"ocher" poems
All the colours, electric green
Rose and violet shades sereine
Crimson clover and loyal blue
yellow ocher, burgundy too
Take up arms- a graceful stance
to "Yeah Yeah Yeahs" modern romance
Yet all the colours and shades that be,
Could never truly release me
But prop me up- so I realize
the prusuit of art is faithfully wise.
Every morning and every night
I choose my pallet, scared to fight
But still I start for love and duty:
Passion and anguish, courage AND beauty.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise
ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers
gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection
finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit
look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull
black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets
*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals
paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip
babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
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.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
Non compartmentalized, thus trenchant...
an unbeknownst poetic
songbird picked its patch of blue to fly home
to.
A wet one, soppy...one-offed and kissable sun,
monk-ocher... presents its only case...clearly through
him...to you.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
These are the days
when my heart can’t speak
and my days pass by in a fog.
At night I look to the sky for her flame
and she shows me, up through the pines,
she’s the burning harvest moon tonight.
Do you see how she shines like the sun?
She shines in the night just for me.
She leads me to the edge and
whispers like a lover in the dark,
she wants me to burn just for her.
My harvest moon she seems so close
I reach up to touch her but she’s
too far away, she’s so far away but
Oh, how she burns so bright!
Naivety’s gotten the better of me
she’s not the burner she’s the “burnee”
and if we met we’d burn white hot
we’d melt like a ******* supernova
but then we’d die
My beautiful white harvest moon
and I, we know what to do to get by
We know what needs to be done
Shall we close the buckle in the door?
Shall we swallow the white gold and pearls?
No, not likely, instead
run to her at midnight
in the bright white light,
climb upon the rail between
ocher beams on Golden Gate
and look up.
She seems so close.
Look up!
I reach for her slowly
Look up!
I reach for her softly
Look up!
slowly
softly
I step to the edge and fly home.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
[On my birthday]
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
2.8k
a nacreous tossing around at
the sides, a dappled silver
sunlight if looked one way, an
apocalyptic gloam if another,
exhaled from a seeming
mouth, feeding on what has
already eviscerated an unfelt
***** a predator certainly its
own prey, a heat certainly
poison-breath on a cheek
falling when a meretricious
lover spouts that spurious
hypocorism, and also just a
wavering, iridescent puddle—
cornered, soft as a liquid steel
echo of a futile struggle
rolling around, bouncing off
a wine glass, and a porcelain
table edge, while a listening
head shakes, looks down
despondently, gloom glowing
out the hair, a voice jaded
since birth saying some
thing about differences, or a
helpless slender strap of hope
hanging itself on the way two
other eyes look at it across
checkered watered wings, two
swirling god whorls, two
effulgent galaxies the color of
melting pine bole circling
around in living umber striae,
pulling its gaze, raising it, as if
they, they were blazing truth
cased behind lithophane, and it,
only an aporetic puddle now
of tepid ocher, a mild earth
stone placed in a hand, asked
what is thought of it and the
response: yes, yes of course,
before foreign distance splutters
its face, and it retreats from
its meaning imparted to every
thing (with the vulnerable
precision of a swaying finger
tip) to the baby lanugo of a
delicate floating, through
human rills, of what is horizon
docked, dead, not merely
deciduous—forever jilted with
breath bulging as when beating
a flopping eyeless fish to
half-dead, head tilted up a
throat trying to pry itself
free, trying to live by
streaming snagless, airful,
without spirant sound of going
lost straight from the hands—
then a short chop of fullness
finally expunged and sputtering
like an escaped tuft of
shackled wonder soaring up
the sky in a puff and soul ring.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
I have drempt:
Lucidly, she dyes the edges clay-colored
Eyeing eye she aligns her body with the North Star
She shivers without notice
Ocher eyes alive
she speaks in new forms of divination
And the weather is in her palm
Trick of light trick of eye
Her sigh awakens 9 Ravens
without thought
She is
Caught in the spider web
Spun
Autumnal ghost
Beneath Harvest moon
swoons at the bark of the dire wolf
Without care
making eye contact
Running fingers through the silver fur
Paying close attention to scars
Letting him drink
From lips of pink
The milk of first-kiss
And leads him home
To a palace of bone
Humming tunes that only dogs know
Her head is light on his chest
She listens to his heart beat
Beating Eagles wing
In time
In rhyme
A tune
Of runes
Smooth Aquarius
Flowing through the toes
Of purple mountains
Spilling waterfalls and
Filling frigid
Black pools rimmed
By moss caked stone
Leaves scarlet, and hay colored
Float aimlessly on the surface of her
Peaked
Ears Stung and bit of wind
She listens whole body tensed
bow string
face Sun stained
ethereal
Enamored
swimming in the aphotic
Lake of his soul
He plays the dulcimer of shadow
Next to fire
& the light of her blossom
exposing
Waterfall
flow
Through snow mountains
Piqued
His attention
When she dances languid
To
Forgetten tunes that only the owl knows
****
she dances star soaked
Scarlet tulips pressed
Fill every page of her mind
Preserved eternal
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
Old Harold lived on the second floor
In a darkened room with an old locked door.
My cousins and I used to tease him there,
And he’d chase us out, give us a scare.
I didn’t know exactly who he was,
“He’s a mean old man,” said my favorite cos’.
“Grandma let him live here after Grandpa died.
She doesn’t even like him and we don’t know why.”
When he was out we would take a peek.
Around the ocher walls and his bed we’d sneak.
There was nothing but an iron bunk
And a glass-front chest filled with lots of junk.
One day Old Harold must have complained
About our pestering…we really were pains!
But no parent’s lecture could keep us away.
And Grandma’s yelling at him not to stay.
Old Uncle Harold disappeared for years.
We would make up stories for littler ears.
But one day my father had news of him.
He lived with “a harlot” and his checks she’d skim.
I was old enough to know what it meant
And asked Dad why uncle Harold seemed bent.
“He was gassed in the War in a field at Verdun.”
Dad told me in a tone that left me stunned;
“And was then sent around to pick up the dead.
With the gas and the horror, his mind just went.”
Now I recalled all the times we had teased
And agonized him when we should have pleased.
But now it was too late to apologize,
He was so lost, he wouldn’t recognize
His grown tormentors, when he hardly
Knew my father, the kindly mentor,
Who visited him every week,
Who paid for anything to make him last,
And reminded him of better times past;
Telling him of the time he caught a butterfly
And brought it to show the girls and guys.
How he wanted to let it fly away,
But when the boys had killed it anyway.
He cried and was called a coward then,
And as my father spoke and wept again.
Old Uncle Harold died alone
In a sterile, cold-floored nursing home.
None but Dad came to grieve
And I, only an hour away, shunned
the feeling and just felt numb,
Until Dad called and told me the story
Of Harold’s death and only then
Could I say, “I’m sorry!” to his ghost.
I should have said it long ago; the one who
Maddened him least repented the most.
If I could say “Sorry” for the times we made him shout.
I realised he’d just have yelled, “Get the hell out!”
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
afternoon's glint on the mirror-pond,
a whirling specimen of fire,
ocher-speckled, Sun's insignia
vessels deep into the clammy water;
furiously swaying like a pinned down
beast reluctant to be held—
Makati traffic jostles the silent grieving
of the asphalt. simultaneous burst of
chrome on the metal bodies,
oh, the coming and going,
children laughing vibrantly without
memory of scathing pasts and
boorish origins— tossing coins
beckoning the heaven in pursed lips
and clenched fists tender with years
dwindling along with the turning of
the calendar's page, the sudden leap
of figure lamenting the absence
of language;
i walk the street festooned with dried
leaves and forlorn seasons,
hurling no amaranth to the entire
Makati cityscape.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
reading book with the same title by Stephenie Meyer ...
There you stood in
the pouring downpour
each raindrop dressed
in the scent of
your damp feral being
I gaze long and hard
at those hands
how beautiful they looked!
maybe they were those
of a sculptors
having sculpted
a thousand deaths before
with sheer perfection
Every time
lightening struck
the night would morph from
gray to black to ocher
just like…
those eyes
of yours (?)
those strides promised ecstasy
as they advanced towards me
only when the fangs
dug deep into my fevered flesh
could I Smell blood for the first time
crunchy…salty and peppery
I never wanted the rain to end
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 5:48 PM UTC
He walks across the great expanse as if a ghost.
He walks alone and out of place as two by two
the joggers pass and barely glance as if its normal
to behold a ghost. What they don’t see defines
his life, the tortured demon voice inside his head
that taunts and teases all day long and
tells him he “ain’t spit” and “ugly is forever”.
He’d been neglected all his life but now that he’s
become a man he thought the love he sought
would save him from the way it was when he
was young. His problem now is wrapped around
his backward thought that love is his to find and take
instead of his to give and share, if only he had
learned this in his childhood.
He slowly mounts the rail between the ocher beams
on Golden Gate and looks at murky water far below.
His clothes are black, his hair is long and black,
his skin as white as snow. He stands ***** while
looking back to see if one might lend a hand but
no one does. He smiles a smile and turns around and
then as if he’s been cut down he leans, unbending,
and falls.
*A hundred miles away a mother knows her child
is dead. She bows her head in shame and cries,
the why at war with guilt. A part of her is gone,
a part she can’t deny or blame as someone else's fault
instead she hates herself for never having loved the boy,
but even more she hates the hurt. If only she had
fought the urge to drink, if only she had loved him half
as much as that crazy **** she used to smoke, the ****
she called her ‘crystal blue persuasion’. If only she
could turn the hands of time and rearrange the things
that mattered most.*
A flare is dropped to mark the spot where he went in,
the flaming red a beacon on a bay of mother’s tears.
Another soul engulfed in grief is gone, the deed is done.
A crowd is gathered at the rail to point and stare
as boats approach the flare where men with hooks
will pull him out while mother drinks 100 miles away.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 6:27 PM UTC
can we go swimming in
Argentina already,
and fill our hair with knots and ocean salt?
can we walk swaying like the tide,
along the damp, moon-lit breast of the beach
and fill the empty bottles in our clenched fingers
with lavender and red ocher,
a pallet of dawn
reflecting off glass?
can we drink coconut water in
beer bottles,
and drape ourselves in hanging hammocks under a
wide eyed sky?
i only want to listen to the distant roar
of water attacking sand,
like soft, silk whispers in a
salt canopied bed,
crickets chirping through the night time
warmth,
and tropical, sleeping
breath
slowly unleashed.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
I would humbly put forth the idea, quite prostrate, that it would do us some good if we were to put aside, for a time, our epistemological certainties and archetypal savior fixations and, instead, opt for a more robust, ocher-hued ontological preeminence: putting the what before the why.
Only then can one, say, sip hot herbal tea from an old pink bone china teacup and, without thinking about all the things all the time, for once -just- feel the sun's warmth on your aged face as it begins its set over a half-eaten cotton candy sky that is epic af and reminds you of Peter Pan and then Robin Williams and then whywhywhy and then something random and weirrrd, and, in doing so, you can watch the lack of shittogetherness, of which duly occupies the very seat of your character like a bully usurper that hits you bc "he loves you," melt into a very (very) temporary oblivion and revel in what is before you without feeling paralyzing angst that is, usually, soo angst-y that you gotta pronounce that **** in German as if you were Schopenhauerly sitting at some non-descript desk in some non-descript room with your hand stroking your truly descript crazygeniusguy hair that is some kind of proto-Wolverine hairdo (and you wonder if Stan Lee was cryptically tipping his cap to S's philosophical pessimism with this peculiar gesture; consider googling it but don't because you've already googled too much sheeyt today), thinking (or brooding) about how much of a ******** Descartes is with his whole, yuhknow, theory about some ******* secret nanoputian angelic chemist that sits at the pearly gates of the Pineal Gland and performs the sacred transduction of the divine ghost, or whatever. Otherwise you are, like, consumed with analysis, which is a complete ******* bore and - let's face it - a thoroughly transparent attempt to sound smarter than you actually are.
This herbal tea I'm currently drinking has "rose hips" in it. Dear botany, that image is fun.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
religion in the world is the price of pure evil;
cat beings & wives, feeling Father's gold is for me
to talk with careful preparation, the side of the open,
In the beginning of the yellow, clearly
This work was taken from the back of the stars
with the kid; toss, with it in pieces,
female convulsions; Find the edge of smoking
it's potential on the bed, you need to blow the game,
It asks for privacy led by his own words
the fame of the guys, & everyone who is in evil,
but the guy with a dog, Father's wife, who is a kid
at 51; Be it known unto the door, I will find the images,
the star in the industry & the skin beauties; in the borders,
give him a drink of albino;
& the wild beast, the beast that was itself
bad, & cold & red ocher to paint the gay
Barbie is the use of the rock, lady, to stay a little:
The Most High He had already gone
be infected mothers in the Russian, this process has,
in the six years that I write unto you,
Gallus, the water turned brown & not to swim in,
the window with this person; he heard addressing
hath cleaved to the choir; an intimate friend of the mouth,
but to take up arms & his ancestors the blind sleep,
& the young lady, the name by which the cerebrum
is well known, for society & for the beasts of the yolk is;
Barbie has a cold feeling of the hour, make use of the paint;
There stood a man child on the tree,
Stone is currently carrying out the execution O
A vocation always marks, in the republic, is a young,
already stained with Russia, & the many mothers
eat deep yellow & the smell of smoke;
the origin, the secrecy of yours; the floor or running
in the jar for six years, the world has left us, that in me,
I shall not write & the very dark to the windows,
at the feet of the water, however,
Full of weapons & it can be heard that at the friend of his lips,
But the Gauls most of all, so that was a walk out
of the societies of the;
There is also a dream, that is, a blind,
as we have seen, that there can be a revolution of the
modern girl, called yellow brain smoking,
Pouring whiskey to the game that belongs to society;
brine hard way, the guys did not want to listen to the needs of a dog;
& itching, leading to Lawrence's history of *******
The father thought in Pictures
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 5:01 AM UTC
*Great Goddess
In fertile essence you were shaped
Upon your head
ambiguous braids were draped;
******* as mountains
Belly the great giver of life
Monthly cycle an ocher fountain
Created from ancestral strife
Venus of Willendorf
30,000 year old
Archetype Matron
of Mother Earth
Corpulent bestower
Of genesis and birth.*
- Amy Green
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
The dawn of October
stains my palms
how the nicotine stains your teeth.
The cinnamon leaves
storm about
raking your dusty lashes, like stalks of fruit.
Ocher crumbs and cocoa seeds
besmirch the damp soil,
clumsily.
You are defined with:
pulpy cider hues
my slow, chemical solstice.
A cornflower symphony
hummed by the trees, bare and trembling,
the fruitful pining of their inner bark,
the ****** that lines my pumpkin patch.
I squint at the flaxen sun
that drips golden beyond my shoulder,
where the sinuous maple tree, gnarled branches and all
will breathe your name.
Your body is a coal mine
me, an irrelevant dilettante
I cannot winnow you out like the flame of a match
or peel you from my sole.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 12:23 PM UTC
should he love you,
he will not leave.
like the spring breeze,
intertwining with leaves in trees,
your hearts are wound.
should she love you,
she will not leave.
as sure as the waves crash to shore,
as the moonlight reflects the water's ocher,
she will be there for sure.
lovers together are stronger
than the gust that separates
the leaves from trees,
than the waves that crashes
on the sands of time,
even though promises lie broken
their hearts still awaken
when their other halves are near
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
It's near to midnight,
and the work week fright,
so let's last-raise our glass,
and be upstanding,
let the words of
sleep-steeped prose of
a younger poet
rest our heads,
leading us to wander
off to sleep,
where we meet and greet
our poems borning
in their rawest form:
*can we walk
swaying like the tide,
along the damp, moon-lit breast of the beach
and fill the empty bottles in our clenched fingers
with lavender and red ocher,
a pallet of dawn
reflecting off glass?
can we...
drape ourselves in hanging hammocks under a
wide eyed sky?
i only want to listen to the distant roar
of water attacking sand,
like soft, silk whispers in a
salt canopied bed,
crickets chirping through the night time
warmth,
and tropical, sleeping
breath
slowly unleashed.*
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
Cradling a handful of Illinois dust,
dry residue of sycamore, deer
and ancient Mississippians,
I splay my fingers like an eagle's claw -
releasing it to the fickle breezes.
A sudden gust of wind
swirls up an ocher cloud -
a cyclone dervish of sand and clay.
My hand, upraised for a shield
ever so briefly vanishes -
veiled by the impatient dust.
May, 2008
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 6:18 AM UTC
bleak darkness and its measure:
squandering the light
no definitions
no spectral haze
no inhibitions
its onerous labor is one
with me.
live life at the edge of the fall.
holding a hand
fallibly.
live alone, love alone —
these things pulse with strength
in singleness, even the glances
of prying neighbors are sequestered
reduced to sealed shut, hermetic,
no sight or hindsight.
i'll run to where the sunlight is
and wish for the moon, slumber
like a dead log adrift in the current.
buying myself love and selling its pleasures to defunct markets.
trying to repair what is beyond salvation,
trying to amalgamate what is perpetually
scarred, sundered.
clangorous *** of metal, herding jeep
and riotous chariots; mad men fill
the lines waiting for encumbrance,
bardic in the streets of Marilao
hungry for something:
give me a blank piece of paper
and i will try to reinvent the world
with impunity and lostness.
the world gives back such awry stare
and all imperative darkness reigns
supreme, mine are all emergencies
as shadows are succored not,
retained in their caliginous thrones.
living alone
yet not so much alone.
the dog outside does not bark anymore.
the well-placed gnome of stone outside
stares stonily across the thick space.
the nosy neighbor does not meddle
through the rusted ocher grills.
the old moon wanes outside
as the lift of light sways to where
there are no disappearances.
somewhere in the metropolitan there
is a derby of fools and all mirth;
i wish myself there and curse my presence
right then.
work does not fill me anymore,
money does me no good. my soul
bangs the walls and slams the doors
it threatens to leave without auguries,
and demands a new sense of necessity.
tonight, i will go out, drink at a local pub
and crawl towards the ajar door of
my father's car. smoke will caterwaul
the pressing scenes of the vicinities
crumbling at the tremor of clocks;
i will open my dresser and discover
all books dissipated, some naked
in relished pages, others abeyant.
the curtain can fall later,
and the night too, falter evenly
widely spread across the sky.
— all is broken.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
You whispered darkness
In my ear
In quick urging tones
And swore me to secrecy.
I craved for lights..
No…
…Not the gaudy ocher lamps
Flickering on the walls
Of Your spring,
Sawan
Or hail
…But the
Hesitant greys
That lurk somewhere
In …
twilights
Deceptively eternalized by you
Yet…
…untouched by me
You swore me to secrecy…
You always did
Now you know
Why I never did... obey
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 8:24 AM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
Though we could not see the emblem,
we know who eachof the colours belong to
Sue's Kingdom of Ruikruya releases lilac paper lanterns,
Edmund's Chairis forest-green,
Sarita's Khaikar orange lanterns,
Omni's Khaniel silver,
Deb's Daegeral magenta,
Devon's Monait blue-violets,
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Kim's Geniael cream,
Emeka's Ghalali white,
Robin's Naeneiana periwinkle,
Fugue's Thavia blacks,
Fawn's Yuamor red-violets,
Yacov's Igrador olive-green,
Dawn's Khesian dandelion-orange,
Joseph's Eaqellurene bronze,
Jugnu's Enuryn jade-green,
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Fredrick's Emirinait mauve,
Yidna's Puhan indigo,
Rob's Balan sea-green,
Cne's Phelyra turquoise,
John's Khesian melon-red,
Xaela's Lonusea peach,
Aslam's Ikaesa deep plum,
Ayumi's Wadia tan-gold,
Brandon's Huarean ocher,
Sheila's Naizzuzia cornflower-blue,
Kikodinho's Izugalla in taupe,
Stars' Yurithireatha green-yellow,
Jobira's Zavalon in orange-red
and lastly, my Aurelinaea deep blue
,
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC