I am a purple crayon in a box of pink
or so I think.
I steal the words of my brothers
only to claim them as mine to others.
Do I contain anything that is unique?
I am very quick to critique
someone else's words
when I am the one most absurd.
It is easy to live in this dream
when my ego is this extreme.
Is it obvious to all around
that I am not a king with a crown?
I am a phony for sure
not one with a heart that is pure.
When I'm dreaming, I sometimes fantasize
about opening a box of crayons.
And my subconscious scribbles sapphire skies,
coloring dreams in shades of gold and bronze.
Pastels and vivid pigments color thoughts,
using imagination as a brush.
And shades float like a flotilla of dots
inked in the brightest hues, and faintest blush.
My inner child scribbles between the lines,
drawing pictures no one but me has seen.
And yet abstract: accurately defines
that magical landscape of in-between.
A box of crayons inks my dreams at night;
filling my inner child with sheer delight.
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.
Amidst shattered hues, they stay alive,
Broken crayons, yet they thrive.
Purple persists in its royal grace,
Pink too, in its delicate embrace.
Shorter, yes, and somewhat marred,
Yet each color, its essence unscarred.
A tapestry woven, albeit frail,
In their imperfection, they unveil.
Awkward they feel, in a trembling hand,
Difficult to sharpen, to understand.
Yet in their struggle, a lesson learned,
To cherish each moment, each color earned.
Through the scribbles and the lines,
A masterpiece, against all confines.
A star awarded, a testament true,
In every stroke, their resilience anew.
An A+ gleams, a testament bright,
In the world of hues, they shine with might.
For in their fractures, a beauty found,
Broken crayons, still coloring profound.
Childhood comes to an end when you go from crayons to the pen
*In this case, pen can mean writing utensil or penitentiary.
Scribble on the walls
with chaotic lipstick,
or maybe tag
with fine graffiti markers;
Make it nasty
or keep it classy;
Pure untamed spirit
with all of those wild colors;
It doesn’t need clarity
just some sincerity
to imprison an emotion
in an artistic penitentiary;
Led by a compass
back to where it all started;
Innocence and broken crayons
blend softly into art again.
I drew stick figures
things were simple
in a pencil world
mistakes were erased
you could start over
but an inchmeal awareness nagged
- the sky isn’t gray, it’s a liquid blue
but crayons were complicated
you couldn’t erase things
mistakes were irrevocable.
and there were 148 colors in the big box
keeping them in rainbow order was work.
growing up is hard
.
.
*Webster: Inchmeal: gradual, or little by little*
There were only eight colors
in a flat box.
They were round
constantly rolling
challenging
our dexterity.
We colored
“inside” the lines
lest we be chastised.
When we dared
we mixed the colors
made rainbows
challenged the “status quo”,
ventured “outside”
the lines
searched
for the Leprechaun
and his pot-a-gold.
John G. Lawless
©8/20/2022
We've been thinking how Crayolas come in a box
Because we hear they've been compared to a lummox
That's a funny thought, a mystery, and a flummox,
But we know red is the most used because it rocks!
Could be its gender-related that girls choose blue
Boys opt for black. Do they have a somber view?
Jenna always says, "Put it back when you're through."
Milt presses too hard leaving them broken in two.
Pink is not Milt's color. It's not his preferred hue.
He prefers earthy tones, like brown and bamboo
While Jenna seems to favor a deep shade of green,
Like dew on mountain grasses, with a glossy sheen.
We use orange for the sun. It's always plausible,
but avoid using the purple, whenever possible.
Milt doesn't have clothes in that shade of color,
For a boxful of thirty-six, we'd trade for our cruller!
Asking why boxes don't have the color bronze?
Milt was told, “You're dumb as a box of crayons!”
He looked at that guy like he didn't have a clue...
Laughing, Jenna said, "He has a crayon’s IQ."
A Collaboration with Milt Hankins
It was fun writing with you.
We've been thinking how Crayolas come in a box
Because we hear they've been compared to a lummox
That's a funny thought, a mystery, and a flummox,
But we know red is the most used because it rocks!
Could be its gender-related that girls choose blue
Boys opt for black. Do they have a somber view?
Jenna always says, "Put it back when you're through."
Milt presses too hard leaving them broken in two.
Pink is not Milt's color. It's not his preferred hue.
He prefers earthy tones, like brown and bamboo
While Jenna seems to favor a deep shade of green,
Like dew on mountain grasses, with a glossy sheen.
We use orange for the sun. It's always plausible,
but avoid using the purple, whenever possible.
Milt doesn't have clothes in that shade of color,
For a boxful of thirty-six, we'd trade for our cruller!
Asking why boxes don't have the color bronze?
Milt was told, “You're dumb as a box of crayons!”
He looked at that guy like he didn't have a clue...
Laughing, Jenna said, "He has a crayon’s IQ."
[a collaboration with Jenna Logan]
Written August 19, 2022
Crayons of a rainbow consists of spectrums of many unique colors of a rainbow also in human forms ever hanging similar as a traffic signal or a mounted clock upon a wall vastly changing as the seasons 366 days in a degrees.
All of these broken half eaten crayons
walls decorated with mindless nibbles;
Haul out the past of the remodeled house
recall a time of free spirited scribbles;
Trash, treasure that was left to fade
crash erased such carefree lines;
Cash left a masterpiece in rubble
flash forward nothing left that shines.
Broken crayons in my bag
Still has a purpose
It can add color to a dull day
Words, you are afraid to say
Can be shared without shame
These broken crayons still has its worth
Just like us as humans
We might be a little broken and bruise
But we are still important
We still have a purpose
You can brighten someone's day
You can paint another's sky with a myriad of shades
Be like those broken crayons in my bag
Let your actions be your words
©13102021
Have you heard
a carrot scream,
when dragged outta earth?
Or the yell of green beans
peeled alive
severed cross-wise, sectioned?
Or the curdling
yell of purple potatoes
plonked alive in
boiling water?
Or the plaintive cry of yellow corn
cobs stripped-searched, naked.
All to be less-wasteful,
and draw humanely,
and guilt-free,
in noise-cancelling
headphones.
grandson favors the black crayon
he always picks it first out of the lineup
even his rainbows have thick strips of black
to him black crayons matter.
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