"purples" poems
Take a soft tipped brush
Dip, and trace my nakedness;
Viscous dripping rainbow streams
Clothe me here within our dreams.
Swirl my curves
With satin pink,
Let your brush flutter and sink
lower, purples, red and blue,
I'm a canvas here for you.
Paint me scarlet, paint me gold,
Paint some words
italic, bold
Stop when you begin to weep
A masterpiece, for us to keep.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
Before I met you,
My world was black and white.
When we met,
You showed me the in between,
The gray of life.
When we became friends,
You showed me that there is even more.
There are oranges, red, and greens.
Peace, happiness, and life
When I left,
You taught me more,
Although you were gone.
You taught me of
Blues, yellows, and purples.
Darker, colder colors
Sadness, bitterness, and anxiety
You taught me so much
About the colors of this world
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
Cast a Vast Million Colored Words, a Canvas of Solace
Dedicated to Tajudeen Shah
who wrote those words,
a fellow poet, a comrade in words.
----------------------------------------
With words we paint,
With syllables we embrace,
Tasked and ennobled,
We are forever fully employed,
Missionaries to all,
You too, are one as well,
Your fate can't be renounced,
So,
Before you pen words of
Lost love, woe begotten troubles,
Nature's royal blues and purples,
Spirits, demons, speeches, mumbles,
First
Write the uplifting sounds,
Cast a million colored words,
Upon a canvas of solace,
Bring one molecule of comfort
To the misbegotten, to the downtrodden,
In any way you can, form matters not,
But let this be our mantra shared,
Let this be our only morning prayer,
A prayer we are obligated to utter,
A prayer we are obligated to fulfill.
Solace, given,
Solace, granted.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
234
You’re right—”the way is narrow”—
And “difficult the Gate”—
And “few there be”—Correct again—
That “enter in—thereat”—
‘Tis Costly—So are purples!
’Tis just the price of Breath—
With but the “Discount” of the Grave—
Termed by the Brokers—”Death“!
And after that—there’s Heaven—
The Good Man’s—”Dividend“—
And Bad Men—”go to Jail”—
I guess—
8.1k
Mount Recovery
Recovery is described as a mountain
And here I am on my path to the top
Holes in my shoes bumps and bruises on my body
Blood staining the clothes I’m wearing
Not from rough terrain but from the abuse and pain I have put myself through
Callouses and scars each finding new homes on my body
Leaving held breathes on my skin
This is my recovery-
Not just from the drugs and alcohol…and from myself
On the path to the top of mount recovery
The path that seems to be traveled more and more today
Each step is a struggle as I strain to keep my balance
On what seems to be a narrow path
But filled with pain and self-discovery
A sense of wonder as I struggle to keep my balance
Amazed at myself that I haven’t fell yet.
As I look ahead I wonder if I will ever make it to the top
I continue to stumble forward
Sometimes to loosing direction
Step by step I rise in elevation
Growing callouses
Healing wounds
I stop to look up and admire the beauty of the life around
As the horizon is filled with oranges, blues, pinks and purples
As the sun sets on another day in Mount recovery.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
Purples and Pinks
Wrapped around for your kinks
Tight jeans and leather belt
In your arms, I tend to melt.
Shiny and black heels
Off a layer I peel.
My lipstick that's red
Tangled together, we fall back to bed.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing,
But to be honest, I bet it hurt you more, does it sting?
Can you feel it in your bones ?
Copper taste against my tongue,
I’m choking on my own blood,
Does my manic laugh horrify you?
This Cheshire smile plastered across my face,
Do my cheekbones slice your knuckles?
That’s going to leave a bruise,
Not that you care,
Twisted my head back by my hair,
My body is peppered in greens, purples, blues,
But with the way you turn your head down you’d think I was the one abusing you,
When you wrap your meaty fingers around my windpipe does it give you pleasure?
What goes through your mind while your holding my life in your hands,
How many of my ribs have you cracked upon your feet,
Only to lick my thighs later like a treat,
One of these days it’ll be my fingers around your neck,
And I won’t stop squeezing till your dead,
Until then use my body to your hearts content,
This dangerous dance,
Like egg shells beneath my soles,
I’m waiting for you to slip on the blood you painstakingly draw from me blow by blow,
And in your own sick way you actually love me,
Convinced the only way to save me is to hurt me,
But I’m not that sick or twisted to believe the words you croke out,
One day very soon it’ll be you who shouts,
Ya I never did know when to shut my mouth,
So I guess it’s no shock to feel it smarting against your back handed swing.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
And so the green balloons did grow
Inflated, nurtured over time,
This tree of air
Nitrogen,
Oxygen,
Carbon
Dioxide,
Argon,
Traces of other gases too,
Out side was warm
Internal temp minus triple degrees,
What had been barren branches
Now sustained as these
Strings matured forth
Buds of latex and rubber grew,
Liquid air exhaled as the buds nurtured
Air expanded with warm the green balloons
Grew
&
Grew
Sprung forth in to life what once was
Small, now expanded fuelled by the
Cold fuel of the tree of white,
In the winds they did gesture
As if dancing putting on a show
Tree,
Branch,
String,
Green balloons flourished there veins
Feeding air anew,
Blustery winds picked up
Strings did snap, green balloons did
Float away, drifting upon high
Into a sea of blue,
But as seasons change,
Green balloons became loose
Many floated away to places new
Those that did not,
Deflated,
Depleted,
Exhausted,
Nourishment of air, no longer green ballons
Phenomenon's of gases changed
And green faded now this tree of air
Brought forth new shades of
Yellows,
Purples,
Black,
Oranges,
So these colours did fall from the tree,
Floating not as before,
They did descend, slowly to the floor,
Biodegradable. they did fade
From view, not what they were before,
The life cycle of these green balloons
The tree of white grows evermore cold,
For seasons change and green balloons will
Grow again next spring floating in the air once more.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
There's something about a sunrise that intrigues me more than a sunset
Its calming and quiet and signals the rise of all mankind
Hues of blues, blinks of pinks, and passions of purples,
all blended with the cotton clouds that sit long and still
There's something about a sunrise that impresses me more than a sunset
Its sweet and loving, and kisses the birds every morning
Its lets the leaves of the trees and the waves of the sea know the day is ok
It makes me blush and smile because I know my day will start in a while
There's something about a sunrise that upsets me more than a sunset
When the pinks go away, and the purples start to fade
And the blue takes over the sky I cant help but feel despair
because my sunrise is not there
So I go to bed at night with a ping of fright
But I know when I open my eyes I'll see my sunrise,
and my heart will be at peace again
There's something about a sunrise that puts a tear in my eye
But it signals to me that my day is alright
and gives me my morning kiss good-bye
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
Driving into the city
The early morning
Just stirring
The street lights still glow
Their ***** orange
But the sky
The sky is amassed with colour
From the deep dark blue of night
Where I can still see the stars
And the moon shines bright
It melts in the east
To pinks and oranges
Almost browns and purples
Mixed with the light blue
Of the crisp chilled air.
You can't see the sun
Not yet
The clouds are sparked grey
But no rain is forecast
Perhaps we'll get snow
It seems cold enough.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
*wind of summer
too vagabond
drunk
touching the melancholy afternoon
of the last pale season
flowing over the
deep yellow barren field
echoing the last mystic sound
though yet romantic
spring
the purples are deep
divine
butterflies are flying around
a few birds playing
on the ground
suddenly singing
uttering love
yellow
the golden yellow floating
in the eyes
over hued
saturated
dropping on the ignored
dry
wither leaves
as the rain drops that has made
a blue
day dream
crossing over the mind
a jingle
leap singing
classic
the very lost spring
scrolling into
soul
even in the lonely dark night
rolling up
the sound
as the rolling stone
of the sounding sea*
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
Forbidden plant
Mixes with fire,
Inhaled deep,
Held within
Until it burns;
Cough it hard,
Raise the chin,
Sit up straight,
All change color
Of pinks and purples,
Yellows and greens;
Sights beyond
Fade to black:
Amateur cinematics.
Stumbling feet
Throws car keys
To the conscious smile,
Who drives at 55 mph
When the dash reads 15.
Sit and rest,
Gather those thoughts;
Pessimistics argue
Mundane topics,
As the mind wanders
Through dark skies,
Picking and pondering
The out of reach stars
Before awaking
With sleepy regret.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC
V. Ethereal
Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.
My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).
Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.
Star light,
{lips pant--
inebriated,
heavy}
star bright,
{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}
first star I see tonight,
{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}
I wish I may,
{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}
I wish I might,
{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}
have this wish I wish tonight--
to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.
Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:
Lovely.
Ethereal.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
I love the colors on you,
The beautiful blue in your eyes,
To the purples on your knee,
The brown dirt on your left hand from this afternoon gardening with me,
Just because i begged you to,
The pink in your cheeks that i love so much,
You get so flustered at the smallest things,
I love the brown of your hair that changes direction with the wind,
The summer bronzing of your skin,
Colors i cant describe,
You give me a new color everyday,
But i am so glad theres one color i never see,
and thats gray.
JD (1:58)
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
666
Ah, Teneriffe!
Retreating Mountain!
Purples of Ages—pause for you—
Sunset—reviews her Sapphire Regiment—
Day—drops you her Red Adieu!
Still—Clad in your Mail of ices—
Thigh of Granite—and thew—of Steel—
Heedless—alike—of pomp—or parting
Ah, Teneriffe!
I’m kneeling—still—
4.5k
~~<○>~~
shadows shed by moonlight
through the plants entwined
creating their own patterns
weaving their designs
blues and purples shimmering
the subtle shades of grey
the lovely dearth of color
unmatched by light of day!
they create a tapestry
of mystery on their looms
the woof and warp of dreamers
the shadows of the moon
~~<○>~~
SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 9/11/2016
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC
It was after we passed Moby’s Dock
that Ebony met her first thresher shark
He was five feet long or so
two feet shark, three feet tail,
and had just been pulled from the surf
to be proudly displayed
by the fisherman who had caught him
Ebony stood transfixed
her every muscle poised
her feathered tail twitched
as she leaned closer to inspect
and then recoiled from this cold-blooded beauty
still dressed in fleetingly iridescent
blues and greens and purples -
As the sun’s fading beams highlighted
the magnificence of this dying shark
I mourned his loss that night.
The noise and tourists
in the Pier’s arcades and bumper cars
did not detract from the peacefulness
of the Pacific in her chaos
for this was August
and they would soon go home
I watched a distant storm at sea
flashing fire against the deepening twilight
I stood, and Ebony,
gazing at the flashes of lightning
My hand felt her softness and warmth
as I stroked the waves of her black fur
relishing the cool wind on my face
listening to the rigging
of the boats resting at anchor off the Pier
Thinking about thresher sharks
Willing them away
from this place with its fishermen
and cold, baited hooks
Cori MacNaughton
13 Sept 2000
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.
The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.
The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?
They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.
4.3k
I also wondered
why we call them sunsets,
when the sun is clearly
not the one who is setting.
put yourself in the sun's shoes.
the sun can't set of it's own accord.
the sun doesn't realise it's
making those pinks, purples and oranges
on the horizon.
the sun doesn't know what
a horizon is.
we human beings create all of this.
the human mind makes
the horizon
and then it makes the sun
set on it.
those pinks, purples and oranges
are forged inside your eyes.
next time you see a sunset,
tell yourself:
'it is me who is setting the sun.
the sun is setting
and I am the one who is
doing it.'
feels good, doesn't it?
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 5:49 AM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
You’re the painter
and
I am the canvas
You mix blues
and purples
into my skin
Your brushes
are the fists
of a flawed
childhood
I am the pale canvas
of
love
I am patient
as your anger
swells
I wait for
your artwork
to form along
my skin
This is sick
I know
But all I can
say is
“Paint me
and
Make me beautiful” -DDF
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
I love grandma's garden.
It's an oasis filled with love.
Grandma's garden is a pleasant place;
A quiet place,
A place where I can dream,
The place where I am loved,
A place where I can be myself,
A place where I feel safe.
Stars of many colors in the sky of green.
Reds, blues, whites, purples, yellows, pinks, and greens
Are seen…
Each flower is blooming with a promise of a smile,
Grandma's garden is such a happy place,
It puts a smile on my face.
I love grandma's garden...
Copyright © Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Perfect lines and circles and scales,
Preset shapes and purples to blues to greens
Left, then right, then left and right again.
Mismatched pairs and my lungs are closing up.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
"Don't stop dreaming" crooned a voice in my ear
But dreaming re-enforces fear
Slumber comes and shreds my thoughts
Subconscious wars are brought and wrought.
Inside my skull holds evidence of
Bruised purples and nightmare reds
Sleep shreds my mind between its teeth
And wretches it across; bequeath
Across the walls, across the room
Across the shadows, through the gloom
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC