Tis’ not by dark that fear is wrought
Except in thought
Except in thought
The black is long,
the shadows deep
Try though I might, I do not sleep
White specter of the inky night!
I long for light
I long for light
Paper and Ink
Azur, navy… no, cobalt the sky
Cyan the sounding sea.
An emerald forest
A forest meadow
A kelly green lime tree.
At butterscotch suns
Canary gold flies free,
Into dawn’s bloody gushing
Into dusk’s crimson flushing
Or to the pale, rosy-blush of she.
But it’s only a ruse,
The colors I use
Are always black on white.
Yet they mix in a way
That needn’t turn gray
In the picture that you see.
The world has been so dark for as long I could remember. I had heard stories that told of brightly colored flowers, grass with a vibrant color called green, the sky was a beautiful color called blue, and the sun emanating this pretty color called yellow and sometimes gold.
Of course these were just stories. Though Grandmother seemed to know exactly what she was talking about. I can remember how happy I was to hear these stories. They always bring a certain happiness that was unexplainable.
"You might never see this world in such a light, my dear." She would say after every story.
"But why?" I would always question. She never gave an answer. Instead just she'd look at me with a small smile and turn back to her knitting.
I looked outside. Smoke covered the skies, grass shriveled and gray, trees dead and lifeless. It never was a nice sight. I wished for a world with color.
"You want to see something?" Grandmother asked, not looking up from her knitting.
"Yes!" I said hopping off of my seat next to the window.
Grandmother got up and walked over to a bookshelf. She reached to a high shelf that I was forbidden to touch. Grabbing a box off the shelf, she waved me over and sat down in a rocking chair.
"What is it, Grandmother?" I asked, weary to walk over.
She took a photo out of the box and flipped it around. Showing a picture of a beautiful sunset. The sky was not only blue but it had many different colors, the sun had a golden glow, trees had leaves on them and were a dark green, the grass looked alive.
I stared at the photo in wonder. It was so beautiful I almost cried. I grabbed the photo from Grandmother's hands and held it up to my face, taking in the colors. Hoping that I would get to see this for myself.
We Must Be Light.
if you mix the three primary colors
together on a pallet
you get a mucky grey
and can never
With pure light
shine the primary colors
to one spot
and they become
the brightest of whites
We must be light
The Rainbow Meets the Shadow
Walken stepped out of the time-jet. He stood looking around the clearing in which he stood. Gray grass covered from the ground, and white flowers grew in patches. Above him a single black colored bird soared, silhouetted against a white sun. Tall, straight black trees with gray leaves swayed in the wind. The wind was cold, and Walken pulled his rainbow coat closer around him. He brushed magenta hair out of his orange eyes, with his hand. As the boy stood looking at the colorless world around him, he raised one red eyebrow. What was this? A world with no colors? How did one live in such a world?
Walken felt something brush by behind him, and quickly he turned. Nothing was to be seen but a few shadows. Then, one of the shadows moved, and took the form of a human. But what a human! The girl who stepped into view was tall, with black hair, gray eyes, and perfectly white skin. She was as colorless as the world around her; even her clothes were gray and white.
She timidly advanced towards Walken, and reached out a hand to touch the edge of his coat.
"Hello," Walken said, breaking the silence.
The girl jumped at the sound of his voice.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?" Walken asked, with a questioning glance.
The girl nodded slowly, her eyes glued to his coat.
"My name is Walken," said the boy, "What is yours?"
"Sayah," she whispered softly, her eyes now fixed on his hair, "What are you?"
"I'm a person, just like you," answered Walken.
"A person? You can't be!" replied Sayah with amazement. She pointed to his coat and asked, "What is that?"
"Yes, yes," she answered impatiently, "I meant why does it look like that?"
"Oh, you mean the colors? It's a rainbow coat," explained Walken.
"The colors? A rainbow coat?" Sayah repeated in confusion, "What does that mean?"
Walken stared at the girl. She didn't know what colors were?!? How did one explain colors to someone. Seriously, you just looked at them!
Sayah pointed to his hair, and said, "What did you do to your hair?"
"Nothing!" replied Walken, "I was born that way."
"Haven't you ever seen colors before?" asked Walken.
"No," Sayah waved a hand about her, "Do you see any, what did you call them? Colors? Anyway, do you see any here?"
Walken shook his head.
"Where did you come from?" asked the girl.
Walken pointed at the time-jet.
"I rode on that," he explained, "I traveled from my world here."
"Is everything in your world like you?" asked Sayah eagerly.
"Yes. I've never seen colors, or not colors, I suppose, like you have here."
"Could I see your world?"
"If you would like, I could give you a ride in my time-jet, and then bring you back."
Sayah's gray eyes lit up in excitement.
"Would you really?!? That would be like a dream..."
"Hop right in!" Walken said, holding the door of the time-jet open.
Sayah stepped in and fastened her seatbelt as Walken pushed buttons rapidly.
Soon the time-jet started; Sayah and Walken were swept up into the sky.
"How many...colors are there in your world?" asked Sayah curiously, after she had gotten over the first shock of taking off.
"Lots. Can't even name them," answered Walken, steering the time-jet carefully.
"How long until we get there?"
"Not too long; it's a pretty short trip."
Soon Walken warned Sayah to get ready for landing. They settled on the ground with a soft bump.
As Walken prepared to open the door, Sayah held her breath. The door slid open and Sayah stood speechless. Finally she whispered in a raptured voice, "It's like a dream... I can't believe it's real."
And then the colorless girl from a colorless world stepped out of a time-jet and into a world of colors, rainbows and sparkle. She would never be the same again.
Note: Walken means Rainbow and Sayah means Shadow.
The One-eyed King
The young boy should have shown fear
At the frightful sight of the ancient Collier
With one eye. But the old man – Hen ddyn –
No lie, was a friend. Edwin his name: ‘Rich friend.’
The kind to bend a knee to, perhaps. A King.
Truth, of course, he was the one who was
Bent, warped, shrivelled, maimed –
By long years toiling under the green,
Tapping the black, the reluctant vein
Giving up its yield to the deep delvers
’Neath the slate-grey hills of Cambria.
Edwin George was his name. ‘Kingy’ George.
A vigorous young man, of unassuming nobility,
two hands, two feet, two ears, two eyes (at first)
labouring honestly through the reign,
of two English monarchs – his Namesakes.
(Let’s draw a Veil o’er the one in between
Who came to the Valleys and proclaimed:
‘Something must be Done’
Before he himself was Undone,
For the sake – so he said – of Love).
No such easy choice for Kingy;
The pit the only palace, the dray his only throne.
The hacking cough, the demon-black spittle,
The creaking knee and crumbling bone
The only legacy, the final reward
For a life spent fuelling the life-blood of Empire.
Gnarled hands, barely capable of unscrewing the bottle
Of dandelion and burdock that the boy so loved;
Or dealing from the deck of cards
As he taught him the intricacies of crib.
Small comfort in such simple joys,
Before the final pegging out.
The boy never learnt how Kingy lost that eye,
How the weregild for wisdom was paid by this Welsh Odin –
No ravens to guide his Thoughts and Memories,
But, rather, racing pigeons. Cooing from their cots,
Flying free, escaping the confines of cloddish earth.
No dank mines for these graceful expressions
Of an old Collier’s desire to be free.
Long did the boy ponder the meaning
Of that name. Till at last he remembered
That ’In the land of the blind,
The one-eyed man is king’.
In Memory of Kingy George - old collier, neighbour, and friend.
Commentary: Edwin' Kingy' George lived across the road from me throughout my childhood. Edwin is an Anglo-Saxon name, meaning 'rich friend'; which is somewhat ironic, because Kingy certainly didn't possess any wealth to speak of. But then again, he WAS rich in friendship. The British monarchs alluded to in the poem are George V and VI - and the king who controversially reigned for less than twelve months between them, in 1936 - Edward VIII. The ravens are the constant companions of the one-eyed Norse God Odin - Huginn and Muninn - 'Thought' and 'Memory'.
What if our world was depleted of
Shades of black and white everywhere you looked.
A void of white representing a blue sky.
The brightness of a yellow sun gone replaced by a glowing white ball of gas.
Rainbows would look dull.
The changing of a trees leaves would come and go.
The reveal of a males peacock feathers wouldn’t be impressive.
Without colour everything would exist in shades of grey, each shade representing a colour.
A world void of colour would look rather bleak.
a world that knows nothing of colour wouldn’t miss it.
But a world
that lost its colour…
For Color that Cannot be Seen
My grandmother once told me that the world used to be full of color, the sky a rich blue, the grass a rich green. Buildings and people of every color, a world of magic and dreams. She also told me that a year after the birth of my mother, the government created a medicine to take away the color in the world, from the eyes of the people.
The medicine is mandatory, to be taken twice every month, paid for by raised taxes. The goal was to make the people more willing to listen, so says my grandmother, but it makes me long for days that I never got to see.
I look out the window, but all I can see is people starting to judge others for one of the two colors their skin took on. No one can see their eye colors, or the color of their hair. I don't think anyone wants to, or knows how to live in a world where color doesn't matter in the first place.
The government has made a terrible mistake and only their failures are noticed. Is this even a world any of us can be proud of anymore?
A Dying World
Color. There used to be color. However....
I now see grey, where the sky was once blue.
I see black, instead of vibrant, bright hues.
I see white, filling in the blanks.
I am dulling, slowly moving.
The world is dying, crying out for help.
So many people. Yet...it seems to only get worse.
Animals are dying, crisis is skyrocketing.
Sickness, isolation, losing all hope.
I sit here...I wonder...would it all be better if I was not here.
If I did not have to live in a world full of others who do not care.
I wonder, if brightness, color, and life exist in another world beyond ours.
I wonder...does this all end here...
provides shadows with no context.
Fade in to black.
No longer knowing if it is day or night.
Asleep. Or awake.