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Saturday, June 4, 2011


The palette is in full array and the world is awash with color. This week’s prompt is that simple: Color.  Write about a color. Write a colorful image without mentioning the color at all. You are the poet/artist. You paint the masterpiece with words as your medium. Color my world; it’s all good.

Marie Elena’s coloring:


Perched above, on weathered stone,
I drink in the autumn colors
below and about.
My eyes see, but they cannot grasp
the full wonder.

And my heart turns toward You.

You paint the scene before me,
with a palette mixed by Your own Hand.
You fashion the vista,
continually blending color;
the scene ever changing at Your whim.

Your sun travels across the canvas,
altering hues as it gently falls
as a silk scarf in scarce breeze.
Gold catches my eye, where it was shadowed
only moments ago.

Leaves, as scarlet as turned rubies,
shimmer, then fade.
Clouds veil Your sun.
Emerald, pumpkin, alabaster, and onyx
gleam against a silver sky.

Crickets sing, while hawk calls.
Trickling water chuckles in the distance.
Limbs moan with the breeze.
Crisp leaves crunch beneath the weight
of Your forest creatures.

Nature’s song is broken by two who happen on this path.
They pause to survey the wonder below, and about.
Their chatter halts,
as they are overtaken in awe
of the magnificent display.

The moment of silence breaks, with a nearly whispered
“Oh my God – look at this.”
I smile.
Do they know they have just paid homage
to The Artist?

And my heart turns toward You.

Walt’s rendering:


Her cheeks flush;
the crimson spreading
to her heart
and her lips.
A young man’s fancy turns with
the blush of her cheek.




    Yellow afternoon appears
    Orange at sunset,
    Red at sundown.


    Your hair, ebony
    In yellow moonlight,
    Green in tree shadows.


    Blue ocean waves
    Lift white caps
    Towards solar red.


    Blood red lips
    Kiss blue princesses
    Awake. Gold dawn.


    These purple eggplants,
    Pale brown, simmering
    In gray pan.


    I asked Rose
    If her brown
    Terrier was yellow.

    Love’s color red?
    if green thriving;
    Black if unrequited.


  2. I. Clouded skies,
    drizzly fog,
    moonless nights,
    ancient winter,
    snow on snow,
    thawing browns-

    an achromatic world,
    without you.

    II. Golden corals of sunrise,
    blushing yellows of noontime,
    irised purples of twilight,

    variegated greens of springtime,
    cloudless blues of summer,
    passionate reds of autumn,

    prism of a rainbow’s smile,
    beam of a copper moon-

    my world,
    colored with you.

  3. Oops, forgot the title - should be "Color My World"

  4. I'm posting for Jane Shlensky, who still is having trouble doing anything but reading here. She's visiting me tomorrow, so we'll work on it. For now, though:

    Garden Art

    we memorized
    this friendly acronym,
    pointed toward our crayon
    boxes with each wax stick
    labeled, but color did not
    live in a box of worn wax.
    We imagined a kindly man
    in overalls, Mother Nature’s
    gardener, our Roy, an earthy
    dirt-squeezing gentleman,
    conversant with leaf shapes
    and tints, fruiting vines,
    sun-kissed citrus, berries,
    tomatoes, radishes, and ripened
    squash, their waxy necks entwined.
    His middle initial conjured
    freshly mowed lawns, string beans
    hanging from staked vines, cucumbers,
    lettuce, cabbage, jungle-striped
    fleshy-hearted melons,
    corn stalks and pale ears,
    pearly kernels hidden
    in layered shucks,
    the foliage of all vegetable life.
    Mr. Biv, we imagined, had
    his grower’s thumb involved
    in every step of gardening,
    pocketing seed pods, shelling
    sunflowers for birds of
    every feather—grosbeaks, chickadees,
    cardinals, finches—rushing
    to feed at his hands,
    his head firmly planted
    in the overarching depth of sky,
    thundering clouds a lullaby
    to his ears, piqued for the plunk
    of droplets on dry soil, his nose
    tweaked for the smell of ripening
    and ozone after rain,
    his eyes lifted for
    the promise of rainbows,
    the magic of mixing life
    with life to create
    new hues.

  5. Sal--really love your take on changing colors

    Size Doesn't Matter

    By Sarav

    Stretched out on brittle bark
    He's almost invisible
    Three inches of six foot attitude
    When I walk by, he pumps out
    One push-up, two and
    Flashes his warning flag
    A brilliant sun-set hue

  6. Attention Getter

    Passion, energy
    Glowing warmth, friendliness, smiles
    Laughs, splashes, sunshine
    Friends singing around campfires
    Adventure, fun, happiness

    Pumpkins, yams, carrots
    Tiger lilies, marigolds
    Autumn leaves, sunsets
    Peaches, kumquats, nectarines
    Monarch butterflies, clownfish

  7. Blossom

    Sweet spot of white in
                 a monochromatic world,
    bohemian butterfly
                 emerging from verdant asylum,
                 spot of wild whiteness
                          within a peaceful crowd of green
    achromatic star in leaves of grass,
                 celestial blossom.

  8. I'll be back when I've stewed down some.

    the Transmutation of Anger poem

    he Saw the Light
    when he was nine;
    began to preach the word
    at fifteen.
    then, black and white were pure, so pure.
    along the way, he learned
    of gray, and blending.
    what loss,
    not to have seen in god
    light, bending.

  9. An Old Acquaintance

    Upon entering his room
    there he was
    on his side
    sickly, writhing in pain
    jawbones jutted
    cheeks collapsed
    eyes fixated on vanity

    Little to no response
    as I called his name
    nothing but a grimace or grunt
    and gazing upon him
    I knew and remembered
    who he was
    An old acquaintance
    Someone I don't like
    to see very often
    I recognize him,
    that face
    You came to take away
    my friend
    and have succeeded
    You won, this time

    Well, Death
    I have one thing to say to you
    and that is
    Your end will come
    and your time is near
    when your reign will be no more
    and your authority will be relinquished
    So don't pride yourself in taking away my friend
    Maybe one day he will rise again
    Then what will you do?
    You will be openly put to shame
    But only time will tell of your defeat

  10. Still can't log in so...
    Michael Grove Says:

    Red Skies

    The sailor at sea so delighted.
    A fire in his eye was ignited.
    So he sailed on at sea
    in his ship gracefully
    toward horizons of red skies now lighted.

    The view from his helm would astound
    as he sailed on toward much higher ground.
    Red skies pierced the cloud
    while the wind cried out loud,
    “You’re the captain, turn this ship around.”

    Still the red skies at night kept on calling.
    while the stars in his sky kept on falling.
    Was so simple it seems
    in his net full of dreams
    to catch what his visions kept stalling.

    Still he captained his ship all alone.
    Behind the huge wheel was his throne.
    The strong winds blew with force
    yet he stayed right on course
    and he sailed on toward dreams of his own.

    By Michael Grove

  11. Michael Grove said:

    Paint Me A Rainbow

    I felt the love arc over all the pain.
    I’ve had a lot of sunshine with my rain.
    I’ve seen the light of day
    as it helped to light my way.
    Now, paint me a rainbow in another plane.

    Paint me a rainbow pretty baby.
    Two hearts of gold with shiny keys.
    Paint me a rainbow on a canvas full of love.
    Paint me a rainbow, pretty please.

    Paint me a rainbow with the red that makes you whole.
    Paint the orange band with the glow from a hot coal.
    Arc Yellows, greens and blues,
    always bright and happy hues
    With the indigo and violet for my soul.

    Paint me a rainbow pretty baby.
    Two hearts of gold with shiny keys.
    Paint me a rainbow on a canvas full of love.
    Paint me a rainbow, pretty please.

    By Michael Grove

  12. my love is a poet
    who shines like gold

    he weaves words
    of silk and love

    stretched tight
    across his web
    from which
    no heart can escape

    he paints me rose
    he paint me black

    and every colour
    of the rainbow
    in fact

  13. The variety here always amazes me. I LOVE reading them all!

  14. P.S. So good to see Benjamin and Sarah joining us!!

  15. Polka Dot Plant

    Gray clouds hovered in my
    eyes threatening to expose my
    pain at any moment.

    It was spring, but I saw no pastels.
    Only the dull brown of depression
    obscuring my view.

    So people sent flowers. Red and orange
    and lilac and white and dead. At least,
    they ended up dead after a week.

    A gesture to console, conjuring only
    sorrow as each day another withered
    petal fell, signaling a new death to mourn.

    And then, a little yellow pot was placed in my
    hands, full of sunshine and green leaves
    speckled pink. Comforting and warm.

    Hardy, even when ignored. A small drink
    revived it's vibrant hues and it grew for me
    until all the colors were here again.

  16. Late to the party this week. Great stuff, gang. Here's mine:

    Tahoe Blue

    It’s the funk
    she feels when the world is too
    real, and there’s not enough moon
    to light these waveless nights.

    It’s the hue
    she paints on to placate her toes
    when her lake ache burns deep
    and the weeks drag by, dry.

    It’s the hope
    in her heart as the calendar turns
    and her fingertips yearn for
    sandy sun-kissed paper, inky azure pen.

    It’s the ripples
    of water from her kayak’s oar
    and the echoes of her children’s
    laughter from a certain slice of shore.

    It’s the true
    reflection of herself in perfect turquoise
    glass in a place that tunes her soul
    and ever loves her back.



    The inky darkness
    that envelopes me.

    The dreary cloud
    that covers my days.

    My eyes, like pools of water,
    filled with tears.

    My nose,
    sore from blowing.

    The color I see
    on the other side of the fence.

    The bruise that is
    my broken heart.

    The brilliance of sunshine
    that I trust will shine on my world once more.

    P. Wanken


  18. Everyone has posted such marvelous work. Loved reading everything so far. Keep up the good work, Marie and Walt. You must be doing something right. I hope this little piece qualifies.

    Flake Power

    It began with feather lightness,
    The blanket that covered my world.
    Fruits hiding next to cardinal’s wing
    Shivered beneath blanket’s touch.

    Stealth created lingering impact,
    The blanket that covered my world.
    Within hours only deepest pine scent
    Remained to witness needled-trees existence.

    Gentle doves disappeared within
    The blanket that covered my world.
    Only men’s bright-hued machines fail
    To fade from sight within its rolling folds.

    Night crept in again to claim sight’s sounds,
    The blanket that covered my world
    Had returned for an encore performance
    And to relieve color’s burden for show.



    “If you were a color what would it be?”
    This was clearly not
    in the preparation materials.
    “Yellow.” she replied.
    “Why?” they queried.

    How does one pick a color to be?
    Does it depend on a mood,
    a feeling, a situation?
    Is there a wrong or right choice?
    What will it reveal?

    Earlier, she felt
    green with nausea;
    now, she was feeling
    pink with embarrassment.
    She chose the color absent from the room.

    But it wasn’t enough,
    they needed to know why.
    "Because yellow is bright and
    cheerful and sunny";
    (UNLIKE those posing the questions).

    A few more moments,
    then “Thank you.”
    She moves out of the room
    to await their decision;
    would she ultimately be blue?


  20. Good morning, PBs Poets! If the author of the anonymous piece that begins, "my love is a poet" would like to remain anonymous, that's certainly fine. However, if you were just having trouble signing in, please let us know who you are. I know if I had penned this lovely piece, I'd want my name attached. ;)

    Loving the work out here, all!

    Marie Elena

  21. It is true that commenting on blogspot is a huge trial of patience!


    Twirling and swirling they harmonise
    as pinpoints of colour dance in the air:
    motes in sunshine through prism of eyes.
    Light or heavy, bright or sombre
    shades in symbiotic rhythm.
    Multiple drifts in glorious array
    compelled to obey the rules of colour.

  22. Totally loved works this week. Besides our "picks," Salvatore and De blew me away! And Kelly, I love "She chose the color absent from the room."