Inspired by Andrea Dietrich's poem: One More Lonely Night - Revised
With an uneven complexion - off-white,
the moon said, to Andrea, shining bright,
"Won't you, mine, always be"
"No sir, I cannot", said she -
"You are just a 'fly by night'".
There must be a wall there,
electric eels scribble there, and rabbit holes
go deep into words.
Those words wrote themselves,
they must have climbed over the wall
leaving only off-white smears.
I am done speaking of it,
at least
until the next inexplicable moment
learns to speak for itself.
Mary Ann had never looked so beautiful
As the church bell tolled loudly and echoed
Reverend Cooper shuffled to his pulpit
Bible in hand, staring down at the floor
She was not nervous about the big event
Her burgundy velvet dress was spotless
The lace around the collar white and soft
Her dark curly hair was tied with a burgundy bow
Her cherub face was still plump and firm
Her polished patent-leather Mary Jane’s
Were a stark contrast to her white tights
Yes, in all her 3 years, she had never looked so beautiful
From the front of the room, she looked out
Everyone was there - mom, dad,
her big brother who teased her for being a girl,
Gram and Grampy, her aunts and uncles,
even her babysitter
All there just for her.
As Reverend Cooper began speaking
Mary Ann looked down and noticed that
she looked so sweet framed by the
off-white padding of her coffin.
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”
Memories float along with sighs,
off-white moths, and butterflies -
and my third-grade teacher, long ago.
We all sat under a mulberry tree,
so a silkworm's dinner, we could see.
Entranced, enchanted ones were we,
growing, as moths and trees grow.
She read the story of Pandora's box,
unknowing what the future's key unlocks
in life's security breach,
but, in childhood's innocent shield,
such wonders were revealed
in the power her tales would wield.
Here's to those who teach.
Choosing which shade of white,
drives most people up the wall.
There's at least
152 shades of white
to choose from.
Despite being well: "Just White"
It's the subtle hue, blah blah,
hubris and hoo-ha,
that comes to the fore.
White can be darker, lighter,
cooler or warmer,
extra bright or dim,
so so cool, boring or subdued.
"Wind's Breath", "Extra White"
"Moonlight White at Night".
How can you choose?
It's the paints position, lighting, shade
and context that makes
the decision so complex.
Any color tinge, even within plain stark white
Can evoke a profound emotional reaction.
“Pristine” whites feel frigid cold, like ice.
Tiny tints of yellow, orange and red
feel "happy", “warm” or “sunny.”
Subtle slurps of green or blue
feel "natural" and "homely".
But, beware my friend,
Never ever choose:
"Off White" or
"Shades of Gray"
Heaven Forbid!
A stream of music flows through my mind
Petals picked, torn, ripped, from a disc
I can’t remember the last time it’s been tuned
Do I remember how to hum with intent so quick?
Or can I continue with this stream of fabrication,
Sewing its way into stuck keys
All the notes felt of a familiar off white marrow
Though the harmony cannot squeeze,
Through something so narrow
I’m sorry for the confusion,
of a backwards quaver
With gentle consideration
I’ll allow our love to waiver
In his old leather chair
he sits and blinks his eyes
the off white sits on his hair
like dust upon the mantle.
A murky sea of bluish grey
where smoking gave him cataracts
but they still burn of yesterday
the tobacco stains sit deep inside.
As he sits in his old leather chair
his eyes do blink and dart to catch
his arms sit closer than days gone by
holding close what was once there.
His words are lost ghosts of the night
his world has gone out with the wind
though the photograph she wore so well
the negative still burns a flame within
and though the light will bow and dim
to him his only company
the worn out arms no longer care
the weight lifts slowly from his chair.
Tim Horton, Tim Janis
Kofi Annan, In a scaffold that knots a shoeless
You are mincing me on a cutting board, these days
In pounds per pounding heart , with knives and bleesed hone
You were a father's lump and a mother's grace
And slowly in your ladder you learned to term these as art
Not those in Those Winter Sundays.
What did you do with that wooden frame?
Did you find the tree in ancestry?
In a writer's studio
Yes even without an autobiography
Surname, on a Harlem street, for one , Lucy Heo?
She is on learner's permit
Dreaming in off white in a bloodshed
That paid housekeeping in Ramses Two.
For a resume in pre-positioning Curator
Which rub will call prophecies of Moses through optical fiber
In Tele-communication.
For an analog togetherness, long gone, scare-crow , coo!
to exhibit digital exit, incognito, too.
snow's mirror image
moons glow reflects off white snow
picture perfect scene
Dusk unveils the stars, light by light;
as blue morphs into ebony.
And as silhouettes fade from sight,
scarlet bleeds from a dying sun,
marking the arrival of night.
Slowly absorbing pinks and greys,
chameleon clouds switch off white.
And Luna rises splendidly;
like a Chinese lantern in flight.
The decor of laces,
And fragrance of lavenders,
In the land of Georgia,
With attire of antiques,
The melody of wind chimes,
Echoing in harmony with grand piano,
Like heaven is playing harp,
And pearls bursting everywhere,
O, the modesty of it all,
Dressed up in high class,
Candles in rustic brass holder,
Lighting up off white wall,
Exploring ivory artfully crafted everywhere,
Rustic kitchen with wooden floor,
Washing bowl on cherry wooden table,
And outhouse under weeping willow tree,
Shining pond with lilies floating,
With creamy violets encompassing around,
A porch with rocking wooden chairs,
With peach ribbon decor everywhere,
Everything that resembles morality,
Were inked dry with a feather pen.
Disney has transformed,
now it is a zombie cartoon
for underachievers.
The art of being artful is the thing now.
Some propagandize, many would sell
your thoughts to slave traders.
A reasonable madness still masks
ulterior motives.
Micky the Mouse pimps out
tickets to the saddest place,
while it paints a childish face
happy.
The upside down nature
of a destitute culture
is a rush of blood to the head,
a mind laboratory
where gender is delivered
to a broken womb.
Written: September 07, 2023
______________________________________________________________
The bulbs hum with color in this off-white cube.
I move slowly, to catch the glimpse that's doob.
I wobble and drift through the sails of my mind.
Searching for peacefulness in this sleepless rind.
Outside forces can feel remote and far away.
I stalk a distant star within walls that can sway.
My body may be scarce but my mind may soar.
Uncover the cosmos of notions that we ignore.
Photonic pairs of notions dance in my head.
I sink to extreme depths where whim led.
Fade, disappear, oh weariness and despair!
Since I'd prefer to leave this insomniac affair.
I pursue my goals with faith as my guide.
With the dreamless embryonic night ride.
Sleep disorders may be outside my grasp.
I roam this frantic realm, lacking the clasp.
In the cracks of my ambiguity, ideas whirl.
With each raw hint, my commitment hurls.
I'm a phony hero, a fallow shambling traveler.
I'm still finding my own advice in this dark battler.
There must be a wall there,
electric eels scribble upon it,
and rabid are the holes
that go deep into words.
Those words wrote themselves,
they must have climbed over the wall
leaving off-white snail smears
travelling at light speed.
I am done speaking of it,
of this writing
that demands to be dug into silence,
at least
until and when
that next inexplicable moment
learns to speak for itself.
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