Tag Archives: blue

Bold

A canvas yellow, red, blue
dripped lines in cardinal direction
color exclaiming loudly the veracity of veracity
the frame shuddered at its charge
Bold, this hand who painted
bold, this mind who sees
and dreams

yellow-red-blue-1925 1925 yellow red blue

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Blue is the color of the sky and other misconceptions

Blue is the color of the sky
except when it is waking
then it is a mellow
powdery orange molasses
bubbling up over horizon
over star and behind cloud
except when it is sleeping
then it is a deepening hue
to black speckled with dreamt
stars and hurried comets reflecting
a crescent moon to swim in
except when it is bold
and diligent in its summer ambition
hazed with the glory of worshiping
sun flowers and delighted by
the buzzing beasts beneath
except when it is weary
then it is grey and somber winter worn
radiating the chill of another day
in another place with another lover
called spring who has hidden
itself away yet again
but then
the earth moves and the sun saunters
high above its station
and the sky is blue with joy
a delightful blue calling
memories of childhood escapes
to backyards, too tall trees
and swings hanging from branches
yes
Blue is the color of the sky
except when it isn’t
and then it is the color of our
wants, the hue of our need,
the shading of our memory,
and the present of eyes
willing to see.

My rise to the fall

My rise to the fall,
the whisper of willowed words waving
in a wind yet blowing,
the calm clarity of surface
dreaming reflections
realities not understood in currents unseen,
lingering on scents mystifying
mice men with miniature mandolins,
playing sweet songs of melodies, I
can’t remember because my former
self forgot to leave a memo to the message
I was suppose to entertain, restrain, and refrain,
across horizons of blue ink and white salted skin;
an impossible poem unwritten.

Who is Wesley?

Part 2 to Wesley’s Words

The face was circled
to near perfection
in faded red
on black and white
with the words
‘what is a life’
written pain
stak
ing
ly
small along the white
edge
neither mingling
meandering nor merging
with the photo paper’s
story
but filling Mason’s head
driving his hands
veined with hours
of plays, throws
and connections
to waver over glass
trace the words
to perfection
and wonder
what is a life…
…what is a life?

The circled
young boy
stared out from
hundreds
other faces
eyes seeing places
and dreams of
the future
so obvious
was the obliviousness
of this
young man
as if his dreams
were so far out
there was no
light
no future
reflecting back.
then the words
what is a life…
…what is a life?
came slamming back

Coach was old
his words made no sense
nonsense
figure it out
figure what out?!
why, how
when?
This is ridiculous!
Mason didn’t need
this…

What is a life?

The picture hastily
shoved to precariously
to haphazardly
tossed to the
edge
to the edge…
crashing smashing
tumbling down
from the bedside
to the ground
in pieces
frame and bits
lay more than just
a photo graph
a softer edge
lay unearthed
from tomb of wood
and glass.

LOCAL BOY
DEAD.
Five teens where
questioned in the
death of a local boy
this evening.
A call tipped off police
to patrol the area
off of 5th and Grand.
A scream
A scuffle
A muffled
brawl? perhaps.
The line went dead.
the operator said
The line went dead.
The five men
remain in custody.
Names withheld
due to the sensi-
tivity
of crime
and time
but sources suspect…
a sixth.

Mason skipped the rest.
Local boy, dead.
his age
ripped from a page
of yesterday
lived on the other
side of tracks
with
a nobody no letter no jacket
no money no future
no life
no life cuz
he’s dead.
Found with a pink barrette
clutched in his hand
and F@66%7
scrawled on his back
in indelible ink
to obviously sink more meaning
as his attackers
tattooed their
judgement into
his black and
blue
skin.

what is a life?

An article 30 days later
stapled
and worn
confirmed a sinking
suspicion
The 5 were part of the
Local High 6.
but no proof
no
ev-i-dence
no recollection
or defection
of witnesses
no sense of right
or wrong
no candle light vigil
no memento or
mournful sigil to mark
the young life passing
by.
Even this passage
was relegated in
subterranean
cache
just above the lottery
numbers
page 8
where this hate
ful incident
and
obstruction of
a justice-less life
for
Wesley
was left
to be forgotten
as if it would be
forgotten
and
it was…
save by one.

and
Mason kept on
tracing the words
in his head

What is a life?
What is a life… 
worth.

911 TRANSCRIPT – May 7th, 1969
Police Operator 2472
What’s your emergency?

{{Whispers}}

5th and Grand
a scuffle, fight, a boy down.

What is the location?

5th and GRAND!

{{typing}}

5th and G.R.A.N.D?

YES!

{{TYPING}}

What’s your name?

My name? I.. um… Mar…
Damnit man
You have to send
someone?
like now!

{{typing}}

Can I have you name son?

{{more typing}}

Sir,  Let me get your …
Sir are you there?……………
sir…….
hello?……

Wesley’s Words

His days are numbered

cumbered and layerd

with vice

well whithered hours

mix with sour

moments believed

to be lost

and he wonders

if the price was

worth the cost.

His hands lay bare

tattered and worn

from gageing to

wiring, saddles

and thorn

as they cast

credit on framed

fame

ages gone

his was the life to be

grand

now he sits in empty stands

waiting for the field

to blossom with fierce

beasts

claw, talon, and shields

but sometimes he wonders

why he is here.

His, wife is beautifuly

aging, she works in

the office

mingles the

papers

His children are grown

some forgot

some known

all are proudly his and

most would say

he’s everyone’s trust

But he wonders

has it

been enough.

Most days he

lectures morning

tradition of wood, shop

and farthing

lingers in hallways

leather on paved

doorways

After the noon

he picks up the skin

and teaches

what it takes to win

but what are they winning

when the timer is up

when the moment of luck

wears out and

all they have

is looking at them selves.

As fading features

fade farther under glass

pondering

will he say enough.

Will he

say

enough.

 

Coach….  Coach… 

we’re ready….

 

Stumble, tumble,

meander and maze

he takes a breath in

as words work on

the way

out of his mind into

the air, held for a

second on tongue

cheek and hair

before diving

in.

 

“We

suffer this field

day in

day out

we bleed for the ‘Mater

the glory and crowd.

We tramble those

who dare to engage

we revel in

glory

or languish when

halls of great men

call others to their side.

We wear colors and letters

with pride

but…”

His conjuntion lending

silence a nod

as he looks to

the glowing board for

council and pause

as almost men

wait

they… wait

 

“but what is worth a life

if that life does not find

life worthy?

You are not just warriors

you are leaders and

take care

those you trample should

ONLY be out HERE!

The halls and ways

of the walls of our

days hold our

souls they are the

same, different

scuffle, shadows

of forgotten shoes

they are less and more

rich and poor

they are

you

they are your charges

not stones to be kicked

not boards for bantering

your bitting wit

Not the conquest of your

smaller mind

not the details found

on cheaper wine

they are your concern

care and court

they give weight to

your sport

for if they did not

exist

your worthy game

would not be

worth

playing…

am I making sense?

Treat that place

as what you protect

not what you pillage

because what you pillage

may come to haunt

you…. when time

clock and luck

run out.”

 

He tosses the ‘back

the worn out frame

one face circled

in the crowd of

hundreds.

And inquisitive faces

return nothing

as coach’s

back

fading.

 

“Figure it out

see you at

practice

on Tuesday.”

The Life of Bea

She walks with shuffle

cuffle and flop

in worn out shoes

and worn out tops

her hands are small

pale porcelin envy

eyes of dew drop gray

dream of anything

but life today

She lingers in the back

most hours

clinging to shade

and inconsequential hue

praying to gods

spit, spite, and throttle

forget she exists

as she dreams of anything

but this

Her hair is neat

her glasses new

ish, through which the

world is viewed

in shades of black

purple and blue

her ears are revolving doors

of not good enough

four eyes and hell-bound troll

stupid fucker and

filthy mole who should

NEVER have been born

but

…. there are days

when hands reach out

when voices confront

shove, bite, and anguish

and words of

it will be ok, you are loved

come out to play

be with me and

you ARE beautiful…

when you smile,

whisper on her behalf.

In those moments

she is alive

and reminded

hope exists somedays

though most days

she dreams life is

not today

this is the life of Bea.

this is the life of bea

this is the life of

…..

To my younger self

You are

exactly who you should be

not an ounce grown

in the wrong

direction.

The seed of your

talents

grow beautifuly

unique

not a smidge

out of line or

question.

Your character is

witfully designed

trustfully divine

not a sinuew of

soul is placed

in the trash bin

or going

to hell because

love is not a sin

you’re not ugly

or unlikable

unworthy or

un-anything,

don’t listen to them

their snide remarks

their better than’s

because in the end

you turn out just fine

you

live a life

they said you would

not dare

do

so

when they cast your

lots beneath the stands

while you step up

soloed from the band

when they laugh at

clothes handed down

or the silver shining

in that smile

when they poke

prod and manipulate

throw, hit, and

simply hate

you

don’t you look in the mirror

and do

the same thing

because

You are

exactly who you should be

not an ounce grown

in the

wrong direction.