Colors

[ampoule]

I think I will begin with the primary colors and when I say primary, I mean the simple box of eight colors that most children start out with.

Blue

The blue jay screeches, "GERONIMO!",
as he dives off the branches of my sugar maple,
hitting the heavy head of the sunflower,
splashing seeds all around, and like the kid he is,
climbs high into the tree to do it again and again.

[Pendragon]

I like this, AMP. Brings to mind Mark Twain's "What Stumped the Bluejays". Yeah, I can see them as big kids, let's do it again! types.

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Four/bluejay.jpg

[motherhubbard]

What a cheeky blue jay. I have a squirrel that throws walnuts at us- when we move out of his way he jumps to another tree for a better aim!

[firefangled]

Blue

The blue jay screeches, "GERONIMO!",
as he dives off the branches of my sugar maple,
hitting the heavy head of the sunflower,
splashing seeds all around, and like the kid he is,
climbs high into the tree to do it again and again.


You did well to capture the tricky critters. Very well done. I used to have two in my yard in NC that tourtured my cats incessantly.

[Stormy]

Oh, how I enjoyed this little write of yours.
I love how you stated "and like the kid he is.."
Brought a huge smile on this early morning, thanks.

[ampoule]

Thank you!
Pen, thanks for the great picture of BLUE

[PrinceMyshkin]

What a cheeky blue jay. I have a squirrel that throws walnuts at us- when we move out of his way he jumps to another tree for a better aim!

You're quite sure this is a squirrel and not

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your mother?

[Granny5]

I think I will begin with the primary colors.

Blue

The blue jay screeches, "GERONIMO!",
as he dives off the branches of my sugar maple,
hitting the heavy head of the sunflower,
splashing seeds all around, and like the kid he is,
climbs high into the tree to do it again and again.

I love it amp. Can't wait for the next color.

[dibyendra]

I think I will begin with the primary colors.

Blue

The blue jay screeches, "GERONIMO!",
as he dives off the branches of my sugar maple,
hitting the heavy head of the sunflower,
splashing seeds all around, and like the kid he is,
climbs high into the tree to do it again and again.

So sweet ampoule ! The last three lines really made me laugh.


hitting the heavy head of the sunflower,
splashing seeds all around, and like the kid he is,
climbs high into the tree to do it again and again.

haha...so sweet

[ampoule]

Brown

The cool autumn air prickling my skin
as I sit naked across the room, watching you,
sunlight peeking through the lace curtains,
playing patterns on the wall behind you.
I move toward you now and lift the cover,
flooded with emotion as I see you so dark
and brown and smooth and my mind wanders
in forests of pernambuco, spruce and maple.

I place my fingers at your neck and coax you
gently to me, allowing my hand to drift
over your curvature, down your neck, a
tease-touch to the ribs and around your waist,
your upper bout against my breast, my knees
holding you, and your expressive voice resonates
through me, poignantly portraying my deepest
feelings, purging my tears, calming my fears.

Your vibrato as warm as oozing brown chocolate,
slides up and down in this glissando, the legatos,
the staccatos, and with my equestrian's bow,
a striking spiccato and sighs of a passacaglia of praise.

*
*
*
http://www.gilbertmarosi.com/processed_archive/medium/romantic/Cello-Player.jpg

and here is the amazing Han-Na Chang playing Offenbach's, Jaqueline's Tears on my favorite instrument, the 'brown' cello.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vvk8NfaEbkg

My other inspiration came from JTParreira's, Steinway & Sons and AuntShecky's, Your Poem Inspired by Music.

[firefangled]

Brown

The cool autumn air prickling my skin
as I sit naked across the room, watching you,
sunlight peeking through the lace curtains,
playing patterns on the wall behind you.
I move toward you now and lift the cover,
flooded with emotion as I see you so dark
and brown and smooth and my mind wanders
in forests of pernambuco, spruce and maple.

I place my fingers at your neck and coax you
gently to me, allowing my hand to drift
over your curvature, down your neck, a
tease-touch to the ribs and around your waist,
your upper bout against my breast, my knees
holding you, and your expressive voice resonates
through me, poignantly portraying my deepest
feelings, purging my tears, calming my fears.

Your vibrato as warm as oozing brown chocolate,
slides up and down in this glissando, the legatos,
the staccatos, and with my equestrian's bow,
a striking spiccato and sighs of a passacaglia of praise.

*
*
*

http://www.gilbertmarosi.com/processed_archive/medium/romantic/Cello-Player.jpg

and here is the amazing Han-Na Chang playing Offenbach's, Jaqueline's Tears on my favorite instrument, the 'brown' cello.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vvk8NfaEbkg

Oh my! This is wonderful. The detail is not only seductive but so exquisite in its mystery until the very last note.

You have finally outdone yourself, Mysterious One. And the picture I left in because it is like the final musical dew in the air when all the instruments have played their last note.

I have described the Cello's dark nerve in a poem once. It is a wonderful instrument.

Bravo!

[symphony]

Brown

The cool autumn air prickling my skin
as I sit naked across the room, watching you,
sunlight peeking through the lace curtains,
playing patterns on the wall behind you.
I move toward you now and lift the cover,
flooded with emotion as I see you so dark
and brown and smooth and my mind wanders
in forests of pernambuco, spruce and maple.

I place my fingers at your neck and coax you
gently to me, allowing my hand to drift
over your curvature, down your neck, a
tease-touch to the ribs and around your waist,
your upper bout against my breast, my knees
holding you, and your expressive voice resonates
through me, poignantly portraying my deepest
feelings, purging my tears, calming my fears.

Your vibrato as warm as oozing brown chocolate,
slides up and down in this glissando, the legatos,
the staccatos, and with my equestrian's bow,
a striking spiccato and sighs of a passacaglia of praise.

*
*
*

http://www.gilbertmarosi.com/processed_archive/medium/romantic/Cello-Player.jpg

and here is the amazing Han-Na Chang playing Offenbach's, Jaqueline's Tears on my favorite instrument, the 'brown' cello.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vvk8NfaEbkg

My other inspiration came from JTParreira's, Steinway & Sons and AuntShecky's, Your Poem Inspired by Music.
This is so...so... okay i dont have the word but i loved it!

[ampoule]

Thank you Fire and Symphony. You have pleased me greatly for I did work very hard on Brown.
FireFangled, I would love to read your poem about that dark nerve.

[TheFifthElement]

Oh yes! Brown is beautiful :)

[PrinceMyshkin]

Brown

The cool autumn air prickling my skin
as I sit naked across the room, watching you,
sunlight peeking through the lace curtains,
playing patterns on the wall behind you.
I move toward you now and lift the cover,
flooded with emotion as I see you so dark
and brown and smooth and my mind wanders
in forests of pernambuco, spruce and maple.

I place my fingers at your neck and coax you
gently to me, allowing my hand to drift
over your curvature, down your neck, a
tease-touch to the ribs and around your waist,
your upper bout against my breast, my knees
holding you, and your expressive voice resonates
through me, poignantly portraying my deepest
feelings, purging my tears, calming my fears.

Your vibrato as warm as oozing brown chocolate,
slides up and down in this glissando, the legatos,
the staccatos, and with my equestrian's bow,
a striking spiccato and sighs of a passacaglia of praise.

*
*
*

http://www.gilbertmarosi.com/processed_archive/medium/romantic/Cello-Player.jpg

and here is the amazing Han-Na Chang playing Offenbach's, Jaqueline's Tears on my favorite instrument, the 'brown' cello.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vvk8NfaEbkg

My other inspiration came from JTParreira's, Steinway & Sons and AuntShecky's, Your Poem Inspired by Music.

Of Tolstoy it was once said that he described even furniture as it would describe itself. Here it is as if this profusion of delicate but full-bodied sensations had done just that! Did you, I wonder, feel like crying after you had written it? I would have felt that way if it were mine.

Could "bout" in
your upper bout against my breast be a typo or either an imaginitive use of that word or a use I'm just not familiar with?

And what is a "brown" cello as distinct from any other?

[Sweets America]

WOW:eek2: :eek2: :eek2:
This Brown poem is so fantastic!!!!!!! I love it so much!! Each stanza has something wonderful in it, I particularly love 'my mind wanders in forests of pernambuco, spruce and maple.'. Those lines make me have a incredible feeling, I can't describe it. The whole first stanza is marvellous, with the lights and all.
I love how the poem escalates in intensity and the ending!!! The ending is WONDERFUL!!
Makes me want to print it and stick it on my wall!

[ampoule]

Of Tolstoy it was once said that he described even furniture as it would describe itself. Here it is as if this profusion of delicate but full-bodied sensations had done just that! Did you, I wonder, feel like crying after you had written it? I would have felt that way if it were mine.
Crying? Close. Spent? Yes.
Could "bout" in be a typo or either an imaginitive use of that word or a use I'm just not familiar with? Bout is the shape of the cello, wide bout, narrow bout, wide bout.

And what is a "brown" cello as distinct from any other?
Sorry, I did not mean to mislead. I only put that because I was writing about the color BROWN and the picture I posted is so red.

Thank you so much my precious ones. I wish we could have a group hug.:brow:

[ampoule]

I love how the poem escalates in intensity and the ending!!! Hmmm...yes.....? ;)
The ending is WONDERFUL!! Thank you very much!
Makes me want to print it and stick it on my wall!Be my guest dear Sweets.

Just so you know, you will be included in that group hug that I mentioned above. :)

[motherhubbard]

I'm at a loss of words. This took my breath away. I think you've outdone yourself with this one, Amp.

[ampoule]

Thanks MH. Now for heaven's sake, start breathing again. ;) :D That's very sweet.

[dibyendra]

Brown

The cool autumn air prickling my skin
as I sit naked across the room, watching you,
sunlight peeking through the lace curtains,
playing patterns on the wall behind you.
I move toward you now and lift the cover,
flooded with emotion as I see you so dark
and brown and smooth and my mind wanders
in forests of pernambuco, spruce and maple.

I place my fingers at your neck and coax you
gently to me, allowing my hand to drift
over your curvature, down your neck, a
tease-touch to the ribs and around your waist,
your upper bout against my breast, my knees
holding you, and your expressive voice resonates
through me, poignantly portraying my deepest
feelings, purging my tears, calming my fears.

Your vibrato as warm as oozing brown chocolate,
slides up and down in this glissando, the legatos,
the staccatos, and with my equestrian's bow,
a striking spiccato and sighs of a passacaglia of praise.

*
*
*

http://www.gilbertmarosi.com/processed_archive/medium/romantic/Cello-Player.jpg

and here is the amazing Han-Na Chang playing Offenbach's, Jaqueline's Tears on my favorite instrument, the 'brown' cello.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vvk8NfaEbkg

My other inspiration came from JTParreira's, Steinway & Sons and AuntShecky's, Your Poem Inspired by Music.

Such a great piece ampoule ! I found first two stanza brilliantly expressed. But I couldn't grasp the last three lines of last stanza. Great work amp ! :thumbs_up

[ampoule]

Such a great piece ampoule ! I found first two stanza brilliantly expressed. But I couldn't grasp the last three lines of last stanza. Great work amp ! :thumbs_up

I thank you very much diby. Let's just say the last three lines are describing ways that a cello can be played.

[ampoule]

Red

Some people think I'm dormant
but there's a fire inside,
sometimes it's hot and seething,
and sometimes hard to hide.
Usually it comes in a flash
and just as quickly gone,
but when I am embarrassed,
it just goes on and on.
They love to point it out to me,
as if I cannot feel it,
that burning that comes from within
might be God's fiery pit.
To think I'm carrying hell around,
a scary thought, indeed,
so do not try to make me blush
this warning you should heed.

:blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush::blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush:

And because red is my favorite color, I'd like to write another.

Red

At winter's end, many seasons ago, I found it,
there among the stretched and marked and rejected,
the love of my life, the warmth of my bitter cold days,
like a walking fireside chat, a cup of steaming tea,
a stand-in for a lover's embrace, steaming hot
mashed potatoes and gravy, a purring cat on my lap,
with two arms and a simple sash for easy ins and outs,
my robe, my red robe, my long fleece red robe.

[Sweets America]

I thank you very much diby. Let's just say the last three lines are describing ways that a cello can be played.

I thought the last three lines sounded highly sexual :blush: , and I loved how you managed to play with the sensuality of the cello. Or maybe it's just me?

[ampoule]

I thought the last three lines sounded highly sexual :blush: , and I loved how you managed to play with the sensuality of the cello. Or maybe it's just me?

exactly

[stormy sky]

Blue and Red are both lovely poems,
i found Blue very fresh and lively,
but when it came to Brown,u certainly outdid youself as compared to the other two.i found it very intense and sensual.

[ampoule]

Thank you Stormy Sky. You are making me.......


Red

Some people think I'm dormant
but there's a fire inside,
sometimes it's hot and seething,
and sometimes hard to hide.
Usually it comes in a flash
and just as quickly gone,
but when I am embarrassed,
it just goes on and on.
They love to point it out to me,
as if I cannot feel it,
that burning that comes from within
might be God's fiery pit.
To think I'm carrying hell around,
a scary thought, indeed,
so do not try to make me blush
this warning you should heed.

:blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush::blush: :blush: :blush: :blush: :blush:

And because red is my favorite color, I'd like to write another.

Red

At winter's end, many seasons ago, I found it,
there among the stretched and marked and rejected,
the love of my life, the warmth of my bitter cold days,
like a walking fireside chat, a cup of steaming tea,
a stand-in for a lover's embrace, steaming hot
mashed potatoes and gravy, a purring cat on my lap,
with two arms and a simple sash for easy ins and outs,
my robe, my red robe, my long fleece red robe.

[firefangled]

[B][I][COLOR="DarkRed"]Red

At winter's end, many seasons ago, I found it,
there among the stretched and marked and rejected,
the love of my life, the warmth of my bitter cold days,
like a walking fireside chat, a cup of steaming tea,
a stand-in for a lover's embrace, steaming hot
mashed potatoes and gravy, a purring cat on my lap,
with two arms and a simple sash for easy ins and outs,
my robe, my red robe, my long fleece red robe.


I am such a fan of the mystery you weave in so many of your poems. This was no exception. In addition is the nostalgia presented in such an interesting way. The repetition of the last line transfers your endearing feelings about the robe as well as any I've ever read.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Red

At winter's end, many seasons ago, I found it,
there among the stretched and marked and rejected,
the love of my life, the warmth of my bitter cold days,
like a walking fireside chat, a cup of steaming tea,
a stand-in for a lover's embrace, steaming hot
mashed potatoes and gravy, a purring cat on my lap,
with two arms and a simple sash for easy ins and outs,
my robe, my red robe, my long fleece red robe.


In your hands the language is rarely anything less than what it describes! (But couldn't we PLEASE have just one more beat in that marvellous last line? E.g. "my robe, my red robe, my long fleece red, red robe.")

[dibyendra]

At winter's end, many seasons ago, I found it,
there among the stretched and marked and rejected,
the love of my life, the warmth of my bitter cold days,
like a walking fireside chat, a cup of steaming tea,
a stand-in for a lover's embrace, steaming hot
mashed potatoes and gravy, a purring cat on my lap,
with two arms and a simple sash for easy ins and outs,
my robe, my red robe, my long fleece red robe.

Ampoule, in my opinion, you have outdone this one even more briliiantly ! Such a graceful poem ! :thumbs_up

[ampoule]

Orange

Each day
she watches
them spin into the
hall of echoes, talking
to the air, rushing, rarely
meeting her eye, and if they do,
meet her eye, they do not know it,
passing with blinders, racing for doors
that eat them, leaving artifacts that she
quietly picks up and categorizes in her rolling
reliquary, tubes of Berry Sexy, Red Hot Mama,
calling cards and don't call me cards, breath mints
and chewed gum, tissues and handkerchiefs full of
sweat and snot, coins, combs and coffee stirrers, but
the worst days are the snow days when the city streets
come inside with ice and slush and she can hardly keep up
with the danger and finally they look at her, but with disgust
at her signs of detour, such a bother, but today she is wearing
her hair high on her head in a bouncy ponytail tied up with bright
orange ribbons, her orange sweater and matching shoe laces, and as
they come her way, laying aside her mop, she picks up the cone, the
bright orange pylon, holds it to her mouth and with a toothy smile yells,
WATCH YOUR STEP, WATCH YOUR STEP....watch....your....step....please,
wet floor, I have just mopped the floor, for you, have a great day....please..




amp, November Fourteenth, TwoThousandSeven

This is probably silly but the idea came to me a long time ago because of FifthElement's thread on writing a pylon poem. I was going to post it there but I needed an orange poem. Thanks Fifth. :)

The picture/poem above is supposed to represent an orange cone, pylon....like this:
http://cleaningsupply.ca/images/suppplies/9100.gif

[firefangled]

Orange

Each day
she watches
them spin into the
hall of echoes, talking
to the air, rushing, rarely
meeting her eye, and if they do,
meet her eye, they do not know it,
passing with blinders, racing for doors
that eat them, leaving artifacts that she
quietly picks up and categorizes in her rolling
reliquary, tubes of Berry Sexy, Red Hot Mama,
calling cards and don't call me cards, breath mints
and chewed gum, tissues and handkerchiefs full of
sweat and snot, coins, combs and coffee stirrers, but
the worst days are the snow days when the city streets
come inside with ice and slush and she can hardly keep up
with the danger and finally they look at her, but with disgust
at her signs of detour, such a bother, but today she is wearing
her hair high on her head in a bouncy ponytail tied up with bright
orange ribbons, her orange sweater and matching shoe laces, and as
they come her way, laying aside her mop, she picks up the cone, the
bright orange pylon, holds it to her mouth and with a toothy smile yells,
WATCH YOUR STEP, WATCH YOUR STEP....watch....your....step....please,
wet floor, I have just mopped the floor, for you, have a great day....please..




amp, November Fourteenth, TwoThousandSeven

This is probably silly but the idea came to me a long time ago because of FifthElement's thread on writing a pylon poem. I was going to post it there but I needed an orange poem. Thanks Fifth. :)

This is one of the best poems of human triumph I have ever read. Right now I have no words because I am so amazed at its complexity of detail and the simplicity of its situation.

You are amazing! I love it. This is Fellini in its final astounding, human, and heartwrenching image.

Bravo!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Orange

Each day
she watches
them spin into the
hall of echoes, talking
to the air, rushing, rarely
meeting her eye, and if they do,
meet her eye, they do not know it,
passing with blinders, racing for doors
that eat them, leaving artifacts that she
quietly picks up and categorizes in her rolling
reliquary, tubes of Berry Sexy, Red Hot Mama,
calling cards and don't call me cards, breath mints
and chewed gum, tissues and handkerchiefs full of
sweat and snot, coins, combs and coffee stirrers, but
the worst days are the snow days when the city streets
come inside with ice and slush and she can hardly keep up
with the danger and finally they look at her, but with disgust
at her signs of detour, such a bother, but today she is wearing
her hair high on her head in a bouncy ponytail tied up with bright
orange ribbons, her orange sweater and matching shoe laces, and as
they come her way, laying aside her mop, she picks up the cone, the
bright orange pylon, holds it to her mouth and with a toothy smile yells,
WATCH YOUR STEP, WATCH YOUR STEP....watch....your....step....please,
wet floor, I have just mopped the floor, for you, have a great day....please..




amp, November Fourteenth, TwoThousandSeven

This is probably silly but the idea came to me a long time ago because of FifthElement's thread on writing a pylon poem. I was going to post it there but I needed an orange poem. Thanks Fifth. :)

"Silly"? Perhaps, if to be human all too human is silly! If to be alive and aware of the staggering, almost overwhelming variety of life is silly! Otherwise, well, it's just magnificent.

[Granny5]

Ampoule, I was behind in reading your colors. Now that I've caught up, I am amazed! Each one is just wonderful, beautiful. I can hardly wait for the rest of the rainbow. (red is my favorite, too. But brown, oh brown is just hot.)

[PrinceMyshkin]

Ampoule, I was behind in reading your colors. Now that I've caught up, I am amazed! Each one is just wonderful, beautiful. I can hardly wait for the rest of the rainbow. (red is my favorite, too. But brown, oh brown is just hot.)

But will she do one for puce, or fuschia? Or polka-dots!

[Granny5]

But will she do one for puce, or fuschia? Or polka-dots!

Maybe a puce with fuschia polka-dots.
whatever she writes, I bet it'll be wonderful. All the others have been.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Maybe a puce with fuschia polka-dots.
whatever she writes, I bet it'll be wonderful. All the others have been.

Yes, she's the real McCoy, isn't she (with maybe a bit of the Hatfields thrown in)? Some of us write and post because we hope to have our boo-boos kissed; and some of us because we enjoy the attention...but there are a few who have a freaking love affair with the ART!

[symphony]

Orange

Each day
she watches
them spin into the
hall of echoes, talking
to the air, rushing, rarely
meeting her eye, and if they do,
meet her eye, they do not know it,
passing with blinders, racing for doors
that eat them, leaving artifacts that she
quietly picks up and categorizes in her rolling
reliquary, tubes of Berry Sexy, Red Hot Mama,
calling cards and don't call me cards, breath mints
and chewed gum, tissues and handkerchiefs full of
sweat and snot, coins, combs and coffee stirrers, but
the worst days are the snow days when the city streets
come inside with ice and slush and she can hardly keep up
with the danger and finally they look at her, but with disgust
at her signs of detour, such a bother, but today she is wearing
her hair high on her head in a bouncy ponytail tied up with bright
orange ribbons, her orange sweater and matching shoe laces, and as
they come her way, laying aside her mop, she picks up the cone, the
bright orange pylon, holds it to her mouth and with a toothy smile yells,
WATCH YOUR STEP, WATCH YOUR STEP....watch....your....step....please,
wet floor, I have just mopped the floor, for you, have a great day....please..




amp, November Fourteenth, TwoThousandSeven

This is probably silly but the idea came to me a long time ago because of FifthElement's thread on writing a pylon poem. I was going to post it there but I needed an orange poem. Thanks Fifth. :)

This is beautiful. B-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l.

[Pendragon]

Orange

Each day
she watches
them spin into the
hall of echoes, talking
to the air, rushing, rarely
meeting her eye, and if they do,
meet her eye, they do not know it,
passing with blinders, racing for doors
that eat them, leaving artifacts that she
quietly picks up and categorizes in her rolling
reliquary, tubes of Berry Sexy, Red Hot Mama,
calling cards and don't call me cards, breath mints
and chewed gum, tissues and handkerchiefs full of
sweat and snot, coins, combs and coffee stirrers, but
the worst days are the snow days when the city streets
come inside with ice and slush and she can hardly keep up
with the danger and finally they look at her, but with disgust
at her signs of detour, such a bother, but today she is wearing
her hair high on her head in a bouncy ponytail tied up with bright
orange ribbons, her orange sweater and matching shoe laces, and as
they come her way, laying aside her mop, she picks up the cone, the
bright orange pylon, holds it to her mouth and with a toothy smile yells,
WATCH YOUR STEP, WATCH YOUR STEP....watch....your....step....please,
wet floor, I have just mopped the floor, for you, have a great day....please..




amp, November Fourteenth, TwoThousandSeven

This is probably silly but the idea came to me a long time ago because of FifthElement's thread on writing a pylon poem. I was going to post it there but I needed an orange poem. Thanks Fifth. :)
An orange bell... Wow!

[Granny5]

I thought it was a wet floor cone.

But, it does look like a bell.

[ampoule]

An orange bell... Wow!

You're right Pen, it looks more like a bell than a cone but I tried. Like Granny says, it's one of those wet floor pylons. :(

[AuntShecky]

A color of rich, "earthy" beauty, oft neglected in poesy.
The piece would be characterized as "sensuous" (adj. often applied to the poetry of Keats.) Note that it's "sensuous" not "sensual"-- the two words are not synonomous.
Incidentally, I don't know how chilly it is in your neck of the woods, but Global Warming, Global Schmarming-- it gets pretty darn cold round here in the Fall. Too damn cold to be sitting nekkid across the room. I kid, I kid.

[ampoule]

A color of rich, "earthy" beauty, oft neglected in poesy.
The piece would be characterized as "sensuous" (adj. often applied to the poetry of Keats.) Note that it's "sensuous" not "sensual"-- the two words are not synonomous.
Incidentally, I don't know how chilly it is in your neck of the woods, but Global Warming, Global Schmarming-- it gets pretty darn cold round here in the Fall. Too damn cold to be sitting nekkid across the room. I kid, I kid.

Oh...you're talking about Brown. We have had an unusually warm autumn but the wind is blowing and the temps are dropping as I write this. You're a good kidder Auntie. :D

[ampoule]

Fire, Prince, Granny, Symphony, thank you so much. You are way more than kind with your comments and I hope this doesn't sound like false modesty. You see, I have always enjoyed writing for my own pleasure/satisfaction but you guys are telling me I can. Thank you.

Oh, I am doing the primary colors for now so puce may never come. :(

[PrinceMyshkin]

Oh, I am doing the primary colors for now so puce may never come. :(

Fret not because someone beat you to it:



Puce skies
Smiling at me
Nothing but puce skies
Do I see

Pucebirds
Singing a song
Nothing but pucebirds
All day long

Never saw the sun shining so bright
Never saw things going so right
Noticing the days hurrying by
When youre in love, my how they fly

Puce days
All of them gone
Nothing but puce skies
From now on...

[ampoule]

What a funny bunny.

[PrinceMyshkin]

What a funny bunny.

I'm rubber and you're glue...

[Pendragon]

Fret not because someone beat you to it:



Puce skies
Smiling at me
Nothing but puce skies
Do I see

Pucebirds
Singing a song
Nothing but pucebirds
All day long

Never saw the sun shining so bright
Never saw things going so right
Noticing the days hurrying by
When youre in love, my how they fly

Puce days
All of them gone
Nothing but puce skies
From now on...

This brought up an equally nauseating to me, anyway, color, ecru... Want to try it...? This ought to go on the parody page! Nice, Jerry.

[PrinceMyshkin]

This brought up an equally nauseating to me, anyway, color, ecru... Want to try it...? This ought to go on the parody page! Nice, Jerry.


In Xan-Ecru did Kubla Khan
A variegated palette decree:
Where Yangtze Kuan, the Yellow River, ran
Through Jackson-Pollocklike confusion
Down to a drab, discoloured sea.
So twice five miles of grass-green ground
With polka dots were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with fuschia bells,
Where bloomed many a lime-green leaf;
And here were pin-striped miniature hells,
Enfolding liver-coloured greenery.

[ampoule]

Is this what you call hi-jacking a thread? Boy howdy you guys. :( ;)

[schadenfreude]

Hey Ampoule, your colour poems were brilliant! My favourites were brown and orange. I can't wait to hear more!

[TheFifthElement]

Orange

Each day
she watches
them spin into the
hall of echoes, talking
to the air, rushing, rarely
meeting her eye, and if they do,
meet her eye, they do not know it,
passing with blinders, racing for doors
that eat them, leaving artifacts that she
quietly picks up and categorizes in her rolling
reliquary, tubes of Berry Sexy, Red Hot Mama,
calling cards and don't call me cards, breath mints
and chewed gum, tissues and handkerchiefs full of
sweat and snot, coins, combs and coffee stirrers, but
the worst days are the snow days when the city streets
come inside with ice and slush and she can hardly keep up
with the danger and finally they look at her, but with disgust
at her signs of detour, such a bother, but today she is wearing
her hair high on her head in a bouncy ponytail tied up with bright
orange ribbons, her orange sweater and matching shoe laces, and as
they come her way, laying aside her mop, she picks up the cone, the
bright orange pylon, holds it to her mouth and with a toothy smile yells,
WATCH YOUR STEP, WATCH YOUR STEP....watch....your....step....please,
wet floor, I have just mopped the floor, for you, have a great day....please..




amp, November Fourteenth, TwoThousandSeven

This is probably silly but the idea came to me a long time ago because of FifthElement's thread on writing a pylon poem. I was going to post it there but I needed an orange poem. Thanks Fifth. :)


This is wonderful ampoule, I love the shape (definitely a cone!) and the 'slice of life' tone to it, AND pylon poetry still lives on! Thank you for this :)

[dibyendra]

Orange

Each day
she watches
them spin into the
hall of echoes, talking
to the air, rushing, rarely
meeting her eye, and if they do,
meet her eye, they do not know it,
passing with blinders, racing for doors
that eat them, leaving artifacts that she
quietly picks up and categorizes in her rolling
reliquary, tubes of Berry Sexy, Red Hot Mama,
calling cards and don't call me cards, breath mints
and chewed gum, tissues and handkerchiefs full of
sweat and snot, coins, combs and coffee stirrers, but
the worst days are the snow days when the city streets
come inside with ice and slush and she can hardly keep up
with the danger and finally they look at her, but with disgust
at her signs of detour, such a bother, but today she is wearing
her hair high on her head in a bouncy ponytail tied up with bright
orange ribbons, her orange sweater and matching shoe laces, and as
they come her way, laying aside her mop, she picks up the cone, the
bright orange pylon, holds it to her mouth and with a toothy smile yells,
WATCH YOUR STEP, WATCH YOUR STEP....watch....your....step....please,
wet floor, I have just mopped the floor, for you, have a great day....please..




amp, November Fourteenth, TwoThousandSeven

This is probably silly but the idea came to me a long time ago because of FifthElement's thread on writing a pylon poem. I was going to post it there but I needed an orange poem. Thanks Fifth. :)

The picture/poem above is supposed to represent an orange cone, pylon....like this:
http://cleaningsupply.ca/images/suppplies/9100.gif

Oh Amp, this is marvelous poem which is brilliantly expressed creating a pylon. It's definitely a sort of art which you managed to portray by mingling words. Great work ampoule :thumbs_up

[SleepyWitch]

I think I will begin with the primary colors.

Blue

The blue jay screeches, "GERONIMO!",
as he dives off the branches of my sugar maple,
hitting the heavy head of the sunflower,
splashing seeds all around, and like the kid he is,
climbs high into the tree to do it again and again.

hey, this is hilarious :lol: now I'm sad because we don't have bluejays here and I'd like to see one do that :)

[ampoule]

Black

Black is the canvas, the background
that absorbs my seven deadly colors,
lying prostrate, moaning as they turn,
rising up on cracking elbows, falling
further and further into oblivion, no,
always there, colorless, dark escape.
Were they not once blessings, bending
through your prism, water drop crystals,
suspended over me, spinning goodness
with my fingertip, all my colors poured
out, fireworks cascading in a black sky?
Find where they have fallen to the ground,
collect them with care and bring them
to me, my palette is empty, but ready.

ampoule, December Eighteenth, TwoThousandSeven

I wanted desperately to write about the song, Black Is the Color, one of my very first solos by John Jacob Niles, but this happened instead. Though my version is much slower, I love this fellow's rendition.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NO1lmqO9iT8

[PrinceMyshkin]

Wonderful (as always) anddon't we all wish that we could say on such occasions


my palette is empty, but ready.



Black Is the Color: a magnificent song, of course and what about

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

and surely we all have songs poems thoughts abourt blackness in our lives (and hearts!).

[firefangled]

Black

Black is the canvas, the background
that absorbs my seven deadly colors,
lying prostrate, moaning as they turn,
rising up on cracking elbows, falling
further and further into oblivion, no,
always there, colorless, dark escape.
Were they not once blessings, bending
through your prism, water drop crystals,
suspended over me, spinning goodness
with my fingertip, all my colors poured
out, fireworks cascading in a black sky?
Find where they have fallen to the ground,
collect them with care and bring them
to me, my palette is empty, but ready.

ampoule, December Eighteenth, TwoThousandSeven

I wanted desperately to write about the song, Black Is the Color, one of my very first solos by John Jacob Niles, but this happened instead. Though my version is much slower, I love this fellow's rendition.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NO1lmqO9iT8

I will listen to John Jacob Niles later. I did not want it to detour my perception of this powerful poem. The image of the fireworks falling in shards of color is amazing.

[PrinceMyshkin]

And may I add



Black is the color of my true love's
disdain for me. Our love was green
when it began and all the world
was green to match. Every spear
of grass raised up its hands
in a hosanna to the sun!

Red it became as it went on, red
as bloody, fresh-killed meat!
But something soon began to eat
of our love, something mean
and frightened as the frightened
soon enough turn mean. Green
turned yellow, red
rancid and soon, too soon
it all faded to black.