I think I’ve said last Tuesday’s poetry jam on Twitter was prolific. I was sandbagging. It was hugely prolific. Below are what I’ve collectively called the “Color Poems,” part 4 of the what is taking on the look of a small poetry volume. The poems include: “Colors,” “Color Has Clarity,” “Blue Flannel,” “A Mouth Empty,” “I Drop These Stones,” and “Planting Seeds.”

Five poems remain, and I will post them tomorrow.

Color Poems

By @lorrie58, @memoriaarts, @togetherforgood, @mmerubies, @llbarkat, @poemsandprayers, @doallas, @KathleenOverby, @TchrEric, and @lauraboggess, with a slight contribution from @gyoung9751.

Colors

I felt yellow
discomfort like a
wet bed in
the middle of
the night when
she said those things
to me.

Free words
from mind,
from heart;
collect them not in
schemes
of other poets
nor rhymes not your own.

Now I feel slightly
green anticipation,
fresh events,
when he, who grows
green with envy, purple
with rage, walks through
that door.

Broken phones,
communication
unsteady,
trashed pieces
of conversation.
She is caught, red
with poem passion.

Scarlet love knots not for
she; to be caught must feel
broken and lost. White with
loss of red from face turned
ashen by words unexpected;
cords of twisted pride
paint the landscape of her heart.

I never knew black and
white existed, not
till words flashed
green blue red,
mixed with
brown and gray, cells
pulled taut over bones.

Red face chiles burn holes
in heart and esophagus.
green chiles, green peppers,
green tomatoes, green onions,
green green salsa green,
pistachio green salutes boring
races ahead as art.

I think the angels are pink on
the inside of their robes.
Who has world enough and
time to give each word
a color? Paint the
whole lot petunia pink
and be done with it.

Color Has Clarity

Vermillion regret
because my frappucino
does not exist,
venti or otherwise.

Served real espresso to
snotty teen girls who
were used to gas station
cappuccinos. Laughed.

Color has a clarity
words may not.
Clarity is lost inside
dreams of the dayspring.

Blue Flannel

Petunia pink
does not suit
blue-flannelled man across
from me
who mocks my crimson
poetry lover.
Show me the way
to your heart. Is it
chilies? Is it words?

What does blue flannel
know of passion? It knows of
comfort and day-to-day/life.
Blue flannel
knows passion
when dimmed by candlelight.
My blue flannel is stripped away
revealing pink silk.
Be gentle/in the night.

Painting the roses red,
painting the roses red.
Turn the brush
upon myself;
I may just lose
my head.
Burn and be
done with;
it is a favorite verse.

A Mouth Empty

A mouth empty,
a mouth filled
with words
spilling into a well.
Years of words
add up
to stories
poems
novels
fiction
truth
questions
answers
more questions.
Shall I give you
the details of
a chili sliced
in two, bruised lightly
at one end,
seeded?

I Drop These Stones

I drop these
stones into your
hands.
I discard the stones,
then chase after them,
scattered by my thoughtless hands,
your heart there, broken.
I will take the stones,
put them in
a blue flannel pocket.
Count the days
and yet still lost,
whisper thin,
here and there,
questioning
staring at one white stone,
hoping.

Planting Seeds

Planting seeds makes tree-sized
futures promising, the
seeds from blossoms,
the seeds from sweet
sweet peas. I sow to please.
A garden sweet
she makes
of vegetables
bruised often to sprout,
of scents,
of all that’s new,

Or eggplant,
its purple coming on
with a touch of oil;
rose petals, dandelion green
violets crushed sweet.
Sweet garden,
edged in white stones,
plumped with beauty, spilling out light,
salvation. You don’t
bring me flowers
anymore.