"scarlets" poems
When I met you, I was a draft.
An artwork to never be complete.
My eyes of charcoal
My veins of graphite
No color flowed through me for I was
Lifeless.
You opened up to me
You redesigned my thoughts.
Your paintbrush stroked a bright blush onto my cheeks
You turned me into
Bright pastels
With glorious indigos
Overwhelming scarlets
And mysterious lavenders.
You kissed me in a backdrop of
Forest greens.
You created scenery for
Every emotion,
Dressed me with rainbows,
And completed my blank spaces.
You turned me into a masterpiece.
But before you could sign your
Glorious painting
You realized
You could do better pieces
And pastel was over rated anyways.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
422
More Life—went out—when He went
Than Ordinary Breath—
Lit with a finer Phosphor—
Requiring in the Quench—
A Power of Renowned Cold,
The Climate of the Grave
A Temperature just adequate
So Anthracite, to live—
For some—an Ampler Zero—
A Frost more needle keen
Is necessary, to reduce
The Ethiop within.
Others—extinguish easier—
A Gnat’s minutest Fan
Sufficient to obliterate
A Tract of Citizen—
Whose Peat lift—amply vivid—
Ignores the solemn News
That Popocatapel exists—
Or Etna’s Scarlets, Choose—
1.8k
I saw a cherry weep, and why?
Why wept it? but for shame
Because my Julia’s lip was by,
And did out-red the same.
But, pretty fondling, let not fall
A tear at all for that:
Which rubies, corals, scarlets, all
For tincture wonder at.
1.8k
dearest stranger,
i am too abstract now for my own good. i feel and hold myself, in place, in my hands and i slip right through like sunlight, like tiny moth scales, like the delusions of a sauntering ghost, like all things unreal and untouchable, like a madwoman, laughing away in her free fall to an unsteady ground.
and all the flowers are cheering in their surreal, psychedelic scarlets, and all the rocks are breaking, and all the words are failing to capture what i truly feel.
am i still despairingly corporeal, like paper napkins and panes of glass? am i still in actual flesh, now that god doesn't exist? am i still as tangible as this last, frantic breath of a letter?
am i still actually here?
bidding my farewell now,
ginia
Mar 3, 2022
Mar 3, 2022 at 11:35 PM UTC
If her name is Scarlet
And you're infatuated with her
You have that commonly told story of Scarlet Fever
There's plenty of foxy Scarlets
So i can't blame the guy
For wanting to try
To leave the fever alone
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
Billows arise and the roar resonates
Vivid scarlets desiring to dance
Gazes morphing into perilous spears
Irises directed at the delicate lifeline
Another, take another deep breath
Hush your throaty screams
Tighten the shackles of your demons
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 6:36 AM UTC
#*Surrounded by love
On the bed of green
Scarlets and white
Different, yet alike
Tulips and sunshine
Peacefully arise
Nature is serene, alive
🌿🌷🌷🌷🌷🌿*#
Aug 19, 2022
Aug 19, 2022 at 6:27 AM UTC
The evenings cold enough to require a sweater
but still too warm for the biting winter wind,
to cut through our clothing
like hot knives through butter;
these are the not-quite nights,
the dusks of the almost-autumn
and the too-late summer,
with the drizzle dripping requiems
for sunshine longings and July dreams.
These are the nights that I am torn
between walking alone with the chill in my bones,
sedate with the cold but alive,
or begging for a body
to drift alongside,
radiating an unreciprocated warmth;
someone with hands stuffed
into night-bitten pockets,
too cool and stiff to really chatter
but hoping for the shared sympathy
of frozen, rain-speckled skin.
We are gliding across the fallen leaves--
the dying brethren of the trees--
that crackle slow beneath our feet
like summer candy wrappers, drifting.
But we’re still slowly freezing,
shrugging threadbare shoulders
under threadworn sweaters
that still reek of the past.
And we’re still gently waltzing,
disinterested fingers on uninteresting waists
trampling scarlets and golds under
careless heels in three-four beats.
As the twilight fades into ink,
a hollow, whispering breeze reminds
of the clouded distance between us
and the heavy, rain-laden sky.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
You bear a silver whole,
Opening to a new world of
Scarlets, purples and
Deep royal Blue.
It covers us,
Leads us into temptation,
****** into
You, I throw upon
As I peer into the
Silver and turned
My jagged sword.
It swallowed up all the
Darkness,
The sun appeared -
Rainbows.
Scarlets, purples and
Deep royal blues.
A silver heart to a silver
sword.
Magic..
I am stuck,
Trapped in freedom,
I want no other world
Whether it be of
Diamonds or rubies or pearls.
I have your colours,
Your life.
A sword guilded in
Silver stone that
Medusa encaged.
I do not have the strength
of King Arthur,
And even if I did,
I would let my muscles
Rot than pull away
My precious sword, I
Want it only as an
Exhibition of
My love.
This is my world now,
Whether it be full of
War, Injury or
Death.
It is our land,
It is us.
Jan 20, 2010
Jan 20, 2010 at 7:27 AM UTC
I fell in love with you one night in September
When crickets sang an ode to Autumn
When Gaea’s palettes matured to tones of herself
to the leaves, falling like tired angels
I remember the dying painter spitting his last few colors onto the sky,
Warm scarlets that professed themselves to be deep ceruleans and violets
When we watched, spaced, from the yellowed creaking picket fence
Wind chimes sighing in the subtle breeze.
You were the artist, a divine manifestation,
Wisps of hair breaking through your perfected face
An ocean of complexion in your eyes, hiding secrets
Reap the grains of my affection, throw it in the pitch
But I was colorless, achromatic
A beige canvas
You played me with your hues and tones and tints and
splatters of pigment
Sometimes, I’m painted vibrant oranges and yellows and reds and
pondering in sunflower fields, gentle raindrops resting on our shoulders,
crackling bonfires, leaping flames.
Pleasant comfort.
colors fade.
Vibrancy grows faint under grey.
Winter frost slithered to your heart, turned jet-black
Boreas’ wind swept you away.
Tobacco-scented Icarus, you’re bound to fall.
Ah, snowy white procession of death, take me!
Bare skeletons of trees shiver in the morning chill
A heaviness carries the shattered ice of your eyes
Unforgiving, piercing, daggers to my soul.
You fell in love with him one night in December, and I wait.
Minutes liquify, oozing to hours, seeping through cracks of my sanity.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 2:32 AM UTC
As blue turns to a blending of colours,
I grow hungry to hold her again,
and in the security of midnight blue,
I treasure the moment I am able to summon her presence
Caressing her beauty I mould her,
adding extra fingers, arms, curves,
unbelievability turned magic,
enchanted I lose myself, unconscious.
She gives me unicorn kisses,
and twinkles like the eyes of god,
loving me, she loves me,
she loved and I love and love is everywhere now.
but from the blending of scarlets, violets, roses,
back to bold, burdensome, blamed blue,
she slipped through my shivering solitary fingers,
escaped from under my sheets and is forgotten in the cold.
Her body not ever to be realised,
still I bring her out each night to bring warmth,
to be held in the delicate moments of dusk.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 6:48 AM UTC
Throbbing throat from my strangling sobs,
Agony riddles my tingling lips with shades of
blood reds and vibrant scarlets.
All is split to expose the gorgeous hues of
his love.
Coating my lips in glossy red dew drops while it’s
dragged across my face like the sunset.
Dripping down my pulsing neck covered with azure bruises.
“You’re so beautiful my darling” his mouth speaks,
but his fist speaks a different language.
It expresses a devoted strike to my eyes to
gift me with its
love.
Blurry vision greets me while something damaged is
gazing at me from the shattered glass mirror,
Broken,
Crushed pieces of valuable innocence stares back to
send me a message which I cannot decode.
My face is blended with stunning arrays of his makeup.
Water colour blues line my tear ducts,
Deep purples create bottomless lakes around my sockets while
rivers spill from my hollow glassy eyes.
Brown and buttery diluted stains dapple my cheeks,
Tender to his touch,
All this while hots streams melt down my face from the
gloomy lakes.
Mascara and foundation conceal dull marks.
I only wear his work of art behind closed doors,
For just his eyes to
linger upon endlessly.
He tells me I’m elegant with my mouth
held shut,
Hands burned by rope behind my back.
I am still beautiful, but why does it
have to hurt?
He calls me beautiful when I waltz around,
Stripping off my dignity at his request,
Leaving piles of my little self-respect on his floor.
If I were to disobey his command again,
The love in his hands will wrangle my small
neck to breathlessness.
So I am stuck.
Stuck being beautiful
while being
in
pain.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 6:34 PM UTC
The world is not only
The shining right light of white
And the depraved dark depths of black
I won't even go on
About the moral grey shades in between
Mottled like a city pigeon's tail feathers
Because there are
Royal eruditious blues
Mischievous swirled jades
Passionate scarlets
Playful tangarine oranges
Inoccent pastel yellows
Regal deep reds
Mysterious deep purples
Curious robin egg blues
Righteous yellow oranges
Tranquil summer greens
Bubbly social pinks
Patient shades of indigo
Cautious neon colors
Pure-hearted golds
Clear minded silvers
And ultraviolets of feelings yet to be defined
And if I'm looking at the world
I want to see it in full spectrum
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 8:30 PM UTC
'Take your dream as far as you can'- tear up the
roots of the dead flowers, grab the branches
above you and swing into the unreal vision of
reality, breathe the air of spaces unknown,
carrying with you the experiences of pressing
thoughts, the sudden surprises of youth, the
views that, with a flash of excitement, open up
great wide vistas, and magnetise your senses
to fly into their psychedelic embrace.
Float along on the streams of life, like the
autumn leaf, after dipping and diving,
as it finds the calm of a lake's edge
and oscillates in the quiet breezes,
gathering the last rays of the setting sun,
before it sinks, to become new life.
Dance to the sound of the song bird,
the drip of the rain, the swirl of the clouds
and the dramatic movement in an opera when
all voices join, and sound their messages
out to the universe of stars and planets.
Feel with your hands the shape of the future,
smoothed and polished, slippery and textured,
bumpy and sharp; become a new form of
yourself, create something out of your own
arsenal, using your whole being.
Touch the page with the tip of the brush, the
full wash across the hand made paper, the
colours of all nature, the scarlets, the azures,
the emeralds, the golds, in hallucinations that
are real, mysteries that metaphorically express
the quick of your spirit, and are seen to be art.
Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th October 2012.
Written the same day... On my way home the dry Autumn leaves dancing cart-wheels past me, and did tap dancing on the tarmac, it was quite loudly they rattled past and flew away ahead of me as if like a flock of chattering children, rust brown and ochre colours doing their kind of wind dance, how wonderful all these percussion-like noises nature makes; just like the ice on the lake where the children were throwing blocks onto the hard surface, the sounding - box of the lake itself making that eerie kind of clang of sound that at first I thought might be some strange bird. I took up a video on my iPhone, but **** it, having fingers that were near frozen they didn't manage to push the tiny lever over from pure photography, so, to my great disappointment I when I got back there were only photos of it. Such is life!!!
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
...laughs at me, as the distance between our shores greatens. Deep coldness, marbled with the warmer scarlets we've imbued in the flow. That distant shore has never seemed further away. Each attempt at crossing hits the rocks...Make mine a double, Evviva!
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
What comes to mind if I say the words
Hot and Bold,
Love and anger
Can you define them all with a single color?
I have had phases of yellow, pink and
Even white
Of lavender, mauve, and also purple
Well, that phase is here still.
But the color that I call mine
Is also my favorite wine.
It makes a woman more classy
And a man mighty sweaty
How spirited to be associated even with a devil
Oh my, isn’t that what would be the color of a rebel?
I wonder I when I took that color
to be all mine and define my personality
because of all its versatility.
Am I it or Is it me?
Because no other color defines me
It is the color of cherry, of vermilion berry
It is the color of roses and sunset scarlets
Yes, it is the color - red
That always keeps my soul bred.
Apr 14, 2021
Apr 14, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC
If you had savored the venerable's vulnerability
You might not had detected the lion's
piquancy
The overstrain of exhilarated excellence
Grounds them in the abaddon of disaster and nuisance
The criticism's eyes stare wild at their wisdom
The unripened harvests of the press nurture
Extremes, ethics, etiquette
Their emeralds douse to Scarlets...
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 1:39 PM UTC
There it was, over my shoulder...my Sky a like the ****** Rainbow.
Tie dyed shades of memories, tossing rolling eau de nils,
Mouldering violets bleeding rose, scarlets, lilacs all decomposed.
A growing shroud and flowing mist, darkness gathers I shouldn’t resist.
Turn turn now away and to the fright, searing blaze of futures light.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
Staring past sunken skies,
Beyond darkness, twinkling lights,
A star is born admist grey clouds,
Straining to shine with others around.
Across galaxies and milkey white roads,
A pretty star begins to grow old,
With a bust of flame, a shattering light,
Of Scarlets and Rubies,
Its death rings wild.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 6:30 AM UTC
A recurring dream
A reminiscent hope
The heat of the yesteryear gone cold
Scarlets fade to gray
Anguished wildfires extinguished
Trees gone extinct
And all vanities vanquished
We are left in the cold
Our houses old and empty
Infested by rot and decay
And the alluring flesh we once held
Now weary, tired and with mold
As all things come to pass
Our minds are the only things that last
The spirit carries on
Like the blistering wind from dawn to dusk
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 1:41 AM UTC
Dawn's the crisp blue line
crossing poisonous pink clouds,
the water-soaked broom
sweeping off the tiredness under the rug,
and the mother's cold, wet palm
brushing away the fever-fueled nightmares
from the night before.
Dawn's the chirp of hues shifting
from suffocating scarlets and weary purples
to sun-kissed whites and breathy blue.
Dawn's the clink
of the glass coffee pitcher
nearly chipping
as it clashes against porcelain cup.
Dear Dawn,
I hope they've told you how wonderful you are!
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 2:14 PM UTC