Swatches Poems

salvation army

salvation army

she wore purple because she liked it.
hanging stiffly on the store rack,
yellow goodwill tag with smudged blue ink,
was it a three or five?
she argued for three, willing to pay five, she did.

her breasts had followed the alphabet
from a to b to c to d
and settled back on c
after some of the air had escaped her life
and left her haggling over purple dresses.

somehow salvation was unreachable
and the army refused to go home,
but she had purple swatches to mend the holes
and fingertips that blended too well
with gunnysack purple and bruised memories.

she remembered life in yellows and orange
bright colors that worshipped the sun.
but that was when she dreamed while still awake
and wished without a penny.
purple happens to life.  

and it did.

tolbert

Swatches

In my never-ending sofa search,
Which fills my mind with stress,
I order color swatches, which
Don’t guarantee success.

In fabric, if the color’s off,
That ruins the appeal
And leather samples might have grains
The site did not reveal.

My husband will not get involved – 
He doesn’t really care – 
For even if a new couch comes,
He’d much prefer his chair.

Yet still, I send in my requests,
Ten swatches on the way,
And if they don’t work out, I guess
My current couch will stay.

Painted Brushes

Ancient painted woodland rushes, 
nature's beauty, painted thrushes, 
homeland under vivid bushes, 
lovely Indian Paintbrushes. 

Deepest, dearest, darkest red, 
scented, softly in my head. 
velvet stem and softest leaf 
colored beyond all belief. 

Tickling that which it touches,
sentry keeping guarded watch as 
danger passes, gentle swatches 
of all time and breath she catches 

Yellow cousin, next of kin,
palest fragrance, fair of skin.
Summer scented sweetest two 
living, light-filled gift to you.

Swatches

Here is my talk
Bland and blue
Cause I know not
Your colors and hues
I don't know how to paint
The colors you'll see
If your red is the same as my green

Do you like to kiss flowers
Do you dance in the rain
Would you remember if the wind spoke your name
Would you hear what I mean when I say I love you
Or would you retreat into your colors and hues

It is my job it is up to me
To translate my reds into your greens
To let you hear the names in the reefs
Until you are ready to hear and to see

I'd love to mix paint
To laugh and to dance
For you to take your head from your hands
But I see how it is
I'll cry and wait
To paint color swatches on a dull monday

Washed Up

The tide and heavy seas
had washed up a wealth 
of treasures to lay at my feet
spread out in a long line
just like the way wares
are displayed on the street
of an outdoor market.

Shells, some polished 
to a sheen others just broken 
shards of a puzzle never
to be put back together again.
Tresses of weed, float bladders,
a cuttlefish bone and globs
of jellyfish shaped like petrified 
tears as if once welled 
out of the eyes of a whale.

Then there was a hoard
of man made stuff, plastic cups 
and brightly coloured beads
of who knows what, spoons 
and bottle tops, matted balls 
of red and green twine 
and fishing line knitted into
swatches of transparent twill,
a smorgasbord of human 
endeavor all laid out in wonder
and ready to kill.

Gathering

The long shadows 
are growing cooler. 
Soon there will be places 
where the light will no longer reach
and the river will wear
its autumn coat of leaves.

My walks are getting shorter,
contracting within a circle,
tightening in an ever diminishing 
circumference around 
my home. I feel a hurry
in my mind, the need
to gather and stash 
what I can before being
confined to a room.

I grab swatches of sky,
reflections, the shapes 
of trees, anything and everything
to stock memory 
with a store of stuff
a poem can nibble on
when locked away 
in a dark that seems
to have a no beyond.

What Does Your Fairy Dragon Do

What does your fairy dragon do? I asked my grandma Murr.
“I cannot share this until after I am gone, Little Dizzy.
This made no sense to me, but it surely did to her.
She wanted to teach quilting to me, but I was busy.

After her death the only one who could see the fairy dragon was me.
He came into Gram’s sewing room, holding fat quarters of cloth.
I have chosen the swatches that she wanted you to see,
He was a great teacher. He has been diligent, certainly no sloth.

He taught me to quilt and gave me enthusiastic praise daily
Grandma always wanted to teach you to quilt, he said.
I was astounded and delighted by this helper, Mr. Dragg-gayly.
Who helped me create quilts until I was also the one to be dead.

Quilting

It starts with a quivering lip
threads a touch from patches
to little swatches of fabric from
various phases various places of us
the first shirt you gave me
off your very back
was gray with a cartoon face
the hat from your kinky head black
and I use a piece of that
the jeans that romanticized everything
on that patch you asked
me to be your destiny
and on this very cloth
relic of the day we lost emotional innocence
the day we became familiar
it is peculiar we made love but never had sex
without emancipating clothing
we made love like a quilt
and it was my first strawberry passion.

Swirling Swatches

flowing   swirling
                swatches
swarm&wind
       bloom  blush brilliant
thru my mind

fervent fervid feelings
                   flow  show
as expression outward flow
flaxen yellow
              jostle   joust
my mind's eye 
                     view
brash brazen          blue
in
distant hue
stirring sensations 
                  hid below

ribald  red  racy  rude
cluster    crowd
   contemplations       crude
upon
  vivid   verdant green
imprinting
        inner attitude
impression subtle & unseen

contending colours    clash
with poignant passion   splashed
'til
  emotions   manifest
displayed
arrayed
         essayed
on
  canvas    unabashed

Time Is Elementary

The only reason for time
is so that everything
doesn’t happen at once

Albert Einstein

TIME IS ELEMENTARY

swatches of bands, smart
time is elementary;
strapped snug, cosseted
on a small-pale wrist.

coffee fumes and coal
chugging on life’s track.
cuckoo bird on half
and every hour —
oh, why’d it have to stop?!
(salvation in Grandma’s coffee cake)

polaroid portions collecting dust;
ink-streaked down
memory’s bust.

ironic how i can’t remember
the ding-dong digital or sundial
in our own home —
clocks have a mind of their own
busy with keeping its children,
well swept, wound
and educated.

6/29/2019

Distant Shores

O what heavy price for independence
Valiant men dying in fierce triathlon
Battling to their last breath for its defense
As they protect the walls of Babylon

Laying down their lives with no shade of guilt
While powerless the great sun god watches
Its ravaged empire pillaged and rebuilt
Over layered bodies, bones and swatches

My tears taste bitter as you sail away
Cross daunting distant shores of Babylon
Wishing there were a way you could delay
And somehow all our troubles would be gone

My heavy heart on the wing of a swan
Amid hanging gardens of Babylon



AP: 1st place 2021

Submitted on June 18, 2018 for contest DISTANT SHORES sponsored by ROBERT HAIGH  -  RANKED 6TH

Desirable Dawn

Desirable dawn

Silhouettes, shapes, 
  clouds backlit
   by a distant sun
  rising slowly 
      in the east
   Cantaloupe swatches,
       painting introductions
    of a desirable dawn
  Draping the sky,
    illuminating my heart
       to a brand new day
                with you

 
Good morning Soupers

Winter Black and White

It was a strange light,
 perhaps not light at all;
 eerily gray tinged hues,
somewhere between black and white,
 pale wisps of deep dark etchy purples
 and charcoal swatches display
 tips in silver and platinum.
A rich nickel plated flow of clouds
 painting the sky in a primer
 of puce and clear white quartz
 floating and filling the sky.
Smoky white linens dressing
 what once was the blinding bright white ball of sun
 long disappeared into the misty haze of fog
 like old lace creamed in eggshell gravies.
Vanilla seared trees stood skeletons along the horizon
 sweet and savory in the mix of clear cold rain
 blended into flakes of snow de-boned by wind
 and chilled with champagne memories.
As they day progressed, all faded
 discolored leaves and browning grass
 slept quiet and undisturbed
 in the winter interlude of black and white time.

From Cradle To Grave

In bands of endless sand, where life peeked through new
The sunlight swatches skin, beneath cooked antique cloth 
Natives abide the ceased courier, pigeons plucking past
Markets marked with clenched jaws, gravel grinded toes

Cities etched by tribal cleave as dusty binoculars blur
Mothers bearing children under an ever-blackened flag
Godforsaken region once held clues of cradles edge
Now crimson tears sift throughout the ink of lost ideals

Below a leafy marquee, is aweary child in slumber
To all, his eyes manifest
To them, merely function
Beautifully resting, looped in imaginations elastic

Rituals rip open eyes, he is trained under the creed
Final duty done today, under misguided mutiny
Forfeited, as another guessed loanee of the gods

Out, out!
Tender light
Through the open window that is life
Illuminates eternity 
Mingling between sun and sea
Little soul extinguishing the flames

Time

It is ceaseless and silent and governs all—
Everything on earth and what is in space.
It orders the seasons and leaves that fall
And it etches furrows on the human face.

Of what occurs in its domain it is aloof,
Though masses in a disaster meet death.
It is ever with us, constant change is proof.
But we cannot alter it, even for one breath.

We have made ways to count its advance
Inventing clocks, and sundials, and watches.
They help us gauge the end of life’s dance
Marking mortality in time-driven swatches.

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