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tm Jul 2018
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
and violets.
life is full of color, but one must be able see that to truly enjoy living
CEFord Jan 2014
Whispers hello as the first streams of sunlight
inch their way in through their black chiffon veil,
gleaming on our garden of stale breath,
and down feathers.

Whispers goodnight as his proud freckles
become the constellations outside my window,
and the moon stretches her arms
for another night's work.

Whispers sorry after his words became feather-lances
jousting through my arguments until my armor
was askew and torn
at its paper seams.

Whispers tales of tomorrows and fortnights
to come under illusions of rich greens, blues, and yellows
he will finger paint on my forehead
like a warrior.

Whispers goodbyes, sweet and forlorn,
as he realizes promises and paints will not keep the morning
from snatching his prized possession from his cotton laced roost,
leaving him alone with just the rays of the sun
to admire his tail.
Lily May 2018
I watched the slow fade of warm light cascade
along the surface of the water

Incandescent hues of pinks and yellows
Into one deep blue.

You turned to me and pointed
To the line along the horizon
Where the sun melted into the sea.

There was nothing so reflective,
of the love you gave to me.
Mykarocknrollin Jan 2015
I always thought that autumn is my season
It's like my love for you
I am the leaves you are the tree
Cause everyday I am falling out of you
Those browns and yellows
Just represents how color fades my green feelings
It is for sure my season
Cause after that will be a cold winter days
And every night I wish I just never let a single leaf fall
For you are just my ground in my everyday trying to bloom for another way
eng jin Apr 2018
The screaming cheers
travel a distance far
in the divided hall
the yellows and blues
await the serving ball

an overhand strike
the ball speeds
across the mid-line

the yellows
dig, set & attack
the blues
fling & smack
fearless & skilled
the crowd hails

winning or defeat
is a victory for all
for the love
of volleyball
Bella Jan 14
Your beautiful colors line our earth.
Loving the ground,
holding it up with your webbed reaching fingers
sunken down into the soil.
You lift the ground keeping it from falling into the sky.

No other can compare à ta beauté,
alla tua eleganza,
para o seu romance,
to your delicacy.

You freckle the face of this earth.
Without you-- the world will lose its color,
we will bleed rainbows if you go.
Queens of color,
petal filled sunshines-

your yellows and oranges bring joy,
your reds and purples bring romance,
your pinks and blues bring childlike gid.

We crave you when you go.
In winters when you leave only small bits of yourself behind
we long for your return,
knowing without worry that you will return.
For we would not know what to do if you did not.

You are called by so many different names.
Buttercups, Bachelor's Button, and Baby Breath,
Izalias, Iris, and Iberis,
Pansies, Poppies, and Pony’s,
Waterlily, and Wisteria--

As The Leaves Fall

As the leaves fall in hues of gold and yellows
gently falling to the ground by order of autumn winds
natures carpet now does dance and swirl
my heart does leap and dance as they do twirl

I feel their fond farewells as they fall

the whispers of a new beginning
see new buds forming before winters call
life continues in hope in my heart and soul

Some of us go through a living hell
so strong it could **** you
it can make you despondent and feel alone
yet as the leaves fall I think of you

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Kewayne Wadley Jul 2018
When I'm near you I'm anxious.
At any moment I can explode.
A coloration of floral hues printed across the sky,
Covering you; the night.
Appropriately expanding.
A sizzle awaiting detonation.
Catapulted high.
Nothing to do but fall.
Fall in love with you.
Plummeting down unable to sit still.
Your hand the stripe that surrounds me.
Stars; echo in a crackle.
Change is inevitable.
The glory of being held close,
Counting every second until we burst into pieces.
Wandering around your essence.
Wandering in turquoise yellows & purple strawberries exhaled in smoke.
The moon forever jealous
Every night July everlasting.
The closer I get to you
Torin Galleshaw Nov 2018
maybe theres a way
to save me from these blues
I don't go anywhere I want to
I don't choose
can't keep my head up to the stream of cosmic music that is blissful above my head
I never find the answer there
and its dark everywhere
and even a breath is poison

now I know

this'll be the thing to save me from these blues
these blues
until the color on my walls
is bright and shining
from the window an endless wave
of purples, greens and yellows
I know
when the stereo won't play a somber tune
sounds wide and vibrant cascading through the room
until the heavens chime in and sing along

now I know
lmnsinner Apr 2017
Nov 2016 - The Fall Line


all the lines of man-made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting,
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution,
remaining hopelessly empty,
defining the watery soluble
inequality of null


The Fall Line

first heard the phrase months ago in Argentina,
standing before the c-shaped Iguazu Falls

the fall line
where the crystalline basement rock
erodes away the oncoming soft sedimentary,
there, where,
a waterfall is nature-gifted

so intuitive, so obvious,
what else to call the water's owned edge,
line of demarcation,
where we grow captivated,
mesmerized, knee weak,
traumatized and tantalized

knew that instant when spoken,
The Fall Line,
saw inarguable symmetry to so many lives,
would be a someday poem

selective service phrases stored and
someday up recalled,
a thousand, maybe more,
waiting for the confluence of
time and place,
to be a mother

letting my fluid sac burst,
giving birth to a concoction symphonic,
the emotions waterfalling, cascading,
the precision, vision seconds,
when words

pour, gush, surge, spill,
stream, flow, issue, spurt


silently crafted in the weeks and months prior,
the unconscious drowning in ache and pain
of suffocating drudge sludge of everyday living

all the lines of man made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution remaining empty, defining the inequality of null

the vision infection of the majestic fall line,
so accessible in an instance of overwhelm,
cornea implanted, the sounding call of sweet blissful

one more additional addiction unshakeable,
jumping from fall line to fall line,
it's the game I am played,
but the controller
is not in my possess

for the joy stick that drives my actions,
toys with me,
the human fool jumping
from fall line to fall line,
unsure of what he desires,

salvation or saving
Kay Reed Feb 2014
my eyes begged him to stay
even as his hands pushed me aside;
i chose to follow the advice of the more
physical threat.

the parts of his knuckles that were't red,
were white, and had little beads
of bright crimson blood
forming on them.

my lips still felt slightly swollen,
but so did my right temple and it was
throbbing hard enough to make me question
where exactly in your body a heartbeat came from.

the room was cold, even though it
was the middle of July and every window was open;
the sun couldn't seem to be able to thaw out
the ice that had frozen in his pupils.

the dandelions i had picked on the walk here
were scattered and flattened into the cracks
between the floorboards, their bright yellows
slowing darkening to a dull, ugly brown.

and when the sun had set, the dusk brought on
the relentless demons that hid in the night
that we both feared yet continued to feed,
stretching our necks for them to sink their teeth into.

i thought maybe there was a softening to the
rock hard grimace of your face only to realize that
my eyes were playing tricks on me in the low,
flickering light of your lighter.

it was when you asked for the last cigarette in my pack
that the vinyl we had bought that afternoon
screeched to a halt and white static from those
second-hand speakers filled the room.

i stood, my knees less-than-stable and hands
far-too-shaky, and walked to the door.
i turned, expecting at the very least a salutation
only for you to blow smoke in my face.

i closed the door on the remnants of your french inhale.
yeah don't know what i was goin for or where this poem was headed
L Maughan Aug 25
I have never been good at Columbine waltzes
with their spurred imitations and
violet invitations.
My blossom lets go in late summer
with the Arrowleaf Balsamroot
and the acme efforts of August.
I spread out in a disorganized
scribble of forthright yellows,
am visited by buzzy asterisks
and dotted eyes,
skip the budding anticipations
of delicacy.
I soak in the full Sturgeon moon
with its printer’s inky shadow,
shower beneath the
sparks of Persied.
All the Trillium in my shade
are bruised with pollination,
bear up the bracken that give away
their green to a dawn with
September on its breath.
The blue in my afternoon stretches
farther than a Heron’s  trailing  legs in flight,
remembers herself in the scarlet Kokanee’s
feverish swim,
is in the softest Larch needles finding their golden age
when falling from the tree.
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