the woods. The night sky is brilliant if you think to look, look up, with purple swirls and silver words. Mystery fills the lavenders and the periwinkles and the crystal cyans and whimsical teals. There is uncertainty in the depth. The ocean waves are fierce, hard to control, the dreams free and lucid, soul impossible to tie down, to define, to mold. There is extraordinary wisdom, new ways to see in the twilight, perspectives and shapes invisible in the day, yet it's impossible to understand. Is that what scared you away? For I am the blue, the cornflower petals far from the path, the space and the sky when the sun goes down, the sapphire glints floating far from the known, from your land.

See, when I asked you to stay, and you promised me time, I thought it was in my shade, but perhaps it was yours, not mine. Do you mind? Being stuck, dry in the fear of it all? Yes. You can stay in the hues you know all too well. Maybe ask amber for a dance, take orange on a walk, have coffee with cream, snuggle close to mustard, hold on to bronze's warmth. Don't mix too carelessly, don't conflict too harshly. Stay safe. Stay yellow.

What if we turned the wheel? There is curiosity in your blood, I can feel it. Like watercolor, waiting for the canvas to accept its gift. You are eager to skip into another palette; you are ready to see another world. Let's feel all the hues, use every shade, dance with the primaries, one two step, one two. Mix up the tone with their creations, until we invent new pigments, until we run out of names for all our formulations. Let us travel the rainbow. Let me show you my view.

I know. You know. You never know. You don't know what you'll get. Painting with the rain instead of an arranged set can lead to a storm, nothing but grey, nothing but dark, but at least there's no regret.

Yes, colors mix in the vainest of ways, the strangest of states.

And perhaps yellow and blue don't have any more skies to paint.
Ira Desmond Dec 2018
Last night,
I dreamt that the friend of a friend had died.

His body floated lifeless on the surface of the Pacific,
tossed about between the Bering Sea whitecaps

like an orca’s seal-pup plaything
while the Arctic wind whipped

and beat the freezing cold water
across his pallid face and through his chestnut hair.

Then his body
began to sink,

its silhouette appearing
against various monotone

canvases of blue
on its trip downward:

a vivid cornflower,
a pelagic cerulean,

a chasm of cold cobalt,
a starless twilight,

a forest of indigo,
a velvet curtain of navy.

Finally,
as it reached the deepest possible shade of midnight—

only a quantum away from black—
it stopped sinking.

There, in that void,
where daylight and color are considered but outlandish theories,

strange fish of all and shapes and sizes
began to surround the decomposing corpse:

Greenland sharks hailing from the frozen arctic,
mantis shrimp from the mangrove labyrinths,

eyeless electric eels from undersea caves near the Galápagos,
vampire squid rising cautiously up out of their World War One trenches,

scores of spindly ***** and pale worms that had ventured far beyond
the safe familiarity of their alien geothermal worlds.

At first, they approached the corpse gingerly,
nibbling only the tips of its hair and fingernails,

and then suddenly, voraciously,
they consumed it—until not even a skeleton remained.

Now, only a single point of light was left
there floating in the void.

And from this single point of light,
where just a moment before the corpse had floated,

a brilliant white lattice structure emerged,
unfurling as would a fern across a forest floor.

It fanned out onto the seabed
and then swept upward, upward

back toward those reaches of sea
where color is known

and fresh air gleefully permeates
that foamy outer membrane that skirts the base of the sky.

Scores of familiar fish began to lift up the crystalline structure—
schools of shimmering sardines,

stately, dignified manta rays,
skipjacks, bluefins, and white-tips,

brilliant cuttlefish, humble pufferfish,
shifty barracuda, gargantuan whale sharks,

all of them
beating their tails in concert

to carry this lattice away,
this measure of a life,

this husk of a soul
at last freed from its earthly bindings.

The fish were carrying it somewhere deeper,
somewhere darker,

to a place that I understood—
even from the inky depths

of my dreaming mind—
that I could not enter.

But then again,
I knew that someday

I would.
1.  Your cornflower blue eyes crinkled and laughing, sometimes flashing like the storms you love to chase

2. Your strawberry blond mop that smelled nothing like fruit but instead of sweat and grime, clinging to your brow when you removed that Pepsi baseball cap

3. Easter egg hunts on your birthday, like plastic flowers in melted snow and you up trees and on the roof of grandma's garage

4. Rare compromises that built tree forts or wound up the tire swing until it bounced and whirled its passenger like a spinning top

5. When everything you did, I wanted to do too--whether it was rescuing the princess or flying an X-wing

6. Diddy and Dixie Kong headlocked and tangled in armpits, wrestling for the Super Nintendo controller or for the remote for the VCR until Donkey had enough and made them both watch Barney

7. The laughter of you and your friends from the basement or slipping around the corner, back when I said “Me too” and meant “include me”

8. Games of war crouched behind the couches when the only war you dreamt about was the one in Narnia

9. The cliff in Hawaii over the smoking volcanic ocean water and Mom screaming for you to come down

10. When you push me, like the dominoes you used to line up and watch devotedly as they toppled over, one after the other because sometimes general incivility is the very essence of love.
#3030April4
thomezzz Feb 11
You were all the shades of purple
Violet petals blowing in the wind
Mauve smashed grapes between toes
Plum like bruises on bent backs

You melted into the hues of blue
Cornflower sky vibrant in July
Teal waves bombarding the coast
Navy like jeans with grass stained knees

You faded into the tones of green
Olive leaves on thick trunked trees
Lime frogs hopping on branches
Chartreuse like fresh cut kiwi

You gave into the tints of yellow
Golden sunrises on the horizon
Khaki canvases stretched thin
Canary like lemon drops on tongues

You were all the shades of orange
Tangerine bonfires at midnight
Rusty nails twisted into planks
Amber like dripping honey bee hives

You darkened into all the hues of red
Cherry slick tabletops in a diner
Rosy cheeks flushed from the cold
Pomegranate like bricked suburban houses

You waned into the tones of pink
Magenta cotton candy stuck to lips
Coral reefs blooming on the seafloor
Peach like skin after a day at the beach

You disappeared into the tints of white
Powdery snow on concrete ground
Cream goosebumps on silky thighs
Ivory like teeth through pursed mouths

And in sharp contrast, became black
Obsidian rocks at the volcanic base
Charcoal soot stuck under fingernails
Onyx like the deepest darkest night
Stu Harley Sep 2018
lord
up there
upon
the
hills of Nottingham
still
underneath
the
cornflower yellow sun
where
i
witnessed
the
early
cusp of heaven's dawn

— The End —