"magentas" poems
Even plastic collects dust
Bright fibres of pink become dull magentas
From the countless years and endless days of Still life Sharp lines and smooth contours of artistically machined plastic toys become fuzzy as hazy dust
Piles
Heaps
And overflows
From one
Single
Fact
Inactivity?
Unappreciated worth?
Discontent?
Laziness?
No
None of these
The dust collects
Piles
Heaps
Even overflows
From USELESSNESS
The things that the dust is attracted to
That the dust clings to
Are the things that in comparison to the things that are imparitive to our existance and our health
Are useless
Are plastic
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
You told me that
the stars were your
best friends.
That you paint
the twilight sky
midnights and crimsons
and magentas.
That each comet tail was
a strand of your fallen hair,
torn away by your tender
fingertips,
and that each meteor
was a bit of you
shedding your broken skin.
You screamed to me
that there was life,
beyond our little
self-aware planet.
That you had met them all,
shook their hands,
kissed their babies.
You were appreciated,
not like home.
They loved you.
Plutonian dollars
held your face,
and Pluto was,
indeed, a planet-
noted, and you screeched;
Your favorite,
in fact.
You told me you
were God--
and your eyes
those blank, lost eyes,
they shone with your smile
for the first time
in the infinity of
the universe.
You believed yourself,
and I couldn't
bring myself
to deny your
honesty.
You can be
my God,
if it makes any difference.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
In anticipation of the too-few precious hours in tandem, we divulged our carnal cravings at each others’ hands, but omitted fragments, saving them for some other day, finding them too truthful.
When you hold your body to mine, as you have told me you will, I want a flurry of colored breath, peach and magentas and crimsons slipping translucently from every part of me and wafting in and out and between us like a graceful fog, and not just the force of fingers that have waited too long to touch, but the electrostatic brushes of life’s restlessness falling slowly into their own gravity as we learn to trust the moment.
Our lips are full of nerves and that is why a kiss is so much more than symbolic. I placed my lips to the skin of an orange and I was met with the sensuality of the whole terrain of this world. Intimacy then, is the slow press that reassures humanity – the invitation into a world with no walls – the rush of blood that comes from being completely receptive – that is the kiss I want with your soul.
After all the epochs of lovers, these are all the same words, but they are lanterns bouncing across the plains and sparking anew in the way that the naive are always entranced by the lighter in their hand when they first learn how to light a cigarette, elated and dizzy from the ***** Twinkling.
Sometimes all it takes is a breath and I am light and wind and red paper confetti and the moon and a golden orb that turns all it touches into a shining constancy of what’s called love – and I visit your heart knowing that you can’t tell it’s me, and then I must leave– and I know that I was not in my body, but that it must have kept existing while I was gone because I always wake up in tears, and someone had to cry them.
Conventionality dies between us and there are no titles or promises to speak of. I once found security in labels, only to find that they leave no room for the inevitable growth and weathering of time. So I ask little of you – only that you are always true with me, and that you occasionally put your hand in mine.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
every year she cut the biggest and brightest
keeping them in a brown bagged pantry to dry out
reaching in to crumble them at season
winnowing the chaff to wind
like her mother and aunties before her
back home in their island paradise
a magical notion
jostling seeds in slow motion
looking like crests on the ocean
neither too high nor too low
broken petals fly free
as seeds fall back of their own gravity
the kids would come ‘round
as projects kids do
to watch and maybe try something new
she would pass them an old melamine plate
a small handful of crumblings to ply
tossing and scooching to catch them again
crimson reds and magentas
lemony yellows
monarch butterfly oranges
violet and lavender purples
crowning petals layered
resembling elizabethan collars
they caught the morning
protected by snail and slug repellent
people came from all around
to admire her oversized zinnias
occasionally picking one and running
garden’s variety of dine and dash
we gifted them to mourners
small packets of zinnia’s seed
extolling them as one of her favorites
soil, water and sunshine
all you need to sow and grow
and watch the memories bloom
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:57 AM UTC
If I could paint the skies
I would paint it with the links of my mind
I would paint it with cyans and magentas and limes
Reds and oranges and yellows
Blacks and greys and white
All sorts of colours
I would paint it with sorrow and happiness alike
I would paint it with the voice of my soul alight
I would paint the sky with my emptiness...
And the result
Would be the same night sky I see.
Stars shining bright
No hint of any other colour but
The midnight painted with white spots.
Galaxies invisible
Shooting stars veiled
The moon irrepressible
The stars afield
Their lights not powerful
But gentle on the eyes
Caressing the soul
Of the weary and tired.
If I could paint the skies...
And if only I could,
I would paint it all colours alike
With a thick paintbrush
Soaked in a water airy as can be...
But, that is,
If only.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
Greenhouse
Scaling flowers
A buzzing for pollen
Pinks and magentas stroke the space
Growing
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
for the false, convict, predilection for insane mumblings to cease into a void of hell, Nero indulges in the waters of the lethe, to forget life, the void, god.
to burn our cities, temples, is to drink, but to eat.
eat, mind you, the key to our temples, and dare not drink, least burn thy gods before unlocking their secrets, delectable enlightenment.
eat, and let the void's blackness of death be lit with the magnificent magentas, mauves, and cyans,
hue of inconceivable reaches of the potential of empty.
the psychedelic ****** frolic and feel,
pain sensual and dominating.
to the banks with Nero and his abyss of black,
let the cruel absence be filled with the blood of Nero, and the spectrum of our minds.
eject that horrid emperor for your self and your self's liberation from yourself. the ego, burns with Nero, in the fiery waters of the lethe.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
Everyday we will smile and play
Windows will shatter across our platters
The morning will come and bid us hello
As you can imagine everyday was fantastic
All of a sudden the world came crashing
Rivers overturn and tress were falling
Echoing around me where sounds of animals screeching
The colors slowly fadding
Light cried goodbye, Night rose awake
Now these forbidden colors washed into grays
I try to tell everyone but no one listened
blinded by their own injustice
Green has been replaced by death
and i try to bring them back to life
all i have are ashes
The world grows form the tinniest of seeds
And blossoms into the flowers that captivates our sights
We pull form the ground and we stop its life
And for what?
To see it die in a glass container in our house
Forbidden colours of a field in full bloom
But not anymore
Greys have blocked the sky's light from reaching them
The world is slowly coming to a screeching halt
Winters are longer and summers are hotter
I wonder if we will survive
Forbidden colours
Of ice in the north and south that are melting away
Into the blues of oceans that are heating
The rush of water that is filling our land into a swamp
People try to fight against something they cannot control
People will like to blame anything at all
But themselves
All of these colours
fade away as we destroy their homes
And become extinct
Have filled the world with ash
Dark and thick like ink
Forbidden colours
Of the ocean blue
Magentas and purples of coral reefs
Red of the uncut redwood forest
Forbidden colours
Of white mountain tops
And cerulean of shining lakes
With underground forest vibrating viridian
Forbidden colours
Meadows that flow of fushia and lavender
Or fields of golden corn
With the rich brown of dirt
Forbidden colours
Of our pink lungs not filled with industrial vile
© Sofia Villagrana 2018
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
The American people are lotuses
Grown out of the murk
We’re periwinkle pretty, but we have residue on some of our petals
And one could drain the swamp, but we’d still be in it, withering in the harsh sunlight
They could select only the fairest lotuses to be preserved, but nature would be disturbed, mutated
The indigo birds that drink our nectar would be betrayed
Then they too would leave us
And leave the aphids without prey
In the absence of deep pink flowers nature would start to cave in on itself and white-hot turmoil would fester and procreate
So invaluable to us is our gradient of flowers
They were meant to be part of our roots, their magentas and mauves keep us balanced
Keep us from turning over into the muddy water where sunlight cannot grace our petals.
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 2:37 PM UTC
Firestorm
The ticking stops
And we look around, astonished
To be in a forest, surrounded on all sides
By charred trees
Victims of wild energy
At one time or another
It is in this corpseyard
That brilliantly colored
Paper clues lazily drift
Down upon the breeze
To tangle in your hair
And cover my eyes
But not until much later
Would I realize
Had I opened them
And not remained fearful
Of these new lenses
I might have seen through their voices
The vibrant hues you brought with you
But as is
We merely circumvented the beauty
Made our way slowly to the gates
And, unknown to us
The magentas and forest greens
Wilted in the darkness
As we left.
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 12:00 PM UTC
there's green all throughout
the silver droplets,
coiling about the warmth
of powder-blues and roaring magentas.
there's green all throughout
the golden threads,
winding around the jubilee
of cream-whites and vibrant citrines.
there's green all throughout
the copper clays,
swirling between the renewal
of xantic petals and extatic lilacs.
there's green all throughout
the joyous weeping
of spring.
Apr 12, 2024
Apr 12, 2024 at 12:03 PM UTC
*1951
Manchester in
The North West Of England
The city was broken after the war.
England had won it was said
But it didn't feel like that we won.
I remember the
old smoke stained bricks
of the inner city school.
I remember it in sepia
It had no colors back then.
Nothing did.
Until she came to teach us.
She was beautiful her silks
flowed from her like clouds.
So many colors reds
and magentas and pink and blues
I looked at her and
I wanted to be with her
She was the brightest thing I had seen
since the war had ended.
She said she was from India.
And her dress was a sari.
She had my heart with the
gentle softness of her voice.
Her windchime bracelets
on her lovely honeyed skin tinkled.
But it was her tranquility
that floored me.
She would ask
what have you learned today?
share it with us.
We spoke in a cacophony.
Hush now children she whispered.
listen and learn from each other.
You will all get a turn.
Then when we were troubled
she would drop an important meeting
with adult teachers.
I have an urgent need to speak
with one of my students
She said.
I remember once
i said to her Mrs. Chowdhury.
Why should we work so hard?
there are no jobs anymore.
She said softly but firmly
I know you all each and every one of you.
Her sari swished even louder
I knew I had said the wrong thing.
There is a teacher,
a doctor,
a nurse,
a poet,
a craftsman,
a soccer player,
just in this clas,
i can see it,
I Know this.
Then she opened
the old classroom window.
and the cool spring air
filtered into the chalky room.
The lilac perfumes drifted into the room.
What is that fragrance class?
It is Lilacs,
Mrs. Chowdhury,
we sang in unison.
Yes, it is lilacs children.
Last year they all died
with the winter storms.
But now they are back
as sweet as ever.
The jobs died with the war.
But they will be back.
You must all learn as much
as you can to take them.
children.
She never lost a single chance
to teach us something.
I get back to the UK
every now and then .
I am a doctor.
perhaps the one she saw
in her class so long ago.
I call in to see her
in her tiny retirement flat
in Manchester.
She pours me a cup of green tea.
Into a delicate china cup.
It is grown in the foothills
of the Himalayas
she whispers
it is picked young.
so fresh so nourishing.
Never losing her chance
to teach me something new.
Now tell me
what new things
have you learned in America .?*
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC