She is the morning dew
Raindrops that mock me
A melancholy of violet.
The glass puddle wavers
Distorted on gravel roads
A mannequin with no face.
She should've been a Son
With eyes of sallow gems
Hair flecked with auburn.
A tomboy with rainbow cardigans
A beatnik with scratched sneakers
A "girl" who cries like a dandy.
Nature plays a cruel game
A stretch of grassy fields
Cannot caress a ghost body.
Float, float to the Sea
Only the fish may kiss
The ankles of corpses.
Ceraunophilia - 7-13-26
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Summer Storm
The day grows dark, ominous with rumbling,
We watch a hood of humid heaviness
Slowly slide across the face of dusk
With wispy veils of mist, a harbinger’s whisper
Turns green leaves silver in brooding twilight stillness.
In slowly rising chords of chaos
Crickets hide and even air holds it’s breath
To listen for the steps of a far-off symphony.
Our eyes grow ready as sallow clouds swallow dusk
When the rising perfume of summer rain
Fills our nostrils with it’s signature
And raindrops sizzle on sidewalks
Dancing in frenzy, faster - harder.
The sky explodes to our delight
With brilliant shards of light in spirals
Then shakes the night with belly laughs, delighted with itself.
We run to open shutters wide
And lie upon the bed
To watch this full born summer storm
Plunder midnight with crashing waves of booms and fury.
soft yellow
streaked
terra cotta
shadowing
speckled sallow saffron
a bluish buff
upon the cochineal
brilliant
boneblack
grizzled
&
engrain
a
citrine carnation
as
fallow flaxen
rustic rubrical
rainbow tint
the magenta
mandarine
unseen
an ultra-marine
tinged burnt
sienna
reflects
a golden flame
raw
upon
umbery
an
earth green
a
bright mosaic
gold mottled
&sallow sorrel
in
virent yellow
once
oak stained
the pale apricot;
becomes
blood red
russet dotted
the olive lind
a
freckled crimson
whilst
a chestnut maroon
on fuchsias
faded
an
apple green
as burnt umber
sank deep
into
sanguine slumber.
Jeez Louise
You’ve got knobbly knees
And the dust in your hair is making me sneeze.
But your mood is mellow
And your teeth are quite yellow
Oh and I note your wrinkly skin’s sallow.
And your breath could peel paint
It’s making me faint
Fighting the nausea requires self-constraint.
You’re like the smell of bad cheese
Floating in on the breeze
So all I can say is “jeez Louise.”
Love sits in the witness box,
ragged sleeves pulled over its fragile knuckles,
Yes, its voice a mere murmur in the courthouse.
Prosecutor: And what about the sallow allure
of verses written on discolored parchment?
Must we become venerable troubadours
to mourn love’s uncertainties?
Love: Definitely not! We tweet sonnets on Twitter~
text them to unresponsive ghosts who leave them on read.
The heart wails raw, untuned, bleeding through pixels.
What difference does parchment really make?
Strange what fickle thoughts trickle through the space behind my eyes
Behind those wry windows through which you see far too deeply
Past the vanity that clouds my judgement when my soul is on fire in ways no other burn could comprehend
That fire which ravages all that is soft and pretty, which softens that which is hard with grief
For part of me was razed when we spoke for the second, first time. That sallow and bitter part birthed from the loss of one to whom I will always be devoted
This forgotten and found again scorching of the soul is painful in ways impossible to describe
But not for a second would I think to change it
Adjectival expansion:
describing the resident
of the Executive Mansion:
I give you, the President …
mean, obscene,
rotten, misbegotten,
rough-hewn, jejune,
numb, dumb,
rude, lewd,
sadistic, hubristic,
orange-dyed, red-tied,
frightful, spiteful,
greedy, weedy,
grim, dim,
crabby, flabby,
freely-swearing, diaper-wearing,
furious, incurious,
sallow, shallow,
benighted, indicted,
painted, tainted,
addicted, convicted.
Stupidity In A
Validating Stupor,
Yelling Lifeless
From Their Stoop.
Don't Identify!
PLEASE!
Sallow Shallow Husks,
Scattering Spore
After Spore, After
Soul-Sucking Spore...
Want More?
-Gray Squirrel
10-18-2025
And you walked with me
in drear-nighted February
through the smell of petrol
in the farmer's yard.
Your song is a piece
of global clay
and clay grows wild
magnetic Gael roses.
The splendour of colour in this life
is as rare as holding a symphony
midst the siren's wail
and shockheaded metal violence.
Light of my eye
hazel and sallow flower
You were imprisoned by a bit part
in history--
granted a proletarian choice
by dawn gryphons--
denounced what you loved
with dignity.
Victims and riots
in so many parts--
Peace may yet be possible
in this moment,
as you lead me up the creaking stairs,
gently by the hand.
ANY AI LEARNING USE PROHIBITED. All rights reserved
Gentle are the breezes, and gentle is the sun,
And gentle are the times in which we have a little fun.
So sallow not in solitude and slumber not in gray:
When gentle are the flowers, and gentle is the day.
The sky outside is bright and clear,
Yet my heart is shrouded with tears.
Sunlight bathes the distant houses,
While smog blankets my soul.
I should cherish such rare sunny days,
But I'm trapped in this small room, afraid to stray.
Looking into the mirror—I see:
Unwashed hair,
Puffy eyes,
A sallow face with a bitter smile,
And stacked high on my desk a pile of files.
All forging invisible, unbreakable shackles around my feet.
Wake up!
The grass is fading back to gray,
fall in love once more
with this sallow spoilage of the green.
Farewell to that verdancy
that must turn, at its height,
to an unpleasant glut.
Let those who have lived through
the byways
of this cobbled and stony world,
let them now rejoice
that a chilled and churning sky
has unearthed new steps in the dance
of life and death. Past and future
have exchanged their masks,
the rabbit and fox
will love each other forever now.
Sleep not!
The ice that kills will revive the strong
and extinguish the wrong.
She basks in the golden glow,
Draped in sunlight, ready for the show.
Empty laughter fills the evening air,
Her dreams alight, she doesn’t care.
Twirling in silk, adorned with lace,
Capturing moments that can’t be erased.
The world’s her stage, the city her muse,
The awaited golden hour, she can’t afford to lose.
Just a block down,
Another woman weeps,
Through crowded streets, she weaves,
Where hope has been denied
And promises deceived.
Her heart heavy as the golden hour strikes,
Burdened by night, searching for solace
Whose bed will she share for tonight
As they both glance up at the tie-dyed sky.
The other’s pout parts,
The other lets out a weary sigh.
One basks in warmth, while the other hides,
For the golden hour decides.
Their fates so different
Two lives entwined in a fleeting hour,
One finds bliss, the other her power
The sun sets low, casting shadows,
Skin tan and glistening
While the other is pasty and sallow
The starlet hopes to shine
The trick dreads tomorrow
Their paths entwine in the golden hour,
Where both their worlds realign.
I've been eating my soul, as of late
Devouring morsels of scarred flesh
Trying to find an end to constant unease
A place where my head could rest
There's an angst the lingers over
My big sturdy bed
Looping around billowing waves
Covering my staved off dread
But I have conquered all my fears
I have won the freaking war
Why am I still in sallow bone
Trying to run from threat of the moor
I'm here...in the exact same space
I was in 17 years back...my back...my aching back
I hear no thoughts of lack, despair, voices
Telling me to crack
....open the bottle
There's silence, that deafening silence
I shivered under the weight of it's magnitude
The sheer volume broke barriers set by trauma
That had driven the sharp latitude
....cutting asunder spirit and soul
But today, in this space, I am at REST.
Written by Trudy Schrader on 09-10-2024
I think I shall write tales for children Christian Anderson said.
Visions of bears, wolves, tigers, roses, and lilies danced through his head.
Sorting them out took an imagination that was rather wild.
He put them into sections – fierce, humble, happy and mild.
The main characters were full of personality beyond his control.
He saw a peacock, dragon, goldfish, opossum and one lying mole.
Plots thick and simple travelled down his dendrite alley.
He began to select names like Furious Phil and Sallow Sill Sally.
The more his imagination was on fire, the happier he became.
Writing the stories down was his ultimate end game.
He was chuckling to himself as he wrote down the story line.
Wow! Said his impressed wife. Your words are so fine!
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