Best Yellowy Poems
Hereabouts the thinning glades
Of sparse grey Birches:
Brackens crisp copper tresses
All aglow;
Gently waking Snowdrops
Lift their sleepy heads
From leafy beds of woodland moil,
When tucked snugly up,
Out of intrusive sight and just
Below.
Fondly the slowing bend
Hugs upon the river...
Banked heavily with frosted
Bulrushes
That shifting breezes once did so
Stiffly blow;
The faltering current,
That sped the pied Dipper,
Patiently seeks out the quiet
Devotions
Of her beguiling flow.
When the drawing Moonlight
Gives way to purple Twilight
In the gloaming
Of Winters sharp days;
When the yellowy willows
Weep watery glints
Lingering and loitering...
Pining for long Summers slanted
Rays.
For far, far, high above
Over the old red-bricked mill...
Whose creaking sluice gurgles
With long melancholy sighs:
Heavens twinkling stars,
Held briefly in abeyance,
Partially obscured by thin veils of
Dull-leaden, magenta tinged skies.
Where the low horizons fall
And briefly meet the mornings
On heathered moor, open field,
And inland shore:-
Here beached boats dreaming
Of white crested waves;
Soon the keen plough will make
Ready
To score the deep furrows once
More.
Now our Lady Skadi,
Purest and resplendent,
Through driving sleet
And blinding blizzards will ascend -
Returning to aged fortress
Of eternal Utgard
Leaving her thawing snows
To dispel long Winters End!
The hope of the living
None would hope, like a destitute, by the roadside to rot,
With their eyes and other vitals, by the vultures pecked out,
Oozing a cocktail of body fluids, unsightly like yellowy snot,
And their putrid stench pervading the air, around and about.
But, most would hope, though with a morbid fear of the end,
That a garland at least, or an array of floral comeliness,
Would from an acquaintance, a relative, or a good friend,
Adorn the dark envelope, of their cold and silent loneliness.
That, dark clouds of grief; torrents of tears, their signage,
Would thicken the air with anguish, as the news is broken,
That their journey had ended, if even with a high mileage,
And threnodies would be sung; words of their good spoken.
That, as the wreath(s), though freshly made, goes withering;
Memories of them, slowly, yet surely, goes into the obscure,
That of their good, even the winds would go on whispering,
As weeping usher their metamorphosis into organic manure.
Yet, most by their lives, do not on any place such a burden,
Or, on the elements, tales of good to convey throughout time.
Positive impacts, as engravings on steel quenched to harden,
We all must first have on people, to justify such hope, as a prime!
Oct. 1, 2017
Create Life Colour Me
Once upon a barren time, in the days of silent film
Colour code gene was lacking, across the whole wide world
Everything was blackybobs, mattish white and gray
Blackness was the nightiness and whiteness was the day
Then one day, a thunderous storm a thunderous storm so strong
Thunderclaps and lightning bolts crashed on the Earth for long
When the storm subsided, when the sun did shine
On the far horizon danced a rainbow curvy line
Born an introduce of colour, it flickered and it flashed
Across the land at mach one speeds, throwing colour out at last
It painted leaves with shades of green, with textures soft and strong
A hundred green, that had never been seen, we had waited oh so long
It painted streams and rivers blue, the sky was warm red glow
Corn fields sprang with a yellowy hue with rich brown soil below
Poppies came out with a brilliant red, the grasslands swung with yellow
Across the land this colour thing spread for every woman and fellow
A magic flowed throughout the world with piglets nicely pink
Deep purple fish swam in the seas, there chocolate coloured mink
Never again would things be bland, not now there was tint
It is difficult to imagine, so I will give you a little hint
There was pinks and greens and tangerine blue
Orange and cream and strong colours too
The colours had names with a magical light
They bounced on the dull and they turned it bright
There was of sense of joy and a new sense of fun
Colour was in fashion, it had only just begun
There was android green and atomic tangerine
Blanched almond and bottle green
Dogwood rose with denim and fawn
A thousand greens on the grass to be thrown
Electric purple and electric perth
A thousand million colours that would splash upon the Earth
To mention all the colours would take a thousand years
So spread some joy and colour and throw away the tears
I have lay dormant for too long now
slept in the shadows,undiscovered.
Until the all knowing mind and
excited eye of a Masai shepherd
extracts me from my mountainous shell.
From ultramarine to lilacy violet,
christened the Blue Zoisite
Adopted by Tiffany who cried in despair
'It sounds too much like suicide'
Renamed Tanzanite, after its origin
a most precious, unique purple gem,
or am I, not purple but yellowy-brown
A lavender hue,some might claim.
A newbie compared to the oldest of rubies
a rebel that will not be mined.
Immaculate elegance, exclusively
the most dazzling of earthly designs.
27th July 2011
Living
Paddling through life’s strong currents
Untitled my existence
A name means not much on Tuesday
Maybe more on Sunday
Or less
A tear defines a being?
How many, how strong, how real.
Feeling exasperated by negativity
Chasing feelings of divinity
Yelling yelling yelling
to the world
but the noise is confined to my head
little head contrasting a gigantic soul.
And the burden is there
What will I present to the world
In which way can I make a difference
Confined in public beneath smiles
Shed through tears in private
Pulling myself into tri-ality
Love the greatest power
has been my strength
read on you want some more
a lick, a suckle taste
I love a poems pastry
Soothing minds sweet tooth
Life is powerful
Yet soft and delicate like glass
Days come and go
Go and come
Blinking back tears of joy
As they meander across the pages of time
When I was young I felt so old
Now I am older I feel so young
As time passes we find new definitions
Some last
A day
a month
a year
Like milk churning to butter
find your way through the thick yellowy labyrinth
grab your telescope and explore for yourself
We live each generation through eye and imagination
Thinking over thought
Clasping the past for dear life
Let go of that pain’s source
I see, I see and see
I hear
I feel
I smell
Shaking my head at youth’s destruction
Shedding tears for lost dreams bridged on loved ones water graves
Come journey on what life wants to be
Buzzing giddy yellows and blacks
As they did on Khemit’s dessert shore.
A ribbon streaming in a hair dress
Little Sasha’s pecan skin and eyes running
Playground-ing dirt,
jungle gym-ing
Teeth ivory flashing,
honeying laughter
How she grow up?
Happy women, strong teen.
How many continue honeying laughter.
Where does it go wrong
Stripping, schooling
They left her at 18 when he returned
Died at 11 when she discovered new meanings
Decoding womanhood
Fist-ing my soul.
Running tears
dragging,
angering
silent
No type of living
Excerpt from Complexes
Once upon a time, in the days of silent film
Colour was banned in the whole wide world
Everything was black, white and grey
Black was night and white was day
Then one day, there was a storm so strong
Thunder and lightning crashed on Earth for long
When it cleared, when the sun did shine
On the horizon was a curly line
This was a rainbow of colour, it flickered and it flashed
Across the land at speeds so fast
It painted leaves with shades of green
A hundred tints that had never been seen
It painted the streams and the rivers blue
Corn fields sprang with a yellowy hue
Poppies came out with a brilliant red
All across the land this colour thing spread
A magic was flowing throughout the land
Never again would things be bland
There was pinks and greens and tangerine blue
Orange and cream and other colours too
The colours had names with a magical light
They bounced on the dull and they turned it bright
There was of sense of joy and a new sense of fun
Colour was in fashion, it had only just begun
There was android green and atomic tangerine
Blanched almond and bottle green
Dogwood rose with denim and fawn
A thousand greens on the grass to be thrown
Electric purple and electric perth
A thousand million colours that would splash upon the Earth
To mention all the colours would take a thousand years
So spread some joy and colour and throw away the tears
sitting
there
looking
like
something
of
a sunrise
pine
cone
all
yellowy
&
as if it was
dipped
in
ruby
red
grapefruit
juice
it
smiles
at
you
with
the
gritty
gross
intent
of
a
priest
about
to
break
all
his
vows
&
while
the
aptly
named
prayer
plant
of
the
forest
offers
up
those
same
shallow
little
nothings
for
all
the
other
plant
life
to
drown
in,
that
is
no
reason
to
condemn
it
for
being
perty.
My mother was a life-long keeper of photo albums.
She had several of them saved from her youth
filled with black and white faded to yellowy-grey
family photos of long-dead relatives
posed around a new grave or
an infant in a tiny coffin,
in horse-drawn buggies on the way to church,
my grandmother in the chicken yard.
The albums had faded brown covers,
crumbling black paper pages,
photos held in place with paste-on corners.
As a child I spent many hours looking at them,
asking who the faces were. Some she could recall;
many were lost to her.
There was one photo, taken in 1957,
according to the date printed on the edge of the photo,
which seemed odd to me, a puzzle.
In it I was a child of twelve,
dressed in what must have been
a borrowed boy’s suit and tie.
I stood next to my mother
on the front porch of our little house in Dallas.
The image was taken looking slightly upwards towards us
(the photographer was on the bottom step),
perspective exaggerating our facial features.
It occurred to me when I was older
that there was a paradox in the photo:
I was smiling and squinting into the sun;
my mother’s shoulders were stooped,
her face twisted in something internal
that I couldn’t see.
Perhaps it was the growing awareness
of my own mortality
that led me not long ago to look again,
to decode the message:
the photo was taken the day of my father’s funeral.
My mother was compressed by the agony of my father’s death,
a weight and loss almost impossible for her to bear.
But what was happening with the child me?
I suppose it could be called denial,
but I had moved into the now-familiar space of not-knowing.
Perhaps this blankness contributed
to my taking so many years to understand.
Whatever the cause, I wasn’t there;
my mother was too much there.
Blue rainbow in the sky
It is such a beautiful day
In this colorful rainbow
you can see all the colors
blue and white and green and red
so yellowy, kind of...
So, the sky you wrote
So, the sky you blew
Blue sky, you heavens, blue.
She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbor: “Winter is dead.”
—A. A. Milne
Y our old-fashioned lemony pie
E specially with meringue
L uxurious curd of citrusy yellow
L ight hue that exudes energy
O stentatious and tempting dessert
W insome jaunty, yellowy, crusty delight
Down by the soily brook they go, under the woody bridge.
The Featherly Elfins make their home to hide from the Blustery Fridge.
Made of snow and windy blow, icesickles in his hair,
he comes to still the Valleyville, blowing crystals in the air.
The Elfins chug their gluggy mugs and toast with foamy tea,
Chanting songs of winters gone to wake the Bloomy Be.
The flutterbys fill uptop skies with gillians of yellowy wings,
The Elfins song brings summer on over the melty cling.
Baby seeds roll up their sleeves to poke the icy ridge.
Down by the soily brook, we’re told, under the woody bridge.
In this world, everyone looks at it
for it controls all of our life
from day of birth till one's last breath
it can't be cut not even by a knife
This comes in many a colour
being yellowy fear in one's work
for bad timekeepers soon found out
so out the door, they go no doubt
Then comes the bluesy doom effect
cold in mood watch time in the night
next day so tired having no sleep
baggy eyes such a sorry sight
During holiday time among the oranges
lying in the sand looking up so bright
one big orange so fully warm shines
down minutes forgotten skin non-white
Look up at that post office clock
always correct so bright and red
somebody knows their job so exact
the colour of time it's alive, not dead
Silent Trumpets.
.
The yellowy trumpets
In great abundance
Are blown but make no sound
The crowds of blue bells remain silent
Without ringing
Upon the shady ground
All so quiet
But their showy colors shout out aloud
To the heart of the observer
As they in all their glory
Wave back tall and proud.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
Form:
I am the peakest of peaks.
I rise out of morning mist,
a castle of earth.
From my towers, I see everything...
where sky meets heaven,
sunshine meets shadow.
My spires: pine, spruce, fir,
cling where they can.
Eagles, my banners,
soar in the wind.
My courtyard is that valley below,
tents of blue and green.
Listen to my buglers, the elk,
boasting how they can withstand this climate
of wind, of cold.
I have no need of travel guides.
Though jets fly past my face
promising passengers rare vacations,
I am quite content.
When the Sun sinks in the west,
silvery purple and yellowy gold wildflowers vanish.
Banners are still.
Buglers sleep.
Then I lift my eyes where endless stars await my gaze.
As for me and the Moon...
we can almost touch.
The Sunny Month of July
She skips from me in a playful romp
Among the fields, yellowy plump.
Her laughter echoes sprightly alive,
In the sunny month of July.
To the chase, I engage in play
And call out her name beckoning, “Wait!”
Yet she lights on her feet,–proceeds,
‘Til my breath pause, but I am happy.
Then, she reverses and saunters towards me
With the russet earth on her feet.
Her spirit preceding her arrival
Rendering comfort ever so cordial.
These days of sky blue deep and white cloud fleece,
Bring rapturous joy I wish wouldn’t cease.
Fondly, we frolic and bide our time,
In the sunny month of July.