Long Colour in Poems
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* We were told to people watch to draw inspiration from the outside world*
Public transportation
Is
My
Source for real world information
The
introverted Man across from me shuffles his ipod
His lips move to
Lyrics of an unknown cadence
Lost in a day dream
Remembering childhood fantasies
He is Battling with Lil Wayne, Eminem or even Drake
Or feeling the guitar sing when he’s playing with the Queen
Just an ordinary man, no one would usually take notice of him
But the crowds recognition, the attention, the admiration of women
This was the life much more suited for him
The Bright pink colour in his cheeks or his laughter rising to the ceiling
Would be much more captivating
Than his dreary grey scowl, hardened from societies disapproval
He looks back across from me
Almost apologetically
Poets weren’t meant to be spies
I looked him straight in the eyes and told him Never apologize
Your dreams are closer to you than you realize
Love yourself first, and that trust will seal your fate
Form:
A curious cocktail of odours greets us
as we move in from playground
to corridor, to cloakroom, to classroom.
Beeswax fragrance: freshly buffed parquet.
Brasso smell: base metal turned to gold.
Jeyes Fluid: vapour killing vile germs.
Such alchemy starts our day with clean slate.
Playground cacophony left behind.
Now each sound has discipline, has purpose.
First bell: registration shall begin.
Next bell: proceed to assembly hall.
Lasses stand on round marks; lads on square marks.
Regular rows, parallel precision.
Stand to attention. Uniform inspection.
At ease. Handshakes and smiles. Peace be with you.
Silence pervades as we ponder our sins.
With ramrod fingers Miss thumps on the keys.
Staccato. Left. Right.
'Ride on Ride on in Majesty'.
A short sermon on compassion is served.
Then, school notices: soccer successes
and the listing of scallywags destined
for public thrashing at high noon next day.
Third bell: learning shall begin.
RI lesson. St Paul's Journey yet again.
In silence we colour in his route map.
With crayons on auto-pilot we day dream.
Our apostle arrives in Rome by morning break.
Black and white
Vibrant colours He created,
Photography then originated,
Pictures showed black and white,
With no third colour in the sight,
Emotions still were smiling bright,
Could depict every inside fight,
Now today we have as many hues,
Are they able to show all the blues ?
Sober at times can most impress,
Even the colours may not express,
Those were times of black and white,
Amidst most modern also don't fail to excite !
Written March 18th, 2015
By Dr. Upma A. Sharma
Joined poetrysoup on May 16th, 2013
For contest "Black and white film photography" by Giorgio A.V.
Character
What defines us becomes very clear at times,
when the generous spirit works in echoes of frames.
Beside the task of generating month end meets,
are the relations and trust with its deeds.
When prejudice and temptations are wrought,
establishing a particular colour in random thought.
As long the endeavors are not influenced true inward light,
the path before only seem to fall into direction of bright.
Can you with natural intuition very clear discern,
that true knowledge is an act of aware moments to learn.
Be a part of eternal resolve and hold it there,
and make this presence a pleasure to care.
Then those who go in company of vain,
are doomed by insecurities and negotiation on a late train.
Tying to solve the necessity to self-righteous gain,
not seeing the sentiment causing disappointing pain.
The agony to control the moment by influence rights,
trying to subdue the outcome by all might’s.
The act of manipulation as such becomes the endeavor,
in the name of compassionate rendered favor.
Then if the occasions will rise,
there will be no need to any scarifies.
The ‘if’ and all far fetched stories of suffering and distress,
are the cherry on top for the image in tenderness.
Those who take the law of reason as depends,
will have to question, the attraction to strange friends.
The temptation to influence the serene still,
is to challenging the forces of darkness coming to will.
Some of us have the right foundation taken to test,
providing the true peace that exist, for mental rest.
Then every moment with all its caring virtues therein,
is the solution by characters senses combine.
You are an enigma,
only found hidden under leaves.
A colour in the rainbow still unseen.
Fate has formed your mind into a revolving door,
without pressing the buttons,
it remains like dead seeds,
so I became your gardener to help you blossom -
perceiving you will flourish into the rarest rose.
Only you can soothe me from your thorns.
You are a sleeping volcano, sometimes senseless,
irritated by every polish to regain consciousness.
When embers ignite within your enraged eyes,
fragile flames spiral into bitter bonfires -
visible from scorching scars on my soul.
I always wonder
is this the last time I adorn my armour,
as I follow you into your internal inferno,
hoping your fulvous frenzies
are temporary like the last star.
You are a master in your art,
but I'm an alchemist with your secret ingredients,
so I tug your strings in reverse,
but never leave you dangling in a
disorderly drunkard manner,
because you are a unique, untouched gem.
Words are vortex to your heart,
so I summon silence to keep you on the edge,
but before you fall, I'm there to catch you.
You insist it's ebony, when it's ivory,
so I tell you to go left, knowing you will go right
and when you say you cannot write,
I Whisper secrets to the wind,
aware they'll carry to you like a typhoon.
As you vent, your metaphors manifest the
honesty behind the poison in your veins.
Suppressed emotions become poetry.
When you imply, I do not feel
and you are hellbent to hurt,
your wrath leaves me hanging like a punch bag,
yet I never aim back, knowing calmness heals.
I can tell you it's the final spring,
or I've laid down my shield and sword,
but you are unable to halt the slaughter,
until the sour aftertaste becomes pleasant,
so I place sugar cubes, slowly on your tongue.
I was born to take the stones out of your heart.
In this cognitive warfare of intellect and logic,
where you push and I pull,
there is only one winner, no sinner,
as in your quest to prove me wrong,
you succeed and that my love is
reverse psychology.
" Artist Nature paints on sky with airbrush using Sun rays ." - Poet
PAINTED
Setting sunrays to colour in delight.
Sky canvas to get painted as twilight,
using air brush , sketching deep , dark or light :
Spectacular view mostly random !
Sun rays got reflected and refracted,
on drastic dispersion were diffracted,
human vision got allured, attracted,
overwhelmed watching splendid album.
Sun rays twined with raindrops form coloured bow.
Seven arches shown and shone on rainbow.
painted by Nature to glisten and glow:
exhibited being pasted on sky.
Spectrum of Sun ! Violet- Indigo
serially came Blue, Green and Yellow.
then Orange , Red at end: Gorgeous show.
Artist Nature painted without a die.
03\ 28\ 23
Writing Challenge - " P " words
First Place
Contest by Constance La France
Blue is the colour, blue is the period, blue is the mood
As Pablo's mind sunk, on the meaning of life he did brood.
The death by his own hand, of a friend that was close
Left Pablo the poor artist quite depressed and morose.
His feelings from deep down within his soul
Could only be expressed by his brush, his goal.
To show how he hurt and affected was he
He painted the guitarist, the one that could not see.
A blind beggar stooped and cold, a guitar in his hands
Not strumming just there, muted background looking bland
Muted colours of blue that makes one feel so cold
Of the half staved, freezing guitarist, that looks terribly old.
The oil tends to blend on the panel lacking some colour
To express his heart weary soul, his colours ever duller
The guitarist is stretched, elongated, looks almost dead
All the feeling of Picasso in his life, this picture said.
Look at me, I am starved of love money and bread
No colour in my life, perhaps I am better off with the dead.
A reflection on the times on society way back then
The hopeless, the wretched, Pablo caught with his pen.
On the bland background of blue, a guitar painted dull brown
The guitar in his hands, the player blind with a sad frown
Was he a symbol that the blind have inner vision yet can see
The dejection, the poverty, the misery of times lost on you and me.
His period of blue lasted three long years before it was then spent
He changed his style with his moods as his emotions were pent
A poor artist who suffered with his moods as we all can do
He expressed them with pen and brush, much the same as me and you.
© 23/01/2013
Contest Entry.
The Old Guitarist By Pablo Picasso
"Fly"
Enigma
Out of nowhere
his voices arrived
He thought he’d
write a poem
Senryu
get the In to the Outside
Simple magic
3 lines
Mind erect
his smalls itched
freeze
dried
His mind CPTSD
crying lied
Laughing outside
he watched his inside
Hanging unwanted questions
out on the literary clothes line
snapped tight then closed
by all the wooden clothes pegs
crying
no colour in their lines
bingo
POTD delivered
applied
He’s dressed in
Gold Lamé
Sacrificial
bright
But they spit him out
he’s too Blue dyed
Easy
release
he came for a while
he cried
They nodded knowingly
they smiled
He was an Anomaly
Not part of their mouse-clicking pride
They all wanted
a pretty reliable Relatable
just like them
Tie-Dyed
He was an annoying
buzzing fly
Less than equal
they ignored his
Soul
Sigh
He was a treasure box of pearls
spilling before swine
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"Joker"
https://youtu.be/uzWv8m-it3Q
"Vision & Fury", humanising the Villain
https://youtu.be/cKpjCJlZViQ
International Suicide Hotlines:
http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html
she had attempted to colour in outside of the box
now the silver lining dangled from a broken necklace
suffocated her aspirations oozed discontent and sorrow
the shine had come off and no amount of polish would
erase smudges and impurity nor restore a once lucid soul
reflections tore at her heart and strangled in darkness
precious metal now a neck tie of craving for balance
reprieve from discomfort aberrations and delusions
pendant to be relieved from reversed penchant of life
at first she assigned emotions to one crazy error of judgement
distortion of passion disillusionment or mere false appraisal
yet resentments turned on herself in anger insecurity and fear
her whole mindset had been poisoned inflamed to the core
only complete reconstruction of Self would yield any success
which is when she decided to stop running away to face the truth
The days are lengthening, yet no snow
birds starting to nest, too soon I fear
winter still has yet to show her powers
buds forming on fruit trees need no frost
its icy fingers would kill them completely
All is too advanced, the bugs having a field day
gardener's will curse the abundant snails and slugs
that feast on their succulent sweet crops
we need several hard frosts to kill them off
a time of plenty too for rats and scavengers
who feast on carcasses of the unfortunate
much as I and others dislike the cold
for the balance of nature we need the icy temperatures
to keep things as nature intends them to be
snow or a 4 day hard hoar frost then let spring come
Let spring burst forth in her warmth and splendour
chasing away the blues left by winters icy fingers
and the world leave the stark bare white far behind
as colour in all its hues and shades coats the land
bringing with it, both, new hope and renewed life