"taupe" poems
live life in warm yellows
when the sky is a dark gray and the clouds are a loveless black
live life in light pinks
when the trees are dying browns and the flowers are wilting ebonys
live life in bright blues
when the waters are a wild taupe and the sand is a rough onyx
live life in the colors of life;
for life is exquisite
but to see such radiance and beauty,
one must be appreciative and live life in warm yellows
reds,
oranges,
greens,
blues,
indigos,
and violets.
life is full of color, but one must be able see that to truly enjoy living
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 6:38 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
once worn with pride
eat the wearer
up inside
they have wrinkles
lines of care
but a person isn't
what they wear
wether pink
or brownish lace
wether russet...
freckled face
wether taupe or
still ecru
wether me
or wether you
we all wear colors
on our bones
it matters not
their depth of tone!
let's take the rags
and by God's grace
make a quilt
of Jesus' FACE!
instead of hate
and wishing harm
this manifold quilt
will keep us warm!
wether you're
old aged or a youth
you're part of the quilt
and that's the TRUTH.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/8/2016
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
I suppose that I should be writing about the pencil itself, how its pale cerulean self lights up my taupe desk (yes, taupe.), or perhaps how the navy stamps that embellish it bleed a little at the sides
smeared, or even the sheer fact that it says "hoppy Easter"with little bunnies on it, which is ironic because it is January.
(and even funnier because the little bunnies look like demons waiting to pounce on your soul, slightly feline...feline bunnies?)
But no.
I sing instead the song of that metal thing at the end of the pencil, crimped like a tin can stuck in a sixties hair salon--the small item that sort of resembles Darth Vader; the metal thing that, when you think about it, you never notice; the thing that holds the eraser in place and the lead in the wood, and the wood in a line, the line for your pencil holder at the top of your desk (your taupe desk) that you write on and without writing you'd die...
Without life you don't exist.
I sing to the tiny piece of metal that is out of place, yet holds the world as we know it together. Because in a way, I know how it feels to bridge together two elements; two worlds, if you will.
It's a difficult task indeed to hold it all together. And I realize, staring at the satanic rabbits adorning my writing utensil that this thing doesn't have a name.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:16 PM UTC
I know myself better than you.
In my heart there is a banshee waiting to drown themselves on the shores of a beach covered in discarded glass.
Her body ragged, bruised, and gaunt in every view.
She’s sharp and harsh with every cut that may pass.
Her hair obscures her eyes with a taupe wash of strands.
She pierces into the tiny drums with a venom only meant to break my spirit and erode past the bones.
Into my soul she will cut with those talons on her hands.
I can’t progress without her because she is my cornerstone.
My foundation would collapse without her haunting inside.
She’s seen my cracks and my missing parts.
Instead of leaving me numb she waters my plants.
Together we craft love and we create art.
She raised the goblin in my head to laugh and dance.
He leads us through her pain.
It’s something that helps me smile no matter how heavy the rain.
He swallows the flames we light each day or eliminates the obstacles in our way.
His skin so full and flushed;
It contrasts so greatly with her hair unbrushed.
His eyes so clear, bright, and colorful.
I can feel the joy radiate so extensively.
What he gives so soft like the silky breeze she echoes back with a call so guttural.
I always valued him more so selfishly.
There would be no him without her.
There would be no parts in me without the parts I don’t prefer.
So before you tell me that I’m intense or too much;
I hope you see how important they both are inside.
They are more than the things you can see or touch.
They are every laugh that I’ve had or every tear that I’ve cried.
I don’t need you to believe that I am the right amount between too much and just enough for you.
I believe in my own beauty and wholeness; we all do.
Aug 9, 2022
Aug 9, 2022 at 8:29 PM UTC
A boy he was
Long, long ago
As he glided into the chromed and teal druggist shop
1950s it was
Vintage years
Women in pert dresses
Men in sharp taupe suits
Filled the shop with a smoky manner
On that summer Sunday afternoon
Fan bladed just a-turnin'
Right through time itself
He saw this box before
Jeweled, valuable big music box
Been here not too long
Breathing in a flavored breath
He saw another it
The black round of pure bliss
"Blue Suede Shoes" by Elvis Presley
The white letterin' said
Letter G
Number 4
Hands ***** cold metal from warm pockets
Slipping them into the maiden's shelter
Fingers to buttons,
Arm to record
Music to shop
"Well, it's one for the money,
Two for the show,
Three to get ready,
Now go, cat, go."
Floated in mass commodity
Away the ears and mind blew in the wind
Far from his hometown
Far from his school
And far from everything he already knew...
Daydream ended too soon for his comfort
The boy stared at the flashy box
And spoke a quiet goodbye
Tile guided him out the ringing door
Concrete guided him home
Where now the older him
Lives crooked, but happy
With a dear old woman who loves him more than anything else
And a jukebox
With many records in it
But one is still on top
"Blue Suede Shoes" by Elvis Presley
In chipped, faded lettering
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Colors, have ways of making us soar,
or fall.......they make us buoy...
they, too, can divide and isolate...
long ago, a magazine
was colored and identified for a reason.....
also,
a kind of blue-sy music, upon which i groove,
...was named for the same reason...
.............a magazine..... a music genre,
became instruments...and parts of
dark and golden moments.......recalled
and enjoyed, every now and then...they're
painted.......registered in people's minds....
life is a magazine of stories, of poetry...
life is a jukebox...filled with soundtracks
life is an album...a collection of smiles
...of colorful images and emotions
reddish brown at first...turning yellow brown,
with tinges of taupe.......mottled through the years,
turning...into fading shades of sepia...
i refuse my late summer moments on earth
............to be done in Grisaille,
painted, only in tones of grey and dark green...
...it is written...one day, life would be hued with
subdued colors...the blues, silvers and grays,
...........will be cold as winter...
but, until then,
i'd rather be consumed with liveliness
i would adorn my days with peach and lilac
blossoms, hang fuschia pink pennants
on my wall....to brighten my disposition,
i'd practice...play the guitar once again,
i'll wear my ruffled, dappled-purple skirt,
and yellow converse sneakers when i walk on
the pavement....under blue skies that enhance
greens, and gold...colors that breathe existence
transforming weariness to courage...
wherever...whenever, however possible,
i speak, whisper to God words of gratitude,
and endless thanksgiving...i pray for strength.
and acceptance........prepare myself...when,
.....i, too...would face my own moments,
...............of fading sepia.
Sally
Copyright August 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
French vanilla Converse,
taupe-boxed flannel (too big),
and an American Spirit burning,
real, real slow. What a hipster ****
what a culture-eating parasite.
He says, 'Read Proust with me.'
He says something about how
his dad is dead but not in
a literal sense; metaphorically.
I was never interested in that part
in the avant-garde spoken poetry Friday nights.
I bust into the bathroom
and ***** grasping
Bed Bath and Beyond clearance items.
The walls are the same shade
of green as my skin.
A hand pets my thigh and I'm told
it'll all be okay.
How those knuckles knew,
I'll never know.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 7:50 PM UTC
Time has passed now and I return to the field from whence I came,
though this field is not mine; it can’t be. The lush emerald grass
has transformed into a stony taupe, frail and wilted. *DID I
ANGER YOU?* Not a crack of soft cerulean can be seen from
above. The warm rays that once consumed me are lost in transit
by the hoary locks above.
HAVE I MADE YOU SAD? I set gaze towards my giant cedar.
Not you too. Rotten from the root up to the decayed branching.
The scent burns my nostrils and taints my lungs. DOES IT HURT?
My legs give weight to the ground while my body follows. I lay
there, cheek pressed against the haggard soil, until all is blurred.
I wake to find my head at your foot; a rose in the sea of weeds. My
lips soar to yours, and they dance a fiery tango once again. Oh how
I’ve yearned to dance with you. My weary eyes unlock and
bleed to not meet yours. WERE YOU REAL? I look towards my
sole to find a tombstone. The name is mine. WAS I?
Aug 12, 2011
Aug 12, 2011 at 5:41 PM UTC
At harbour’s entrance, a mile or more away
beyond high water, hunkered down
the old Quarantine station
on a flat patch of land
etched from the tangles of coastal heath.
The Barrack buildings besieged
by brooding sky and sea
and choking landscape – bush
thickets clambering the steep isthmus
backdrop of granite tor.
Chaotic angled peaks everywhere
indecisive stony sentinels
offering no certainty in the grey cloud
chiffonade of morning.
Slow, lingering clouds
wandering in confused circles
or passing over, casually
bringing squalls and showers.
Washing the pock-picked stone
to glistening newness of a palette
of fresh browns – tan, taupe, fox-brown
chestnut to black murky sludge
as if recently erupted
from earth’s muddy tender skin.
A cluster of cottages
a settlement of sorts with cannon ports
and flagpole and a fenced graveyard
still telling stories of pathos
pity and waste filling this place
with a strange, pressing silence
an atmospheric numbness felt
in dread and gravity.
© M.L.Emmett
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 8:21 AM UTC
I wear all black
My eyeliner is sharp as a knife
My laughter is melodic and has a nice sound
I’ve never been kissed
And I hate the ache over something I shouldn’t be able to miss...
My tongue is silver and seems to have a mind of its own
My lips change color depending on my mood: red, taupe, black, purple, blue;
I love to cuddle and receive hugs
It may seem ridiculous to you, love,
But you’ve had it all
Yes, from the very start.
I don’t want to be called a crybaby
Not for the connotation it receives
So instead I build walls around my heart
I bristle and joke
Despite the ache in my chest
For I know that I cannot be strong forever.
I only hope you won’t be around when I break, love.
I don’t want you to see me fall apart at the seams.
You deserve to know the best of me
For the worst is hard to understand.
Please don’t cry for me, love
I am not broken yet
I can still spit fire from my lips and utter curses from my tongue
I remain steadfast in this prickly facade
Because if I don’t, I cannot say what you will do.
So I refuse to be a crybaby
No matter how many times it hurts to see you with someone new
I have wept over you enough, love
So now I must harden against the world
Before I become utterly undone.
I will not be your crybaby
Even though you only care when I’m nearly falling apart
You thrive off of other’s suffering, so that you may be their knight in shining converse
You seek those in need, you prey on the weak...
I don’t want to be just another conquest
Just another score
I wanted something else, love
With you, I’ve always wanted more.
Guess what, love?
I’m not your crybaby
I will die before you will know
Exactly what it is that you do
that makes me weak in the knees
For if I were to voice my thoughts, you would roll your eyes and mock...
I hate that you make me your little *****
That you make me want to bawl my eyes out when you come in with hickeys that have no name
You’re. Not. Mine.
You’re just a stupid *******
So why do you make me your crybaby?
I hate this feeling of weakness whenever you’re near
I used to be such a ******* badass
But here I am, buried under five blankets,
Hoping my roommate doesn’t hear me as I cry my eyes out,
Forevermore, over you.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
You
are stretched out,
lithe and feline,
in a patch of sunlight on the taupe carpet
in a sweater and jeans,
the sweater fraying and courtesy of your
grandmother in Maine.
she doesn't remember you.
the jeans tight and courtesy of the
salesgirl in Savannah.
she doesn't forget you and
she doesn't think she could.
she still remembers
the shape of your hips
in your denim cutoffs
when she lies in her bed.
she still remembers
the contours of your bare midriff
salaciously exposed by your crop top
when she squeezes her
*******
she still remembers:
shoulderseyeslips freckles voice tone pitch legs toes.
she still remembers.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
i never really noticed the beauty
in brown eyes
until i met you.
and seemingly out of nowhere,
i began to take notice to
the subtle flecks of russet,
and spots of sepia,
that so beautifully
rested in your taupe, somber eyes.
slowly, but surely i fell in love
with your once ordinary eyes;
who knew brown eyes could be
so lovely, so warm;
who knew
brown eyes could feel like home?
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
tangerine skies
they exist, i know
i hope
an introspective world flickers in darkened taupe
blue ivy pierces dreams
lavender hopes evade
tangerine skies, you swirl my desires
a life of steep expectancy
and a fleeting presence of hope
tangerine skies you ignite my mind
and fuel my spirit; a long and tattered rope
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
In a dream I am standing small between ceiling high cherry wood shelves;
books of blue, red, black, white and taupe glow as gemstones set on a neat and comfortable display.
I scan my minds library, my nose tensing with the tickle of soft, thick air.
A dust has settled over the milky calfskin with the plated gold zipper,
cross nestled securely in the fold of the top left corner.
Inside gilded pages stand ***** and entombed, making a catacomb of unread stories, of forgotten lives.
Once opened, unfamiliar text peels from the page,
soon figurines of ink dance for me before hardening into rows of letter like statuettes.
After indulging my curiosity
my cheeks are left wet with the saltine byproduct of sorrow, bloodshot eyes glazed over.
Like the televised open-heart surgery we find ourselves perpetually glancing up at
I read on.
Brown faces contorted and pallid feature wide eyes
whites more yellow than white with spherical black centers.
A thousand babies cry to me as if in mourning
and with their despair buzzing in my skull and crawling on my skin
I shut the book and pull the zipper.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
I fell in love with brown eyes,
Yet they were no longer brown.
They were an amber
Ambers sparked into flames
In the rings of their iris
I wanted every gold fleck of light
On the rusted mahogany
Twisting bridges
Flickering under their shadowy dark lashes
To lead the way
And I didn't care where.
I fell in love with green eyes
Yet they were no longer green
They were a forest
Dark and mysterious
With dense mossy rifts
Entwined with one another
You lose yourself in seconds
If you go too far
The streaks of sparkling champagne
Sunlit rays peaking through
Leafy Junipers and evergreens
I fell in love with blue eyes
Yet they were no longer blue
They were brighter than the sky
Deeper than the ocean
A sea
Of teal
Waves of sapphire crash down
Circling the endless abyss
Dilating
And
Expanding
Making even tears glimmer like diamonds
As they fall down their cheek
I fell in love with hazel eyes
The iris that changes from day to night and over again
Swirls of chestnut coffee in a mug
sitting on a bed of green grass
The taupe and raw umber trees drape over
shading the circular meadow
sunshine peaking through
kissing the green with gold
and a bright blue sky
lighting it all
I fell in love with the window
To their soul
True emotions
Not being deceived by the smile on their face
Personality dripping down like tears
I fell in love with the truth.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 7:09 PM 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,
✿⊰✲⊱✿
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,
✿⊰✲⊱✿
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
The rain is falling, coalescing now
Off the roof onto new blooms.
Dusk slips in with its indigo shroud
And I watch it kiss the purple,
Of the Rhododendron’s earliest flower,
Plucking away Azalea’s last veil,
Hiding her into a bower,
Where summer never ends
And the rain falls when it will;
I would have this all year instead of an end
Where these soft mists know nothing of a chill
But heat and rain,
Sun and shower.
I can still hear raindrops drumming
On a Chinese rebel’s tin roof,
Outside Jakarta and the red guard coming,
We could lapse into hypnosis,
Rapt senses gently humming.
Despite our temperate flowers and leaves
That droop under the deluge.
Their color seems to strengthen as they grieve,
And they cluster, seeking refuge,
Yet from our New England loggia,
A stream turns them darker, a humid green.
And in the slowly deepening dusk,
The trees’ heads toss, agitated,
Like elegant women whose gowns have cost
A tidy sum and now are saturated.
Their full, green plumage lost.
I love the mockingbirds’ changing cries,
Announcing from to squeal to carillon.
Cardinals’ song change from pleasure to pain
Flashing coats of taupe to vermilion.
As the evening slowly dies.
It ends and begins with summer, summer,
Soundless footsteps in the rain.
A prismatic wakening from slumber,
A season with no name.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 10:06 AM UTC
Slow dance of filings on parchment peace
savouring the beats, my percussion hips.
Look the rampage like other man's wife.
When the dark flag bites, hymns cease
and millennia entomb; heaped heads,
tented eaves, latest art in the desert souk.
Shik-shak-shok. The sharqi goes.
Flooring it to the rhythm of dunes, as
fires spew snow into the vale of prunes.
Chaos of magnets pirouetting a ride.
Bomb them, when nuisance gets, some
hundred women, few thousand children,
not bad price, securing the heathen trail.
Shik-shak-shok. The sharqi goes.
Veil the faithful, jail the ***** Chaos
is hope. Kaleidoscopic, cathartic taupe.
Riding the tiger, picturing a goat.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
Some may call it cliche, but I think I found myself today
standing there under the small waterfall and gazing up to watch the individual drops spiraling down towards my face in slow motion, almost as if each one, slowly yet rushed, leaned into kiss
my eyelid, my open mouthed smile, my collar bone,
without hesitation.
They knew exactly where they wanted to fall and land,
but they wanted to get the timing right;
they wanted the moment to be perfect.
And good God, was it.
When I reached my hands out, rainbow tinted droplets puddled in my palms,
the sun glistened against my pale skin and the water gave me satisfying chills like no other.
Vividly colored wings fluttered by my feet and the emerald leafed trees
shadowed and protected me and rocks of burgundy and taupe clay cradled me.
It wasn't the giggles escaping his mouth each time she slipped in the mud, or the way she danced careless and free beside me
that reminded me how great a treasure this life is; pleasantries weren't what I needed.
It was the intricate patterns of the silk and spider skeletons.
It was the uphill climbing adrenaline.
The masterpieces not created by men.
It was the sound of the water trickling between nooks and crannies.
The elflike mushroom homes, the winding creek paths and bees.
The warmth on my shoulders and glare through the trees.
It was the symbiosis of all of the living things around me
that most don't think to actually consider alive...
But how could I not,
when they're the only ones making me feel the same way?
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
This teetotaler turns to tea
torquing temptation
towards tippling
thankfully, though
that tremendous tugging
teasing tendency thirst *******
thru teaching this totally tubular
toothless titular Texan thuggish tyrant
(titled Tsar Terry Troutman)
transcendental theology
tenets taught transferring
torpedoing, taming threatening
titanic tsunami tempest
tastefully tickling temperance
testing trying taut tenacity
together teaming (troika)
triumvirate torchbearers
*********** therapist
(Tony the tiger)
tough trailblazer theoretician
toady treacly Tory
(Tommy Two Tone),
thence thirdly Theodore
"Tornado" Tornetta)
themselves trained to tamp
twerking tremens triggers,
their tripartite treatment told
tattooing thorny transforming
took this then truant teenage turtle
through time traveling
to those truant tumultuous tragic,
toxic, tipsy twitchy, touchy, tetchy
typhoon terrible two times two
times two times two tantrum
throwing, thieving, threatening
taxing textured teen tinder times -
tossing, tilting, taking tankful tolled
throaty, thoroughly,
thickly telltale temblor
toured terrible tournament
testing taupe tumbling termagant (Thaddeus)
tangling (Tangoing) tiny Timothy,
the treacherous tarantula
tying tussling travail – tata!
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC