"violaceous" poems - Hello Poetry

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 .

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Jan 26, 2014

Jan 26, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC

st64

What's Written on the Body (Peter Pereira)

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 .

43

*Violaceous twilights, clandestinely sated lavished 'til morn's early blush midst honey suckled euphoria, poems hidden 'neath satin pillowcases, written 'tween the dew of rendezvous' blissed arousal forevermore eagerly breathless, reawakening intentions aloft the vast obscurity of a wistful sunset's surrender*

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Jul 27, 2015

Jul 27, 2015 at 9:57 AM UTC

poetessa-diabolical

Wistful sunset surrender

*Violaceous twilights, clandestinely sated lavished 'til morn's early blush midst honey suckled euphoria, poems hidden 'neath satin pillowcases, written 'tween the dew of rendezvous' blissed arousal forevermore eagerly breathless, reawakening intentions aloft the vast obscurity of a wistful sunset's surrender*

13

As I lay dying from across the room, bleeding from across my heart. I said I swear, I hope to die. Didn't know you'd consummate my request. With strained, staring eyes and with my last will I reach to you. Back demolished, lungs collapsed, brow furrowed, hand imbrue with my A positive evolutionary force. Drip. And drip. Hand, now algid, now violaceous. Can't. Engage. Muscle memory. Rigidity. My limbs are limp, my last sacrifice for you. I never told you that I can see your soul, your aura. In this very second, as I lay fixated on your glaring portals, your broken windows, I am the one who procures this victory. Because even though my mortal being is becoming nullified at the expense of your hand... It was me who broke your heart. It was my touch that pirated your soul and you will die. Your energy will never be able to speak another's name again.

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Sep 26, 2013

Sep 26, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC

miss-jade-murder

My Revenge

As I lay dying from across the room, bleeding from across my heart. I said I swear, I hope to die. Didn't know you'd consummate my request. With strained, staring eyes and with my last will I reach to you. Back demolished, lungs collapsed, brow furrowed, hand imbrue with my A positive evolutionary force. Drip. And drip. Hand, now algid, now violaceous. Can't. Engage. Muscle memory. Rigidity. My limbs are limp, my last sacrifice for you. I never told you that I can see your soul, your aura. In this very second, as I lay fixated on your glaring portals, your broken windows, I am the one who procures this victory. Because even though my mortal being is becoming nullified at the expense of your hand... It was me who broke your heart. It was my touch that pirated your soul and you will die. Your energy will never be able to speak another's name again.

16

in the center of my garden of thought is an inky black pool an obsidian mirror that ripples and grows with each and every hurt, pain, and torment I endure circling the pool my verdant hopes my violaceous loves my carmine furies - their blooms crawl, intertwine, creep in a mass of emotion and impulse pushing ever against the center where my garden meets that ebony pond; a barren desolate blight of decay and hopelessness the vivid chromaticity of my emotion in perpetual campaign against the void that forever threatens to consume me

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Jul 20, 2015

Jul 20, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC

ron-sparks

Against the Dark

in the center of my garden of thought is an inky black pool an obsidian mirror that ripples and grows with each and every hurt, pain, and torment I endure circling the pool my verdant hopes my violaceous loves my carmine furies - their blooms crawl, intertwine, creep in a mass of emotion and impulse pushing ever against the center where my garden meets that ebony pond; a barren desolate blight of decay and hopelessness the vivid chromaticity of my emotion in perpetual campaign against the void that forever threatens to consume me

28

If the sky were red; Would you be scared, Or simply not care? If the shy were tangerine; Would you be angry, Or buy a tamarin? If the sky were yellow; Would you find it mellow, Or eat a bowl of Jell-O? If the sky were green; Would you think it weird, Or hide behind a tree? If the sky were violaceous; Would you be jealous, Or think it outrageous?

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Mar 19, 2015

Mar 19, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC

MFRP-3679

What of the other hues?

If the sky were red; Would you be scared, Or simply not care? If the shy were tangerine; Would you be angry, Or buy a tamarin? If the sky were yellow; Would you find it mellow, Or eat a bowl of Jell-O? If the sky were green; Would you think it weird, Or hide behind a tree? If the sky were violaceous; Would you be jealous, Or think it outrageous?

15

you were once worth the pain the boredom the sleepness nights but now you're not worth any of it the tears the heartache gone nothing that is your worth (violaceous)

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Aug 26, 2013

Aug 26, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC

violaceous

worth

you were once worth the pain the boredom the sleepness nights but now you're not worth any of it the tears the heartache gone nothing that is your worth (violaceous)

13

R coral cinnabar crimson carmine cerise claret cochineal cardinal burgundy ruby scarlet vermillion O apricot amber carnelian topaz nascarat saffron jacinthe tangerine Y flavescent lutescent xanthic citrine jessamy ictericious ochre meline G vivid viridian olivaceous teal zinnober porraceous and eau de nil caeisous virescent cyaneous corbeau celeste celadon pavonated azuline I cobalt peacock prussian pthalo saffirine aegean denim blue V amaranthine amethyst violaceous plum heliotrope purple violet mauve ianthine porphyrous lilac lavender too

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Oct 8, 2018

Oct 8, 2018 at 7:24 AM UTC

marie-anna-holshausen

roygbiv (rainbow colours - just for fun!)

R coral cinnabar crimson carmine cerise claret cochineal cardinal burgundy ruby scarlet vermillion O apricot amber carnelian topaz nascarat saffron jacinthe tangerine Y flavescent lutescent xanthic citrine jessamy ictericious ochre meline G vivid viridian olivaceous teal zinnober porraceous and eau de nil caeisous virescent cyaneous corbeau celeste celadon pavonated azuline I cobalt peacock prussian pthalo saffirine aegean denim blue V amaranthine amethyst violaceous plum heliotrope purple violet mauve ianthine porphyrous lilac lavender too

22

Afterglow grieve bereavement violaceous flesh limned kindled espied populace afflict exultation ayont disengage, uncage, redeem bewail materiality it would seem wager evil haply on dreams venerated existent ken ataraxy here transpires this idiolect soul-to Pliny's ism; lone eminently felicitous forebearer.

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Jul 6, 2022

Jul 6, 2022 at 9:25 PM UTC

Evilhappy

Dog Rose

Afterglow grieve bereavement violaceous flesh limned kindled espied populace afflict exultation ayont disengage, uncage, redeem bewail materiality it would seem wager evil haply on dreams venerated existent ken ataraxy here transpires this idiolect soul-to Pliny's ism; lone eminently felicitous forebearer.

10