"teal" poems
Someone stole my color
And threw it to the wind
Scattered like ashes
I don’t know if I’ll ever find it
Someone stole my color
From the face I know so well
I saw it in the cotton candy clouds
And the teal ocean swell
Someone stole my color
I guess that’s where it went
The world looks so much brighter
Like something heaven-sent
Someone stole my color
And that’s what no one knows
Depression isn’t black
It’s the color of a rose
It’s the light orange in a sunset
And the yellow of a peach
Light blue, my favorite color
So simply out of reach
Purple like my favorite eyeshadow
No, lavender, I’d guess you’d say
And my favorite music artist
Although he has passed away
Someone stole my color
Now everything’s too bright
I suppose sometimes darkness
Isn’t the opposite of light
Someone stole my color
So I’ll wear grey and black
As if in mourning
Until I get it back
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 9:18 PM UTC
*An upscale lounge well known,
For its ambiance and specialty cocktail,
Which includes live entertainment dancers,
On stage, in fine detail.
While a glamorous female stood in front of the bar,
With a deep sea blue martini, in her right hand,
In an ice cold oversized snifter, dipped in sugar upon the rim,
Where she leisurely stands.
With a pink orchid,
And blue twisted glow stick, placed inside her drink,
Taking rhythmical steps,
Side by side, in sync.
Dressed in a strapless dress, slightly above her knee,
Nicely fitted, in shades of purple, green and teal,
Displaying a genuine soft look,
With such great appeal.
When a young man walked in,
And gazed into her seductive dark brown eyes,
Reaching out his hand,
Asking her to dance, as he passed by.
She was absolutely stunning,
With fair complexion, short black hair, a beautiful silhouette,
And a radiant smile, reliving her early days,
An unbelievable night, quite difficult to forget.
She appeared divine,
Upon the dance floor, mainly surrounded by youth,
Dancing salsa throughout the night,
And mixed melodies, near the DJ booth.*
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
If I knew, maybe I’d say something,
Why I miss my cats more than my parents
Why I miss the teal walls of my room and the full sized bed
more than I miss my family.
Why I miss the green trees and ravine behind my house,
all I hear is a withering beeping outside my five story window.
This room is so small
and I have to bear it with another
and although she and I get along,
Alone is weighted with wondering when she’ll be back.
Home is more an empty house than a room full of family.
Home is less talk and more birdsong in the background.
Home is…
Not these tight corners and partying bellowing music down in room 809,
not the concrete walls painted white, or the lofted beds I can’t sit up straight.
Getting away from my family was easy,
and my friends hard.
Leaving was easy.
And wishing hard.
I feel, less independent,
there’s only so many places to walk.
No car to escape, nor a room either.
The closest I get is headphones and online friends.
And yet they are so far away.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:04 PM UTC
#*Is it just a hue
Or
Is the mountain actually blue
The sea and the lake too
Is imbued by the sky’s blue
I love the colour too
Yes it has to be teal and aqua blue
Yellow is so bright and right
Inspired by the sunlight
Red speaks of passion and rage
Sure, I am no sage
Colours bright, dark or light
In every hue, have a place of their own
Got to love them all*#
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
I’m knitting something new,
it feels good.
The new ball of yarn unraveling like time
but I’ve still got plenty left.
There’s potential in this dark teal wool
and satisfaction when I decide
the way I want to weave it.
I make mistakes, I change them
to become part of the pattern.
The stitches are like a song in my head,
I sing them, I tap them out with my foot
and whistle along to the tune I’ve made up.
I thought it might be a hat when I saw the skein
but now I know it will be an
infinity scarf.
My six inches of beaded rib is a metaphor for my worries.
Working my hands intricately help me forget them.
I have time.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 9:35 PM UTC
stitched Teal fabric
snugly hugs the hills and valleys
of fat and muscle
encasing the frail ivory timber within
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 1:21 AM UTC
Turquoise in the morning light
The treetops are alive
With the myriad of birdsong
As the swirling mists arrive
And the shaft of brilliant sunshine
Penetrates the greenish gloom
To illuminate the craggy ridge
In a honeyed, golden bloom.
The rabbits head for burrows
Retreating from the night,
A flock of teal, in unison,
Explosively take flight,
There’s a freshness in the morning air
A tingle to the skin
And the twinkle in the blue eyes
Lets a secret smile begin.
Autumn in the country glade
The russets and the gold,
The song of early crickets
In the leafy knoll takes hold,
There’s a brilliance in the crispness
In the piles of windblown leaves
And the healthy crunch of underfoot
Invokes a sense of ease.
The peacefulness is calming
The solace in the sound
Of the distant song of blackbird
In the tall oaks that surround
And the velvet feel of morning
Thrills the mind to warmly hum
To the glory of occasion
In the warmth of Autumn sun.
Marshalg
Beneath the reds and golds of Autumn leafage.
14 May 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 2:09 AM UTC
Slumming.
Slumming around downtown.
Slumming around downtown St. Paul.
A broke high school student.
A broke student with perpetual down time.
A broken down senior student letting go of time.
Slumming.
Slumming down to Raspberry.
Slumming down to Raspberry Island.
Walking across the Mississippi River.
The bridge had been raided.
Marching.
Marching down teal and raspberry stairs.
Icycle nose hairs.
Seeing my breath as my chest shivers.
I found my heart trapped under the solid river.
Teenagers ******** about freshmen that got the bridge raided,
Teenagers ******** about artists they've always hated
and artists ******** about things they've created.
Underagers slowly letting out smoke.
Underagers letting out what keeps their lungs beating.
Underagers slowly letting out steam, cheating.
Me.
letting out smoke that came from the ice.
Smoke of below zero temperature, freezing my insides.
Mindless.
Mindlessly walking.
Mindlessly walking through endless skyways.
Mindless.
Mindlessly talking.
Mindlessly talking about things I don't remember.
Until we've arrived at We-Be-Smokin'.
Huddling.
Huddling in a group.
Admiring the art that claimed the spot before we did.
Scuttling.
Feet scuttling.
Feet scuttling in place to outrun the cold.
Reminiscing of months before when I was sitting alone in Starbucks with my
venti white chocolate mocha listening to crazy George yell at his imaginary
wife. Not being bothered. Not being cold.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
emerald, olive, viridian
oh how you perplex me
forest, jade, chartreuse
why do you tease me so
cyan, verdigris, moss
such excitement arises
to be a word
to be a meaning
is there such a thing,
to have a feeling
to see a vision,
phthalo, pine, teal
are you the same
mint, myrtle, laurel
you make me envious
to be blooming, to be healthy
to be young, to be clumsy
are you callow, how about credulous?
but such a conservationist
unquestioning, so trustful,
tenderfoot and common
the tree, the lawn, the willow
though ecological and crude
a sage in all but name
apple, spinach, pea
aren't you scrumptious,
lime, kelly, bice
are you nature, how about luck
you're pungently rotten
though with such dark beauty and hope,
love and lust ensues
you're the jolliness of balance
and the creative intelligence;
of evil, and decay of money and safety,
will you resurrect me, are you immortality?
such jealousy arises
high goals and honor
so so allusive
healing and vitality
you're calming though fast
lush spring stability,
abundant generosity,
vert vegetation; witchcraft
an aphrodisiac I hear,
are you youth or fading youth?
sunrise and life, growth and fertility
sacred ideology,
eroticized though shameful
so romantic and humble
I see the third ray
or is the the fifth ray, the third eye
are you truth, are you vision
it's becoming a science,
so much compassion
the fourth chakra, the heart,
the centre of us all
a higher consciousness
such a harmonious aura
a hunter, a nurse, a solider, an outdoorsman
villains and superstition
misfortune and prosperity
with toxicity, sickness and death,
recycle and reuse
oh so powerful
you exude auspiciousness
just a holiday
mystical fairies and spirits
though also devilish,
cancer in the stars
a renewal of paradise,
biliously tranquil
are you refreshingly soothing,
peacefully restful,
a naive novice,
very understanding,
is there truly a term for you?
what do you really convey,
countless representations
a definition of name,
or do you signify the feeling, the specimen
the aspect?
though some have no locution for you
here I am,
stepping around the issue
you are you, in any word
yet with a different meaning
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
Lavender rainbows in teal green skies
Where all clouds are lined silver
Glittered lakes in powder pink
Feed pastel unicorns with pearlesque horns
Twisted in iridescent beauty
In a land of pretty pegasi
Dreams become reality become dreams
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
He will not light long enough
for the interpreter to gather
the tatters of his speech.
But the longer we listen
the calmer he becomes.
He shows me the place where his daughter
has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks
raising a skeletal pattern on his chest.
He thinks he's been hit by the wind.
He's worried it will become pneumonia.
In Cambodia, he'd be given
a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice,
the right chants to say. But I
know nothing of Chi, of Karma,
and ask him to lift the back of his shirt,
so I may listen to his breathing.
Holding the stethoscope's bell I'm stunned
by the whirl of icons and script
tattooed across his back, their teal green color
the outline of a map which looks
like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake,
then a scroll of letters in a watery signature.
I ask the interpreter what it means.
It's a spell, asking his ancestors
to protect him from evil spirits—
she is tracing the lines with her fingers—
and those who meet him for kindness.
The old man waves his arms and a staccato
of dipthongs and nasals fills the room.
He believes these words will lead his spirit
back to Cambodia after he dies.
I see, I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder.
He takes full deep breaths and I listen,
touching down with the stethoscope
from his back to his front. He watches me
with anticipation—as if awaiting a verdict.
His lungs are clear. You'll be fine,
I tell him. It's not your time to die.
His shoulders relax and he folds his hands
above his head as if in blessing.
Ar-kon, he says. All better now.
by Peter Pereira
.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
Wild splashes of beaming
Azure brushing back and forth
Tottering briskly on granite rocks
Enlightening excitement to our eyes
Radiance of teal drops sprinkle salt
Follicles misting up the atmosphere
Activating a rushing rippling of waves
Lashing playfully with each other
Looping to a sensational surprise
Apr 5, 2022
Apr 5, 2022 at 3:48 PM UTC
After my mother died, my room was filled with roses. When the flowers died, my room was filled with their sweet, rotten stench for weeks on end; it sunk into my pores and into my DNA and years later, I still smell like dead roses.
My sister confuses this smell with dead lilies.
A bouquet of red roses was placed atop my mother’s coffin as it lowered six
feet down into the earth. After the roses died, I wonder if my mother could
smell them like I did? I wonder if she still smells them, or, more likely, how long it took for the roses to disintegrate into dust like her?
We don’t talk about the body after death because we don’t like to be reminded of how vulnerable we really are. In high school, a boy asked me to prom using roses and lilies that were all different shades of reds and oranges and yellows like fire. Lilies like funerals and tombstones and formaldehyde.
I don’t think he meant to remind me of death. I don’t think his intention was to place me in a casket similar to my mother’s with its pink padded walls. I don’t think he realized that’s where I went when I saw his basement covered in bouquets of hellfire. I think he meant the roses to be romantic,
but I looked at them and saw my mother’s putrefying face, saw her intestines eaten away by savage bacteria and bugs, saw her eyelids drying out and peeling back like black and dead and withered lily petals. Embalming does not prevent decomposition, only prolongs it. I have embalmed my mother's
memory in the shape of a teal notebook. I cannot tell if it has
begun to decay or not.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
Blue is the color of the dragon-winged girl,
The color of the girl whose life was lost.
Blue is the color of the deity girl,
The color of the one who wouldn't pay the cost.
Teal is the color of the water-loving girl,
The girl who lead into a new world.
Teal is the color of the frightened-eyed girl,
The girl who into a new life was hurled.
Grey is the color of the logical girl,
The color of the girl who teaches demons how to love.
Grey is the color of the snake-tongued girl,
The color of the boy who thought he was above.
Green is the color of the story-telling girl,
The color of her brother who would fight and **** to own.
Green is the color of the blind and mute child,
The color of those who may have yet to be known.
Orange is the color of the reckless girl,
The color of the girl filled by desire,
Orange is the color of the samurai man,
The color of the man filled with fire.
Red is the color of the five-fold girl,
The color of the demon at the core.
Red is the color of the half-vampire,
The color of the one who wanted more.
Purple is the color of the plaid-skirted girl,
The color of the feral demon child.
Purple is the color of the girl who lived in the sky,
The color of the eyes that watch the wild.
White is the color of the once-afraid man,
The color of the child who never got to have a say.
White is the color of the defender in the skies,
The color of the one who took her own life away.
Black is the color of the white-pawed cat,
The color of the girl who shows one their mind.
Black is the color of the silhouetted man,
The color of the world they left behind.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
It is early.
and the world hangs silent, but the birds chirping their chime,
An angelic choir of vibratos
And tenor beaks
humming sweet
to the early tangerine crest of sun
slivers a powerful bar of light over the peaks
to a newly brilliant horizon.
Sweeping the dredges of darkness away
as the stars fade
like coal dust
back again, packed into their cupboard of night
one by one,
lanterns snuffed and sent
into the vibrating blue
as if the whole sky should erupt into fire
azure, hallowed morning pyre
Encircled by the gradient hues
of coral pink and castille yellow
Mediterranean teal
A symphonic
cacophonic
**** of birth
Good Day, Sweet mother earth.
Squeezed through the valleys
canals
allies
every nook and forlorn cranny
kissed with her blissful photonic army
And the infantile creatures cry with glee.
The dewdrops clutch the blades
the tender palasade
of petals
remembering their darkened escapades
slipping tender rain
to feed the dirt,
the lonely detritus
elixirs of the lovely night.
And the world bursts into a veritable
kaleidoscope of life
With a trillion pairs of eyes
accessing the mother dream
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
There's spring and there's summer, there's all that's in between
no listless skies of anodyne; now nature flaunts and preens
What beauty fills the hungry eye 'neath a sky of blue, serene
verdant vales soaked in sun, awash in palettes of green
There are pastels that awaken and deep shades that passion brews
created hues that trickle...sprinkled with 'chartreuse'
There's the green of 'asparagus' and that of 'artichokes'
Of 'forest', 'ferns' , of 'moss', a brush of different strokes
Fragrant plants of 'mint', then 'myrtle' and 'green tea'
'Emerald', 'jade' or 'harlequin' and 'malachites' that be
Off creamy shells, just 'pistachio', 'green apples', then of 'pines'
It lies too in 'sap' and 'teal', in 'avocados' and tangy 'lime'
There's green of the 'mantis', in 'jungle', 'hunters' and 'shamrock'
The lithe 'parakeet' fluttering and the lazy sanguine 'croc'
In blessed 'basil', ' pickle', in 'pear', 'olives' in 'bottle green'
'Gourds' and 'peas' that farmers grow in cultivars pristine
'Tis there in 'aqua' and 'seaweed', in the ripple of 'sea green' waves
In 'turtles', 'sea foam', 'anemone' and a 'tropical glistening lake'
From 'laurel green' to an 'army green' , in 'sage' ( a shade of grey )
The color of 'grass' , the murky 'swamp' , hues in array
There's 'neon' and an 'Indian green', a 'Persian' one to mystify
A 'midnight green' to bright 'fluorescent', oh, for green rainbows in the eye
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
She was painted so beautifully.
With little specks of crimson like the fire that burned in her heart.
Dots of pumpkin and persimmon dancing on that one patch of hair she never died back.
Drips of amber and daffodil seemed to glow around her body as she wished to feel happy again.
And a shaded emerald painted like bars which contained her jealousy because all she wanted was to be perfect.
Swirls of cerulean and teal like the tears that dripped off of her face.
And the violet dashes were her moments of tranquility where her hands created magic out of papers and pen and her mind was finally put to peace.
The magenta smeared across her lips, making her feel a tad bit prettier.
Dabs of maroon like the blood that was shed,
When she used the silver blade to pierce her golden bronze skin.
She was a colorful girl behind the grey mask she hid under,
All to avoid the threats she received in black and white.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
The fuzzy purple blanket under me,
Like fur caressing my skin,
So soft, so sensual, like a soft massage.
Soft black fuzzy pillow under my head,
Like a cloud, soft but supporting,
Cradling my head in its arms.
Colourful Tinkerbell blanket covering me,
Soft like velvet, rubbing my bare skin,
A cocoon containing me, to change to a butterfly.
Tight thong embracing me,
Holding that precious centre,
My well of nectar, held in a sweet embrace.
Soft cami covering my ******* my tummy, my back,
Soft on my skin, like a hug, a firm embrace,
Containing my, constraining me, freeing me.
Tight shorts hugging my hips,
My ***** my thighs, Peacock, teal, jade,
Bright and conforming to my curves.
All the textures surrounding me, holding me,
All bring contentment, like heaven,
The textures of my second skin of sleep.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 7:54 PM UTC
There is nothing wrong with being attracted to beauty
it is a beautiful thing
magnetics and irony
amethyst and memories
black fist of power
proud ovaries breathe melanin magic
hearts of silk spun
resilience is narcissistic too
you know
revolution can declare martial law too
maybe it already did
you would not know yet
the coal used to be us
now we are diamonds
stolen from the earth because of our sheen
our glimmer stuns the most magnificent darkness
a teal sunset sparks the imagination
hallucinating smoking quartz
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
Nestled in the mountains
Like a tree, birch or pine
Definitely a tall one
But kind of short, too
Medium-sized, I suppose
Two windows, glass
Seaglass, a pretty blue
Kind of green
Teal-colored, I think
Cerulean might be a better
Descriptor
Stone stuck together
The outside is pretty
Cobblestone, not brick
Like it was made in the Middle Ages
Or maybe the Stone Age
Yeah, that makes more sense
It's pretty here
Like a sunny day
Or a rainy evening
One of the two
Or both
I don't know
I just don't
But I want
To be here
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
✿⊰✲⊱✿
The hallway has teal arches with
high grecian columns, each with
gilded gold grapes and vines
entwined, kissed by the light of the
several crystal chandeliers.
With enormous paintings on the
pale blue walls - several key
moments captured and framed,
and age in no way diminished it's
strokes and vibrancy.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
I remember many times where
I had visited Paul and I
walked around his home,
telling me of his ancestors
achievements with a smile or a
frown on his face. "We can all
learn things from the past," he said
sadly. "And there's always things
done that we are not proud of. I
only want Luciuscemi to thrive."
"With you as King, I have no doubt
it will." I said with a smile and Paul
felt a little better.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
My feet continue to follow the
red carpet to the ball room as me
and my ladies pass many Luciuscemian
guards, all standing tall, lined up yet
all so courteous and friendly; dressed
in yellow military outfits, with red
shoulder capes. When I come upon the
end hall to the entrance of the ballroom,
I cannot help but gasp. Alive with so many
people in so many colours.
✿⊰✲⊱✿
I could see the dining hall in the far back;
lines of tables covered in coloured silks
and with many dishes: sweet, sour and
savoury, meats and vegetables, grilled fish,
glazed ham, veggie rolls and many
fine imported wines, fresh teas and
many more. Large ice sculptures of lions
and suns stand vigilant as the servants serve,
people laugh, eat and talk. Some walked out
to the balcony, some watch others dance;
long and short, this ballroom is an orchestra
for my soul.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
Here are my eyes
my fried eggs
teal lily-pads floating
on white albumen.
Here are my elbows
like deformed peaches
my knuckles the peas
wrist corn on the cob.
Here are my teeth
my frosty Stonehenge
a ring of slabs
solid halibut.
Here are my ankles
four gobstoppers
cracking as rocks
under her size-five feet.
Here is my nose
fastened to my face
the garbage chute
meets hoover hybrid.
Here are my knees
two wrinkled potatoes
mashing in their sockets
as waves crumble on me.
Here is my hair
my straw candyfloss
unlike her buttered popcorn
curly-wurly waterfall.
Here are my tonsils
squashy strawberries
wedged at the back
of the cave I once made.
Here are my lips
azalea-pink sweets
flecked with salt
from our slice of sea.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
his eyes aren’t merely blue
they’re a concoction of
star dust and sun drops
they’re teal with specks of gold
and splashes of silver
they’re mesmeric
they aren’t merely blue
they’re turquoise
with twirls of enticement
if you look closely, my love
they’re a dancing ocean
with hints of sapphire and hope
they aren’t merely blue
they’re hypnotic
they’re my daydream
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 2:52 AM UTC
She has a place for me in her heart
I've heard the others say the same
Yet I still
May rest my head
Where she would stay
Whilst all the others are long gone
Heart is a heavy word
Reminiscent of stranger times
Comforting to say the least
A shackle and a briefcase
Share her room with me
One wonders if an invitation is real
When not in writing
Enticement is real
As real as flesh and blood
As real as her
Laced ******* with frills
Bluey green
A colour best described as teal
Or was it turquoise?
Though that never mattered
Not important to me
Not a single detail
I told her not to be afraid of living
She said fearlessness is for the dead
I enquired about the living dead
She laughed
We are the only monsters
That feed off of life
We are the only demons
That go bump in the night
She is a goddess
A truly **** mess
I would like to pay homage
To the warmth between her legs
But there are many a pilgrim
And it is well documented that
I hold nothing sacred
Though I do have her favor
For now
Yet my invitation remains unanswered
I never knew a briefcase
Could be so ominous
Though she'll never be my queen
She still ***** me like I'm king
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
His eyes weren't grey,
They were a faint azure blue
That faded into mercury.
Pools of molten silver,
Glistening like diamonds
Capturing me in his trance.
A glint of steel; a hint of teal
His eyes weren't stormy,
They were bright and rich,
Shining in the night.
Light dancing like waves
In their inky depths.
I'm drowning.
His eyes weren't grey,
and I'm drowning.
His eyes are beautiful,
and I'm drowning.
I'm drowning.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 1:33 PM UTC