This lavender crayon has always been a lie
As I am colouring a page while I loudly sigh
Because the task at hand is tedious is why
And not the pastel purple for which I try.
'I'd paint rainbows with VIBGYOR,' said my child.
My Violet, with whims, will be beguiled.
Indigo will inflame wisdom with zest.
With the garb of calmness, Blue will be dressed.
Euphony will adorn my grassy Green.
In blonde Yellow, vibration will be seen.
With vibrancy, the Orange will be graced.
With love and passion, my Red will be traced.
Colours in a spectrum should be merged well.
Designs of crayons have a magic spell.
I search rainbows in each shade, my child said.
With vital rainbows my child went ahead.
Yellow, happy dreams gone up in argon
Dancing dreams in laced clouds rained down to earth
White lights which give darkness a come-on
Youth's dreams, high-minded dreams what were they worth
Sometimes sleep comes upon an aging body
Resting in afternoon's sun-filled room
Wrinkles exposed don't match the clothes shoddy
Just for a rose-colored visit he said then vroom
If only he could have lived up to those dreams
If only he hadn't drunk the first drop
His life could have been filled with rainbow streams
My sun-filled room wouldn't be his last stop
Crayon box dreams can become reality
He passed while I made our afternoon tea
Dreams in various colours emerge from the night,
They escape the gloomy room,
Hoping to find expression in the light,
Desiring to awaken and bloom.
Dreams trapped in a box don’t tell a story,
They don’t sing a song,
They can never reach the heights of glory;
In the veiled, they belong.
The beauty of diversity lies in varied aspirations,
Time-bound and moving like ticking clocks,
Heralding blossoming inspirations,
But how do we hope when they lie in a box?
Dreams are like birds eager to see the bright sky;
Like blooming flowers, when kept in a box, they eventually die.
June 5, 2025.
My crayon box is filled with dreams’ color
Of joyfulness tints and happiness’ hues
Brightened by thanksgiving and praises ardor
Midst gold of gladness, devoid of sad blues.
Oh, there is green, full of life… healthy well
From God’s grace, so glowing, no one can hide
Along red with pink for compassion-swell
With shining yellow of worshipful tide.
Yes, courageous orange rules over pain
Defying horrors of blackness and fright
As brave purple soars with azure faith’s gain
Trusting the Lord* toward heavenly white.
Glad am I for crayon box dreams indeed
Colored by the Almighty’s gracious deed.
*Psalms 112:7 He shall not be afraid of evil tidings: his heart is fixed, trusting in the LORD.
June 3, 2025
1st place, "The Sonnet on Crayon Box Dreams" Sonnet Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Miranda Hawley; judged on 6/12/2025
Once, colours bloomed beneath my fingertips,
A world alive in every waxy line.
With careless joy, I painted paper ships
And skies where suns and silver moons would shine.
Each shade, a song of summers never gray,
Of laughter loud, of barefoot, grassy trails.
But now those hues have slowly slipped away,
Replaced by ticking clocks and grown-up tales.
The red of courage fades to aching rust,
And blue now weeps where wonder used to live.
What age has gained, it took with quiet trust;
A trade I made, too blind then to forgive.
Yet still I dream in crayon-coloured light,
Of days unspoiled and hearts that held me tight.
Her crayon box of dreams has at last grown
up and she no longer colors outside
of bound'ry lines, nor into stardust thrown
the rigid rules of ancient social guide.
Her crayon box of dreams has faded now,
somehow turning color into dreary
shades of brown, fading into shadow's vow
of docile living, forever weary.
Her crayon box of dreams asserts itself
in midnight madness nightmare scapes that flash
the wild kaleidoscope of her once self,
and into colors if she dares to splash
her crayon box of dreams again shall grow,
and rigid rules shall into stardust throw.
As a child, colors weave the way I dream,
Then what I feel and how I perceive.
My humming voice a dandelion stream.
Carnation pink, fairytales I used to believe.
As I grow my color palette shifts,
From rainbow of softness to only neutral gray.
I wear black heels, prepare neon gifts
For dinner parties I have to stay.
Sometimes I remember, how colors linger,
How my fingers once, on paper, dragged out hue.
It smears my dream in orange and lavender,
My crayon box, the only thing staying true.
I know my paintings inevitably go unseen,
Still, every night, I color my dream spring green.
I'd choose the perfect VIBGYOR and paint the rainbow.
My violet will enfold the zeitgeist with zest.
With puzzles and riddles, my indigo will glow.
With the garb of serenity, Blue will be dressed.
Euphony and equipoise will adorn my green.
A trace of lace of goodwill will grace my yellow
In my orange, joy and merriment will be seen.
Like the north breeze, with vigour, my red will mellow.
I search for rainbows in each shade and fail to find
To form a spectrum, colors should be well-blended.
Within commands and demands, crayons aren't confined.
Creations of crayons have always been splendid.
I yearn to paint rainbows for each one here on earth.
For this, I know I have to take many a birth.
My crayon box dreams, I've held in my heart
From when I was young to now when I'm old
The ones I recall all do hold their part
Memories of life begin to unfold
Hopscotch in colors of chalk on pavements
Back when I played with the kids on my square
Making hand faces at night in our tents
To play late out at night without any care
One, two, three spud- is a game that we played
And so was hide-n-seek, and playing ball
And there were games that my friends and I made
Those were the games that I loved most of all
So long I've lived and so hard it all seems
I've held in my heart...my crayon box dreams
When I look back ’pon a life, monochrome
A black and white me in a world of grey
How colour free were the streets I would roam
When dull, then dark was the path of my day
In that pencil sketch within which I dwelt
I could not predict as the grey grew late…
The glint in your eye, a spark, seen and felt
We shared a low wall for that; our first date
Never would I be a painting in oil
But crayons, perhaps, were tucked up your sleeve
A pallet of wax with which you would toil
To brighten my world with colours that breathe
And forty years on, you know what I think…
The guy by your side… that’s me… in the pink
I find a box of crayons on a desk.
At different colors I take a look.
I think of each color as picaresque -
as something or somebody in a book.
Three blues I see, such as blue-violet.
Blue-green might be a sailor’s home at sea.
Blue-violet could be a girl he’d met.
Purple is sky darkened, making him flee.
Although their passion had been orange-red -
black became his heart. He left love behind.
The girl’s heart, carnation pink, feels brown dead.
The cheer of yellow I now need to find.
I’ll draw a sun, and yellow I will use.
These dreamy crayons have too many blues.
When days of dreary tropes could feel no duller,
and gray heavens escape my pencil’s reach,
—oh misery!, it can’t be set to speech,—
my crayon box dreams of unbridled color!
When weeks waste precious hues for wanton squalor,
my paintings doning the pale death of bleach,
—or worse!—, if poetry can no more teach,—
my crayon box prays for fuller color!
Woe!Woe!Woe!—unto the whole damn affair!
My chalks, my pastels, ground to bits and dusts,
scattered astray in wicked winter’s gusts—
and cruel life squanders these, without a care?
How many months, how many years, until
the thrill once more spills forth from this dry quill?
Written: May 27, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Miranda Hawley
****************
Colorful crayons, the dreams of my choice,
Chalk, white, and red allergens hurt my voice.
Young hearts overflow with pristine lifetime,
While learning about our gone past sublime.
Like a box that cradles bright, varied pens,
Transforming basic scenes with vivid stems.
Shades of jade, azure, lavender, and gold,
Turquoise whispers like oceans, calm and bold.
Purple colors absorbed me as a child,
Soft blue calmed all the troubles of my mind.
Yet I shun the red; the shadow it casts,
Recalls too well the echoes of the past.
Same as how crayons fit in their holder,
I give each dream its special space folder.
Crayon Box Dreams started song of my life.
Song sung from carefree innocent childhood.
Mellifluous music, I couldn’t wipe.
That ran in prelude-interlude-postlude.
Childhood passed, entered in adolescence.
World extended, becoming brighter broader.
Life spreading scattering different essences.
Youth showing colourful spectrum in splendour.
Vibrant dynamic youthful days were gone.
Ran sublime serene seniority.
Lost importance in next generation.
Felt misfit holding no priority.
Crayon Box Dreams still calling in last phase.
But all obsoleted : Dragging dull days.
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