he came out of the blue
and brought every other color with him
The Shade of Ink
Leaves of gold and silver
Splay fingers, row by row
Folio-age, bound and covered
Like grass between my toes
Lady in Red
Oh, pretty lady, slip your red panties on
slink into red dress – silk stroking every curve
swivel provocatively as you sashay into my view
come hither look flushing erotic cheek bones
pout ruby lips blowing crimson kisses my way
slather lotion the length of long luscious legs
dab exotic wafts of perfume behind sultry ears
we’re going dancing tonight, hot mama
so swirl your stuff, rhumba lush tush to your rhythm
draw all eyes in the room to undulating Latina hips
scream your passionate fervor in red mist cloud
electrify my feelings of mounting excitement
heat wafting from your core bounces back to my body
emanating arousal as you imbibe from deep wells of lust
inhaled for steamy survival, oh you’re scorching hot
let’s tango our way home, remove your red dress
leave the red lace panties on, the color of sex.
and trust me, sexy lady, I’ll do the rest.
she saw the world in monochrome. blacks, greys, and whites. she didn’t know there were colors. but one day she met him. and he showed her color.
he’d hold her hand and point to an apple. “look, that’s red.”
red, she’d say. and she’d smile, pointing to her battered cherry shoes.
yes, he’d say. “red.”
the sky was blue. bananas were yellow. the grass was green. traffic cones were orange. pansies were purple.
and he taught her other colors.
crimson, neon orange, canary yellow, emerald, sapphire, lilac. then scarlet, vermillion, soft buttercup, pear green, manganese blue, lavender.
he told her that there were infinite colors.
“what’s your favorite color,” he asked her, as they strolled in the park, him naming the color of each flower.
“that’s not a color,” he said.
“yes. it is. it is all the colors.” she smiled.
he let her walk ahead of him, watching her laugh at the butterflies and sniff the flowers. her once dark grey hair was now warm chestnut, red woven into brown, hues of sunrise melted into chocolate. she turned around, and he walked towards her until they were an inch apart. he looked into her eyes which had appeared to be a solid brown at first, but were really spirals of earthy brown stained with hot chocolate on a cold winter night. honey droplets splattered the brown, and her irises were rimmed with candy apple green. the deep pools of dark-cinnamon imprisoned the sweetness of saccharine chocolate and the bitterness of strong coffee.
he kissed her. and he was filled with white: all the colors, at full brightness.
they lay down on the dewy grass field, staring up at the sky that was no longer, to her, a light grey that deepened into black, but a baby blue dotted with cotton candy clouds. until dusk’s rosy fingers reached into the sky, painting a monet of muted tangerines and dusty pinks and crimsons, the endless edges a purple grey that seeped into the painting.
and then night fell, which she liked to envision as a large dark cape draped over the sky, inky velvet studded with bejeweled stars. he told her that he liked to think of the night as sugar spilt over black marble. that in the senerade of black, the stars were a choir singing in infinite patterns. the darker the night the sweeter the song.
he held her close, counting the stars, counting the colors.
she told him that the sky held the world, and he whispered to her, “no, the colors do.”
blue is the color of loneliness
but it is also the color of a fresh start
of the gentle rain
that washes away all mistakes
cleansing life for a new beginning
The winter’s end brings it forth,
It springs vibrant from the ground,
Parts the rich and frozen earth,
Adorns the rocks and oaks all round,
It’s the colour of new life,
That’s called upwards by the Sun,
Of ponds it makes a vivid jungle,
Where plant and creature carry on,
It soars high on wings so great,
And backs the pecking at the peaks,
Hides the serpent from the skies,
And with a croak it loudly leaps,
It spreads a blanket on the floor,
It’s the coat that wears the trees,
It’s the canopy up above,
’Til fall chases it from the leaves.
You walked into school,
Your red hair a fire,
But to my own surprise,
That’s not what I first saw.
No, I saw that dress.
The long blue one.
It was the color of the sky.
And then I noticed the gleam in your eye.
What did I know?
I’ve since forgotten.
It’s sunk into my brain.
But whatever it was I know
That I’ll remember it someday.
When it matters.
Stained Glass Memories
I remember my life in colors. I read in flavors too, savoring the taste of some words, spitting out others as quick as I can. Some of the flavors fade over time, but colors never do. They remain bright and vivid, coming to my mind unbidden when a certain smell or sound stirs something within. Long after true memory fades.
Dark purple is the nights I spent crying, alone, with splashes of red here and there.
Gray is the hospital. All of them. Always.
Blackest despair when they said you needed brain surgery, my grandpa, my friend.
White and light pink the taste of rosewater, though it took years to put a name to the colors and the taste lurking in the back of my mind.
Brown is my grandma's house, Thanksgivings and trouble.
Black, gray, white, purple. You know who you are.
And a rainbow, for so many others.
Florida is yellow, home is blue, together they're family.
Green is the world. Outside, inside, up, down, left, right. Green is life, forever glowing faintly no matter how much I want to paint it over on purple nights. Always showing through. No matter what.
The color of royalty. This I learned from a book series revolving around a preteen egomaniac, who treated her friend group like her personal empire. Purple sheets, purple walls--she insisted on being royal at all costs.
Purple doesn't suit me. Either it's lilac, soft and sweet, or it's vibrant and pigmented, fitting for a queen. I'm neither of those. However, nor am I the darkest shades, which find themselves on the nails or eyelids of the rebellious and angsty.
Hospital scrubs can be purple. So can bruises. Purple's usually relegated to flowers, and those without gardens have yet to experience it.
Purple is the warmest of cool colors. That doesn't mean much.
Purple exists between sadness and rage. Melancholy? Mild irritation? It's not exactly clear. Purple feels fuzzy, hazy, and pale.
Purple's an enigma.
Everything was grey. The floor, the walls, the people whose color had been drained from their faces. The whole situation lived in grey space, somewhere between the black and the white. It would have been simpler if the situation was another color; perhaps purple—a simple, pretty color. But while the outcome was uncertain, grey served as the color of the imprint on my mind.