Colors

[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:

[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.

[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...