Long Off white Poems
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Whisper of The Unheard Voice
Writing words of his heart where they have been hidden,
The beating of my heart is at a race.
This quiet of a man,
Has his mind been subdued?
My canvas is off-white;
This writer would write.
Silently, in pursuit of the muse for his words.
My mind is a sure place for me to browse,
But, my writing of this gray is not allowed.
A strive for words to come out to be.
Making noises inside my head,
Searching memory for the right words to be read.
I'm sure what I find, is true,
What needs to be said?
Turning my canvas, of closure, be a light blue.
An author stumbling to find,
Unwritten words are his muse at his mind.
Still, his heart he holds, he refrains.
Turning again, that color of the writing its canvas of blue.
Speaking of the underwritten words about to be written,
Stories are still a blank inside of me.
I write if it was going to be of a "Crown of Solid Gold,"
Be a foretold of a story old gleaming,
In the light of its hail.
Of these words,
Let them come
Where the end has already begun.
Literary of his choice of the words,
Just waiting to come out to be read.
This piece will be his way of breaking an authors' sway,
Unethically speaking, of course.
It's in my journal that I should be writing,
instead decided to take the words to Grammarly's site fighting.
At least to stay ahead of this poem's play, right, is the sprite, let's say?
Why not throw a tickle, or two, or three?
We were talking of sprite, hm, let us see, right now, I am thirsty?
Can I drink that sprite you wrote into play, haha?
Being of the words a sprite is a soda drink I speak, or, here is the entity?
An entity, my this is getting too deep?
Well, I guess that is me, in a peep?
My body, at fundamental needs to be in respite.
Before finishing the whispers of the unheard and unspoken heart, his heart has spoken.
I'll end in a whisper, good night to all, a good night.
The elevator opened on the 46th floor, to a small foyer and one plain, grey door
The door opened and a young girl, 10ish, in a blue, polo, tennis dress, said, “Hi! I’m Karen, you must be Anais. Will is around here somewhere. Aren’t you pretty, though? You go to school with Lisa? No wonder Will likes you.”
She skippingly ushered me from a bright, windowed, off-white, staircase entryway, into a deep-red, mahogany paneled library. A persian cat was soon underfoot, purring and winding around my legs.”That’s Misha,” Karen said, “just shoo her away if you don’t like cats.”
I stooped down to pet Misha who eagerly offered herself to be petted and admired. As I stroked her charcoal fur, Karen said, “Let me get Will,” as she scampered off.
A gold framed, impressionistic painting, pin-lit in bright crystalline light, hung over a fireplace. In the painting, two girls, in summer hats bright with startling red bows and yellow flowers, were sharing a book. The colors were rich, deep and swirling - it looked very much like a Renoir (I know my French artists). He’d done a whole “two girls” series. I drew closer - it wasn’t a print.
Though dazed by the opulence, I hadn’t missed what Karen had said. Will liked me. I longed to interrogate her about how exactly she knew Will liked me, and what form, exactly, Will’s liking took.
I know Will and Lisa (who would be joining us in a minute) are just friends. Not that it matters, we’re heading back to New Haven later - but Karen’s statements were capable of activating a girl's guy-dar.
Karen, wearing socks but no shoes, came to a sliding halt, on the wooden floor, by grabbing the door frame to stop an otherwise complete slide into the library. “You guys are going to the Ritz for lunch?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, in a way that indicated that she knew the answer quite well.
The Ritz Carlton is a block away and our mission was to grab the food and bring it back here to eat. “Mind if I join?” she said, before I could answer her first question, all wide-eyed, blinking impatience.
“I don’t mind at ALL.” I said, Karen whooped and was off again down the hall. “I’M COMING TOO!” she yelled. I chuckled, knowingly - I’ve been there - I’m a little sister too.
It was January '68
Chapter 1 - arrival
by Franklin Price
2/13/2019
It was January '68
The place was Cam Ranh Bay
The embattled country, Vietnam
Home's half a world away
Had not a clue what to expect
As I left the freedom plane
Return was one long year away
Quite an adjustment for my brain
The Air Force was my service branch
Nav-Aids my specialty
Was in since 1965
Pounding the ground was not to be
Processing in was just a blur
This place was new to me
The sun was blinding off white sand
That was everywhere to see
Somehow got to the squadron
To the place I'd lay my head
To a hooch with canvas roof
Where a cot would be my bed
Of course no air conditioning
Had to contend with tropic clime
Was glad was raised in Florida
Had no AC any time
Soon found there were cold showers
No hot water to be found
A six seater for a ter
No flushing toilets were around
No hole, as with an outhouse,
Half drums caught the downward bound
When full, burned with jet fuel
And spread the ashes on the ground
485th GEEIA was my squadron
Could not wait for TDY
Nothing to do when home at Cam Ranh
But rake the sand and wonder why
In the consuming time of day
the water of the no longer frozen pond
is again home to a family of ducks
floating quietly in the center, as if praying
at the table prior to evening’s dinner.
High above the pond, a large flock of blackbirds
zigzagged through the air…swoosh!...gone!
their leaders guiding them to new adventures.
At the horizon, the golden setting sun
savors his last look before exiting the day.
Through gentle off-white clouds, warm rays
beamed down on the ghostly roadside forest,
silhouetting naked arms of trees raised in the sky;
awaiting the resurrection of their assured greenings.
In the middle of the forest, a strange tree peeks out;
its white blossoms reflecting those of my head.
The changing consuming time has indeed blessed us both
in being perpendicularly rooted in this scene’s surreal beauty.
With a smile creeping across my face,
a prayer of thanksgiving flowed from my heart
to the heavens above: Amen...Amen…Amen…
This has been another day of being free
from harm; free from causing harm.
I awake royal blue
It fades to a teal
Just a different hue
To change my appeal
Come noon, neon yellow
Before long, an off white
For a moment I'm mellow
Seeing the light
Everyday, come supper
I'm as red as an apple
A weathered fixer upper
Splotchy and dappled
Much too often
My colors bleed out
I find myself caught in
A saturation drought
My contrast, I tweak
Adjusting my vibrance
For hidden hues, I seek
In hopes to enhance
Sometimes I find
I'm underexposed
I can't see when I'm blind
Or fix what doesn't show
In desperate moments
I click delete
Though the process is dense
Again, I'll repeat
Often I'll distort
Overindulge in a tone
An alternative port
Highlights blown
I manipulate emotions
With photoshop talents
My colors I blend
It's a daily balance
Veiled in the mysteries of light
black cutting off white
masked
a cottonwood whirl
of life
no debutanted call
you said left, I thought right
patience holding
frightless on an eerie starless night
your oceans brushing
about my tree
a sequoia rising high
above the waters edge
your wake ~ delicate
a soundless melody
that plays on for hours
and hours
in the breeze,
the gentle tease
the tide
washing in
and out
to the wims of night
the rustled leaves
a bed of kings
I, with you
in grave and height
stripping shrouds
shearing fears
climbing up the endless stares
abreast
a woodpecker pecks
an undressed nest
in piney wood
I know
and
I should
visions spy
her spotted eyes
true wonder
where halos go to glow
amid a moonlight high
there's laughter in that sky
air fills our lungs
creating a thousand soulful songs
we lay
contented with the coming
of the day
gorgeous as that may be
Was it off-white?
A cavity on the hem of my socks
Undulation,but palpably grazed
like the letters you never unfastened
I set sail for my untrimmed toenails
A cavity on the edge of my nail plate
“Ma, its uneven”
Notes, chords, and bolted doors
Inaudible, I pulled more thread
Attenuated, I pulled
The darkest possible color
Reached my wavering fingers
“Ma, it wouldn’t look good”
Chortled, was something funny?
I couldn't catch it
“Ma…my needle broke”
Rainbows glimmered after a laugh
I'm thirsty
My sock is missing
Two large figures left the room
Loose clothes
And covered feet
“Ma, my thread is thin”
how many times i saw him slumbered
but his eyes now departed of life
a mist of off white milk
now covered the sea blue
where smiles danced
and sunlight frolicked
The rise of breast
which echoed every breath
now gone
That reddish murmur
that washed his chiselled cheeks
now a greyed out blue
of meat turning tarnished
His hand i held
a cold popsicle lick
hoping for a returned grip
his lips that spoke with eager softness
now held the shape of you
i love lost in final words
but burned in memories pain
and tears that dropped
on pillow slip
just traces of before
and gone was all there was
I had a dream last night. When I looked into the mirror, I was wearing a denim mid-skirt with boots, and a dramatic yellow top with feathers—things I would never wear, least of all on a steaming summer day. I looked around and found myself on the dock, where my grandparents live in Keelung, Taiwan. My father’s ship departed from here when he was a marine; My mother would stand on the squeaky wooden platform as he left. The wind was damp and chilling—it’s always raining here, at my grandparents’. I used to hate it as a child, but I had a distinct memory from when I was an infant: when I cry, my father would take me to the bathroom and open the rain shower—the sound of rain would quiet me down, then my memory would black out. I guess I fell asleep...
A high-pitch note
———cut—through
my memory like shears.
I’m back on the dock, in denim skirt and boots and that funny yellow top. Then I saw her, a siren. I thought of her yesterday, when she surfaced in my poem. I've seen her before, once, in what I thought was hallucination. Her hair in a quaint braid, draped over one shoulder. Her skin aquamarine, so delicate I think I saw the veins underneath—but no blood was flowing. And her eyes—oh, her eyes—they were a milk-like off-white. A color somehow both calming and chilling. She hummed from somewhere deep in the sea. So far out I couldn’t have seen or heard, let alone fear her—Yet I did. Her voice coiled around my throat like a silent collar, ready to claim what once was mine—Suddenly she's in front of me. I tried to fight back, but what can one do when her vocal cords were ripped out brutally? So thin, those fragile cords. And yet, they alone stood between me and my voice. I wanted to grab them and stuff them back into my throat, but—she smiled like an innocent carol, then devoured them in front of me. My arms dropped. I nearly collapsed, but her touch froze me up right. Her lifeless touch sealed my bleeding wound, then my throat, then my mouth then nostrils then the rest of my limped body. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe—
Then I woke up,
cold sweat soaked my hair.
I still couldn’t breathe.
I reached for my throat—
she actually took my voice.
The woman wearing all white with surreal off-white hair scared me
She was white everywhere, even her face looked like copy paper.
She glowed white. There was an enormous reason I avoided her.
I had no idea what it was, but it was heartfelt.
Maybe it was her white hat that annoyed me.
My daughters gravitated to her almost immediately.
They were as enamored by her as I was repulsed.
You really have to go talk to her, my oldest urged me.
With great reluctance I approached her.
We were at a psychic fair, which I love.
I wondered how much longer you would avoid me, she said.
I looked up the instant you walked in,
recognizing you from another lifetime.
This annoyed me even more.
You were my teacher then, and today I will be your teacher.
I listened carefully as she explained things my soul needed to hear.
Wondering why I had avoided her with every ounce of my being.
Maybe we did not think you were ready, my soul guides whispered.
I gave her a hug, as I left, remembering her now.