In the beginning,
the world flickered in black-and-white
shadows behaving, light staying in its lane,
stories told in grayscale grammar.
Then came the inventors,
the engineers coaxing color
out of electrons and hope.
Phosphors bloomed~
tiny red, green, blue lanterns
glowing on the inside of a glass cathedral,
each dot a seed of awe
waiting to burst open.
And suddenly
the living room became a futuristic sunrise.
Technicolor spilled across the screen
like someone had finally remembered
to turn the world back on.
Children leaned forward,
their faces lit with wonderment,
and parents whispering
that nothing would ever look the same again~
and they were right.
Because color didn’t just arrive;
it unfurled like a miracle,
bright with promise~
and we huddle together
in that warm electric glow
watching the future
teaching itself how to shine.
You may read the accompanying memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/technicolor_13892
In the tiny panel room, there’s a distant sound of thunder:
we huddle together, instinctively even though we are not acquaintances
two people caught in a small space while Armageddon happens around us
We exchange first names; I know this is the end
I have already seen several colleagues leap to their death
the woman has torn her pantihose; there are remnants of sash in her hair
her forehead has slashes of soot across it
I never expected this, I told her
an inner voice told me we had to get to a stairwell
We are 82 floors up! I argued. The voice was insistent.
I lift her with me, and force her to head down those stairs
It is dark and dreary. Evil is lurking around every corner.
My heartbeat has never sounded this loud.
That was 9-11-2001.
We are still good friends 24 years later.
The clock that once chimed
No longer recounting
The minutes and hours
Of the lives now left mounting
The bodies piled high
As they search for each soul
The sights all around
Should be taking the toll
The silence abates
As the footsteps move forwards
Searching each room
For those in the floorboards
Holding each breath
As they lay still and quiet
Hoping once more
Of escaping this riot
No place is Sacred
Nowhere left to turn
They huddle together
As they perish and burn
The end of the road
For those He's forsaken
Cling to His love
As if they're mistaken
The homes that they cherished
Now burn to the ground
Belongings forgotten
In this hell all around
Destruction abundant
The stench of despair
The lives now extinguished
Are ripe in the air
Let us huddle together
listening to the
hot breath of hunting wolves
not knowing it is we
who breathe so coarsely
so loud
so lost and feral
High winds have come to a land remote and wild.
Oak leaves tremble in the black of night
While critters to the underbrush for the present are exiled.
Like a giant thrashing fiend, wind roars with all its might,
Increasing in intensity as if something got it very riled.
Not many birds will still remain where there is great height.
Gone into thick shrubbery, they’ll hide away tonight.
Wolves huddle together, for they are clever.
Into their dens they go or seek shelter in other spots they find,
Lest things worsen, however,
Dogs of the wild won’t leave any of their pack behind.
Emitting long howls, they communicate.
Rolling thunder proves the whipping wind is more than scowling.
Not too soon will the wailing tempest’s tantrum abate.
Every wolf joins the wind in prolonged persistent howling.
Since the fierce fiend has now begun screeching like a banshee,
Scintillating stars tonight the wilderness won’t likely see.
my darling you look so radiant and bright
as we huddle together sitting in the candle light
A January Sunday
It is forenoon with showers of rain
Houses try to huddle together for warmth
The trees on the avenue are still wrapped
In light that comes on when darkness falls
At five in the afternoon
Indoor heavy jumpers are worn too early to
Switch on the electric heating
We watch TV, drink coffee, wait for lunch
Outside my window lives a chickadee,
he loves snowy green pine,
and has a family of about twenty-three;
he loves the snow and falling snowflakes divine,
and each morning the whole family sings for me.
Sometimes they scatter on clamous whirling wings,
off to a park nearby,
my heart is sad for their songs are like violins;
then, the beat of their wild swirling wings multiply,
they have brought home many, many friends I sigh.
On warmer days I bring them some seeds,
I put the seeds on my hand,
and am always in awe with their fluttering speeds;
I love each created by God delicate painted band
helping the birds helps me to grow and transcend.
They huddle together when it is very cold,
at times they lift a foot,
I think God not only gave them beauty but a soul;
each morning I must go to my window to have a look
I find them twittering, and tweeting in a clamor bruit.
If each peppercorn was a life,
each is saddled in surrender
of shunless damnation.
They dwell in anguish--
death row prisoners.
They huddle together
awaiting torsion
as the grinder rends
the season from their body.
All that remains is dust
milled over an entrée.
Twas daybreak as this bright morn I rose
Greeted at breakfast by my darling Rose
A brief time together as by seven I've left
Out to the garden, the street and then left
Along cobbled paths where the dogs bark
To work as the foreman, my order to bark
The abattoir workers tirelessly cut up the meat
Despite the condition, smiling at all they meet.
Chopping and cutting up every small piece
Awaiting a break for a rest and some peace.
A cup of water then back plucking the fowl
Some people can't hack the smell is so foul.
At six the work ends and the whistle is blew
We wash up our hands they are black and blue
Home via The Dragon for a jug of the best ale,
Men's medicine, a cure-all for what they all ail.
Back home to Rose, my drink she would pour
A simple life, you make the best if your poor
We huddle together watching the embers in the grate.
We make thanks for our lot, and what makes England great.
robin family is annoyed at Spokane’s rainy weather
They get a yellow umbrella and stay together
Let’s go back to the Midwest says the father, loud.
Yes! The wife agrees, looking at a new storm cloud.
They huddle together, bracing their feathers in the wind.
Mommy, Daddy, Zin and her twin brother, Finn.
At the end of the storm, they decide to stay.
Their nest is marvelous with cushy places to lay.
"Love you a lot."
Words never said with honest hands.
This devilish lip-service
conducted
by defrocked priests.
I will not love myself
until,
I find you in a hole
I also can jump into.
We will huddle together
listening for the
hot breath of hunting wolves,
not knowing it is we,
we who breathe so coarsely,
so loud,
so lost and feral.
"Mere echoes of changing seasons passed, Mother Nature doesn't give it a second chance or through as the axis shifts."
quote by poet
Mother Nature's quenching heartbeat,
Sipping the wavering unfurl dawn sun.
It teases yellow, and green loveliness
Of her rich breast, ripple dress endowment.
Sweet scented fragrance embracing of spring.
Bees dart, nuzzle among open vernal parasol blooms.
Iridescent organza rotates, awaiting playful feet,
Pollen dress laden in ambrosia, a golden dream.
Sun blending amber and lemon hues of summer
Rays of warmth, flicker through waves of clouds.
Indigo bunting perch on a wild sunflower
Amid a brilliant and pleasant rising strawberry moon.
Autumnal tint in the vast radiant cool evening sky.
The rustling crunch of scarlet and golden leaves that fall.
Living benevolent trees with generating slumber.
Chill wraith perigean full moon, fades into the ink-black heaven.
Mother nature slowly does sleep beneath cold snow.
Winter's breath blows when flowers are scarce.
Birds migrate, bees huddle together to keep warm.
Darkness slowly creeps amid shivering twilight.
Three chickadees on a branch
huddle together in the winter cold
they fluff up their feathers
one has his head tucked sleeping
two look about as the wind blows
beyond, the sky is frigid blue
It is easy to dwell in happy places,
When two wise men meet—
They wrangle contentedly
over the ways of the world;
When two fools huddle together—
They concur on almost everything.
~Contest: Bitesize Poem#54
~Sponsor: Line Gauthier.
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