Soul
The outline of my soul
splashed on a canvas
exists only in my imagination
wavelengths of light
in disappearing edges
perceptions of my intensity
undertone and luminosity
extracting meaning
from my world
heat of my body
color of daylight
iridescence of energy.
NERPHTH
When asked what is my favorite color- I will have to say: "Nerphth."
To which the person who asked me the question might think I mentioned some type of drug or just trying to pull their leg. Then to make things more peculiar after I give a response to the question, I will gaze into their eyes and begin to explain what this color is.
I ask if I can hold their hand and at the moment that our hands meet, their eyes begin to see the color of a shinin' almost blindin' color from the sun right at the break of dawn.
"Do you see what I see?"
I ask with a sparkle in my eye- my eyes are the same color, too. If you stare too long at them- you will go blind.
#NERPHTH. (c)
07/08/2021 Sat'rday.
The Color of My Thoughts
When I think, my thoughts are a certain color.
Do you know what color they are?
They aren't a color you can behold with your human eyes.
They are a color you can only feel with your soul.
Everyone knows that color.
Even you.
It's that color you see when you feel conflicted.
When you feel love and confusion and joy and sadness all at once.
When you are happy and excited with so much to say but no words come out.
It's the color of those words that don't come out; the words that swirl around in your head behind that smile on your face.
That color you sink into, curling up into a fetal position when no one is looking.
That color of your favorite song on repeat flooding your ears and brain, drowning out everything.
It's that same color that bathes you as you dance with ribbons and butterflies swirling all around you.
That color of the truth deep in your heart.
That color beckoning you to look up and keep going.
That color telling you to let all of your feelings burst out instead of hiding them.
That color of the emotional explosion of happiness, pain, anger, joy, sadness, love, thankfulness, forgiveness, salvation, and acceptance spilling out in a long, loud yell mixed with laughter and tears.
That color of freedom.
That color.
Hopeless
Freshwater streams flowing,
seen as stagnant
Breeze bending blossoms,
winds wafting unfragrant
Sunrise stippling,
yet, monochromatic
The shading of Hopeless,
both silent and static
The color of compassion
I see a tiny boy digging into his tiny pocket. He pulls out a coin which he places in the paper cup of a homeless man. This same tiny boy marches on down the street where he hears a steel drum, made out of tin cans, sending beautiful music to his tiny ears. Once again, he reaches into his tiny pocket and drops a shiny nickel on the ground next to the street musician.
The tiny boy knows he has only one copper penny left in his pocket. He saves it for tomorrow. His compassion is not tiny.
The Window
the color
of the window,
not the scenery behind it.
does anyone contemplate
what a window would look like
with nothing behind it?
the color
of the window,
not the house inside it.
does anyone contemplate
what a window would look like
if there was nothing inside it?
nothing outside or inside
no sides at all
just a glass wall
between nothing and nowhere.
what would you see?
the color
of the window.
Radion
all color is, is a certain wavelength,
that gets absorbed,
and not reflected,
like all the others.
While my retina only notices colors ,
of three color groups,
my skin absorbes more.
in the blistering sun, it absorbs,
burns slowly, as the light interrupts and cooks.
deeper still,
chromasomes absorb ,
more malicious colors still.
this color,
called Radion,
has such a fantastic,
life-changing experience,
to those strands,
of memorial carbons,
that the cells just say "screw it",
to other tissues.
why keep replicating endlessly,
serve some function,
but not their benefit.
why bear streatxhing and pulling,
attacked here, healed there?
why not do things different.
the radion, shines on them.
gives them passion and hope,
that only chemo can break.
The Color of Summer
They say fireweed is Alaska’s clock and summer is almost over when its magenta blooms reach the top, winter sixty days away, a bittersweet thought. The sweet side of this is that it means we are in the best part of summer, the heart of it, long days that seem endless, days that embolden us to take an afternoon off, climb higher up the mountain, fish a little longer in the creek, or wander deeper into the forest. The sun lingers and alpine ponds become swimming pools, ridges familiar paths, and boulders transform into picnic benches. Remnants of early flowers indicate the season’s progression, while later blooms promise there’s still a little bit of fun left to be had.
Spartens
Spartens is the color of ancient ruins
And riverbank civilizations
It is the color of oligarchic kings
And philosopher poets
It is the color of warfare
Its successes and defeats
It is the color of humanity
At least to ancient Greeks
Flesh
Flesh
so many hues
a 64 crayon box full
wouldn't hold them all
yet none match
anyone.