What a funny bunny.
What a funny bunny.
I'm in love with The Vinegar Man and Mr. Tanner, but be careful, it could just as easily be you.
"If you're going to write you better have somewhere to come from." Flannery O'Connor
I'm rubber and you're glue...Originally Posted by ampoule
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.
Some of us laugh
Some of us cry
Some of us smoke
Some of us lie
But it's all just the way
that we cope with our lives...
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.
Is this what you call hi-jacking a thread? Boy howdy you guys.
I'm in love with The Vinegar Man and Mr. Tanner, but be careful, it could just as easily be you.
"If you're going to write you better have somewhere to come from." Flannery O'Connor
Hey Ampoule, your colour poems were brilliant! My favourites were brown and orange. I can't wait to hear more!
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 thisOrange
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.
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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 ampouleOrange
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:
hey, this is hilariousnow I'm sad because we don't have bluejays here and I'd like to see one do that
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'm in love with The Vinegar Man and Mr. Tanner, but be careful, it could just as easily be you.
"If you're going to write you better have somewhere to come from." Flannery O'Connor
Wonderful (as always) anddon't we all wish that we could say on such occasions
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!).
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.
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.
"You must be the change you want to see in the world." Gandhi
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