I have my mother's eye color.
In 1930, when she was seventeen,
an admirer in Prague told her: "Young lady, you have
such a wonderful gaze—reminiscent of chamomile."
Indeed—yellow-brown irises
like the heart of that simple blossom.
And yet, somewhere deep behind them
I carry that defenseless, wistful tenderness
of my father’s pale blue eyes.
Just a tiny fragment of a forgotten
sky...
fields fold, hedges and edges tuck away along the drumlin slope
seek solace within hidden nooks
swathes of unseen hillside
beasts wander slowly into another dimension
birds swoop, then disappear
the lower foreground moves
wind rustling the bustling leaves
the topside holds still below a shifting sky
building parts poke over from the far-side world
every shade of green, yellow, brown and shadow
poles and wires disrupt momentary adsorption
swallowing machines carve contoured pathways
straightness succumbing to curvature
from a distance, oblong gradient and one-sided steepness represent community gathered
if you are born here, a basket case
contained by enormity of presence
the only escape is through portals of
complexity burrowing through the earth
follow the beasts and birds out of sight
Red, yellow, brown and green
All colours will be seen
Love this time of year ~ fill your cup
Hot chocolate, hats , scarfs gloves cosy up
Log fires lite in gardens brings dazzled light
As days get shorter ~ blazing sight
Kicking leaves, roasting chestnuts magic in the air
a poem is a forest
place your soul close to it
and breathe.
walk among its words
their roots, in secret, kiss.
their love goes deep,
their branches reach up into the clouds.
they blossom in the thought of the sky.
wander among its words
find your own hiking trails
and places to rest.
watch how the sun and words play games,
or how streams flow from verse to verse.
a poem is a forest.
embrace as many words as you can,
climb them if you can,
watch them turn yellow, brown,
and green again,
or be covered with snow.
place your ear against its heart
and hear —
feel the smile and the tear.
a poem is a forest.
it looks lovely in daylight,
but it comes alive after dark.
If
Racism a made-up word I wish I never heard
It matters not if I am red, yellow, brown, black or white, your judgement is
Wrong and your attitude is strong.
The wonderful things you miss out on judging me by my skin, I could be your closet
Companion, confidant and friend, but you will never know the heart beneath my color
And the amazing things we could teach each other.
IF
you would only be my brother.
drops of color
from the painter's palette
blue, orange, yellow, brown, gray, red
in infinite blackness
the planets turn
By Phan Tan Hai
I sit reading a page of history—
the lines leaning, trembling with sorrow;
my eyes sting as I trace each word,
cold smoke rising into my soul.
I clearly see the names of friends
who died and now appear again,
demanding to charge once more with words—
a battle of humans or ghosts.
I see countless question marks
weighing heavily on every page;
a time as sad as smoke
staining the paper yellow-brown.
A time that feels so distant,
yet still chokes me as I read;
my homeland fills my eyes,
ink blurred but never fading.
Head bowed, I walked for ages—
my hair once so green;
as though a hundred lives have passed,
I look back and it is white.
I carefully record each word,
renewing the lines of poetry;
casting a hundred thousand words
to bloom as flowers on the far shore.
Alone it stands as its fire red leaves blow in the breeze, never saw such vibrant red leaves, next to it vibrant green leaves still waiting to change.
The whole street is alive with red, yellow, brown it’s fall lovers dream, cooler weather brings out the colors, as the sky finally clears from an early morning shower..
I can see the morning dew still on its leaves as it waters the dying grass below, everything has its place the fall season, birds are singing their morning song.
The fire red tree so vibrant with deep red color, it almost screams look at me, my color is alive, just for you, Our Savior created me so others may smile, as a final blush before winter, perhaps a bleeding heart for someone who lost a loved one..
Oh how I love fall, so many colors sights, sounds to please the soul, please close your eyes, imagine being so beautiful inside, that’s how our Jesus sees each and every one of us in His eyes, as The tree's moments of fleeting time, as each leaf represents a memory that will soon be carried away by the wind.
RED, YELLOW, BROWN, BLACK
THESE ARE THE PEOPLE WHITE PEOPLE ATTACK
BLACK, BROWN, YELLOW, RED
THEY'D JUST PREFER THAT YOU ALL WERE JUST DEAD
It is no secret!
That this country is still racist,
White, Black, Yellow, Brown and Red.
When all we see is colored faces!
For most our ignorance’s,
conjure illusions were not racist.
While some masquerade
in an attempt to misguide!
Some parade to protest
with riot in disguise!
Every day! Every day! Every day!
We display racism toward others,
we deem difference than,
by how we think,
transferring thoughts into behavior.
Racism is everywhere!
It is at work,
it is at school,
it is on TV,
and all over the news.
It is podcast on the radio
and on social media too!
It is all around us,
it surrounds us!
We project around with no realization,
that were all racist,
simply by our own fears,
emotions, and actions.
As stereotypical individuals,
whose attitude reflects it,
were just too judgmental
of others to recognize it.
Our own mystery
is no secret,
that we are racist too!
A bright sunny day
A sea of blue sky
Patches of white clouds
All in different shapes
It is cooler now
The trees are changing
They are shedding leaves
The colors have changed
To red , yellow, brown
Summer season left
All the leaves have spread
Covering the ground
It is autumn now
Time to rake the leaves
Red.
Yellow, brown, or orange.
Leaves live comfortably.
At cider mills, and in backyards.
Maple leaves.
They are spiky, and boldly shaped.
Into a leaf pile.
They are dead, but not haunted.
They are yellow, brown, or orange.
Mostly, red though.
Or maybe we just like the red ones the best.
Stepping inside, crumbled leaves on the floor.
They seem dry and brittle in the kitchen.
She hands me a broom.
Leaves are not so fun inside.
But still they are yellow, brown, or orange…
…or like my broom handle, like rust, like the sunset…
They can be my favorite color:
Red.
Like cherry blossoms in the spring
the leaves of autumn loosely cling
upon the drab, dark brownish bark
creating contrasts, stunning, stark.
As autumn leaves descend in droves
upon the earth like manna loaves
they blanket her with a patchwork quilt
like muddy waters settle silt.
The autumn leaves of various hues
oh, how they, our senses schmooze.
The yellow, brown, orange, and red
delight our sight before they’re shed.
Who would believe that dying leaves
could such enchanting magic cleave.
What a parable! Beauty in death,
'Tis how God views His saints’ last breath.
Autumn Equinox
Autumn Equinox has fallen out of Summer;
Cooling heat horizontal breeze ever so lovely, autumn;
Embrace me season harvest;
Kiss me soul gentle caresses;
All that I see, spring/summer green;
Summer has fallen tinting orange, yellow, brown foliage Scene;
Welcome embrace:
Autumn Equinox has graced;
8/21/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2024
Who says that books can't have babies
or be dead
Who says on another planet or airplane
that people aren't read instead
And the books might say,
"You can't read a person by its cover --
yellow, brown, white or red."
"Everything is possible
when the imagination is concerned.
All one has to do is look --
on the pages, the mind
the heart; right Fred?"
"Right Ned."
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