Written: August 27, 2026. This Week's Poetry Challenge: The Color Blue
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Blue is the color heaven cannot keep —
it spills and settles into every deep:
the iris, the bruise of morning, the folded hill,
the sap, the vein, the daydream, the last will.
Lapis and ultramarine and indigo —
the solemn alchemy that dyes the soul aglow
cobalt, the jeweled breath that fills the pole
where the bright water pauses, deep and whole.
It is the hue of distances, and hush,
of all that recedes and never lands;
the blue-veined longing in the evening stand,
the sapphire murmur of the mountain's blush.
Blue is the grief the glad sky must impart —
the wound of clarity, the rinsed, the clear:
for blue is the color of the lonely heart
that, being infinite, is always near.
The sight of open flowers
Spectacular from towers
Tender petals that amuse
With kaleidoscopic hues
Landscapes in several tints
Resemble modern art prints
The brows of pellucid lakes
Glittering glossy snowflakes
Beautiful divine sunrise
Scintillating brilliant skies
Burning yellow tinged twilight
Sprinkling moonlight as fluorite
Swaying panicles with blooms
Exotic whiffs of perfumes
Originate from one womb
In vivid shades they illume
The lush green blooming valleys
Active fauna with rallies
The alighting garden sprite
Relaxes with much delight
An expo of July dyes
Mellifluous tunes of flies
Nature's astonishing fete
Offers a visual treat
Place: Honourable Mention
Morning slips in sideways.
Moonbeam dips a cotton shirt
into a bowl of dyes~
colors blooming outward
like shy creatures
learning their names.
She lifts the fabric.
Droplets fall in bright plinks,
each one a tiny skipping stone
across the warmth of July.
On the clothesline,
the tie-dyed shirt sways~
a small carnival of swirl and hush,
its spiral turning slowly
as if practicing
for some future miracle.
Moonbeam hums.
Not a song~
more like a friendly spell
to coax the colors
into behaving.
They don’t.
A streak of green wiggles free
and settles into a shape
that looks suspiciously
like mischief.
Wind arrives,
ruffling the hem
with the politeness
of a guest who knows
it’s early.
The shirt answers
with a soft flutter~
a tiny applause.
By afternoon,
the spiral tightens,
gathers itself,
and glows faintly
as if July tucked
a secret inside it.
Moonbeam takes it down,
presses the warm cotton
to her cheek,
and laughs.
Then she slips it on,
and the swirl settles
against her like a tame comet
choosing a shoulder
to rest on.
Sheep Shandra does not have to go to the store
She knits up her own wool, and she always has more
Today she is knitting an afghan for the king and the queen
they said any color will do, so she is making it green
She dyes it too? The listener was amazed by this news.
She is truly remarkable, said her cousin, McGlews.
If I need a bit of wool, I sit with her and do a spin.
Pretty soon I am covered in her wool up to my chin.
Will this too pass by?
I said to heath fire's glow,
watching sparks ascend—
The embers nodded match heads,
settling within ashen hoard.
Across from the flames,
a lone mirror held the room—
table, chair, and hearth.
Yet something was missing there:
Dyes cast and flouted, not seized.
The hollow chair's dent
still held the impression of
opportunities—
Once ripe for the plucking, gone
left to wither; passed on by.
They call thee stained, as though some fault were found,
In your pure transparency, cast as sad and frowned,
With the blemishes spread upon thy pure crystal face;
When color trespassed upon your virginal grace.
Yet what is glass but a fluid rich glow, a kin
To a sunbeam caught and taught to dwell within?
To show its ruby dawns and blue sapphire seas,
To warm a dawn, enlighten it, with a colored breeze.
Glass is not disgraced by what it yens to bear;
Blue rivers moving through regal saintly pure air,
Greens and yellows glowing upon an open pane.
Crimson hearts imbibed with red, to gleam again.
The dyes once poured into a molten glass's glow
Makes scenes much richer than plain glass can show.
Silk Smiles, Silent Knives
I gave my time, I gave my name,
I hid the cracks, I took the blame.
I stoked their fires, I kept the light,
I bled my nights to feed their fight.
They smiled in silk, they smiled in lies,
They painted truths with poisoned dyes.
Their colours bled; their masks unrolled,
They bought my trust and sold my soul.
I kept my pace, I kept my place,
I stood the long, unpaid embrace.
They learned my steps, they learned my track,
Then found my back and drove the jack.
The blade was theirs, I never knew,
The hand I trusted cut me through.
~Fizza Bukhari
Written: January 17, 2026, for contest sponsored by Constance La France
Quote: “Dusk remembers what the heart forgets.” By Poet
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I never questioned tastefulness or sway.
The vine bent through the fading of the day—
Not like the softness of your lips on mine
As dusk stole luster from the vineyard way.
I revere the earth from which I refine,
I implored for goodness, engrossed in wine.
Beneath the dim shadows of the fall crop—
It seems just warmth, nothing further divine.
Each week, I grind myself down with a strop,
Start our path, bound for the grave or the top.
A long stretch, ending with tears in the eyes—
Faith doesn't demand a grand ripple to drop
You drift by day, resting below calm skies.
No inflated self, just a lost disguise—
Gone are the cheerful moods and youthful tales
No grief or angst, yet left to stain the dyes.
I like Harvey’s Hash House, a greasy spoon
Could eat there all evening, watching the moon
Love their waffles with caramel chips
Jalapeno omelet helps me do claps and flips
I love their burgers, adore their fries
their cakes are colorful with loads of dyes
cinnamon rolls are bigger than my face
I truly adore eating at this greasy place.
I'm hurting inside,
My feelings are fried,
I've tried and tried,
Now I'm terrified.
I cried so many times,
Lied about my own crimes,
Hiding them in rhymes.
Priming my abilities,
To see through fallacies.
A disease I didn't ask for,
Yet my consent brings more.
It's been such a chore,
I don't want it anymore,
I'm poor and my body's sore,
They fed my core with lies,
My food is poisoned by dyes,
Pesticides decide the fate,
Of the vegetables I ate.
Feeding our vision full of hate,
Now no one wants to participate.
Trained straight through a TV,
They were programming me.
Making me think I was happy,
Now my body feels crappy,
I'm sappy and tired,
My system mis wired.
I fired the chiefs,
They were more like a thief,
Steeling your belief,
A false sense of relief,
Feeding us all grief,
Leaving us all hurting inside.
Ever since we were young, we wondered what it really meant to be American.
This is what we have found out.
America is freedom.
America is civility.
America is liberty.
America is justice.
America is allegiance to a flag.
America is forcing religion.
America is dying.
America is going to end because humanity would rather have a mixture of
Linen
Cotton
And dyes
Than save millions of innocent lives
America is going to a protest brandishing a knife
Because Americans don't know how to live happy when things are fine
America is following after hitler
Because human colors might make a strange mixture
America is leaving small children home alone to cry
Because America wants us to work a nine-to-five.
And remember.
America is doing nothing because “Other people are already doing something”
Well guess what
America doesn't have to die
So we ask you, mind to mind
Could you at least try to open your eyes?
dyes my tongue
blood red.
like when i was 13
and i was getting a little moody
a little pessimistic
if you know what i mean.
and i walked into the bathroom
only to walk out “a woman”.
but what really makes a woman?
is it
what’s in her pants
or what bleeds through.
is it
her willingness to eat the apple
or her fear of the snake.
i’ve never stopped bleeding since i was 13.
every day.
i’m bleeding
and bleeding
bleeding
bleeding
bleeding
heart beating
but bleeding.
scoop up the blood
and drink it,
let it stain your tongue
like red flavored candy.
Stellars so bright and so many
Generations of eyes fascinated with augury
Pillars behind the moonlight so plenty
Constellation of dyes adulated with sobriety
When you were young and gazing at countless stars
Year after year never slept at night without litted scars
Scars of night's canvass of twinkling lights
Pulsars beeping in the midst of darkest sights
Now that everybody has grown old
Asking why many stars have gone so cold
Where did most stellars hide and go?
Wondering why they disappeared and said "No"
Above the places where you grew up stargazing
Below are spotlights of people's wishful thinking
Now that you've aged and started recollecting
Bow and applaud yourself...
You survived even without dreaming!
Halloween
A twin we do not already harbor on
The inside, cannot reach from without grasping
Its relationship — as love needs love to complete
The docket...so does fear. So does terror need
Its own horrid port if to impress.
Halloween...little devils in costumes —
wee, creatures dressed for the parade,
Door to door. Trick Or Treat! The real trick,
Is that of evil seeming harmless. Playful. In
Theatrical, fantastical sense. And the treat,
The Devil activating negative seeds for future harvest.
Evil — sly, subtle.
Our makeup exteriors reflections of far deeper
Dyes within, tattoo illustrations, spiritual stains —
The many indelible, wrongly nurtured traditions —
World fruit bear witness to their sources —
Man retaining affiliation with dark illusion.
The spectrum of Fall sustains the glory of the tree's guise
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