Bows on presents?

Well – okay, that’s to be expected

 

Ribbons of taffeta

Satin and shimmering lights

Spill all over house

And yard.

 

Bows of electric lights

Strung against the night

 

Hoo, boy!

Bows encircling chimney tops?

 

Plastic cookies and candy canes

Line drive and porch

Oh, my, oh my, what else?

 

Colorful streamers

Stiffening with ice,

Threatening to crack

In the winter freezes

 

Who is this fool?

This Christmas

Decorating fool?

Not me. Huh, uh, not me.

 

#Christmas, #Christmasdecorations, #decorationcritic

Have you listened

To the stories told by the wind?

Have you flown with a breeze

Through the branches of trees

And dancing, played with the leaves?

Have you floated unmoving

Above the wide flat expanse

Thick with grasses

Or cultivated plains?

 

Have you died as a whisper

Upon a butterfly’s wing

Till stirred to life again

Deep within the wetness

Of a tropic forest?

Have you bounced and leaped

From wave to wave

Across the vastness of blue water,

Or skipped across dunes and sunbaked rock

Trailing bits of the earth behind you

Like a comet’s tail?

 

Have you been possessed:

The wind entering your every pore

Washing the molecules of your body

Flavoring every atom

Till the sound, the taste

The feel of wind is all you are?

Then in a moment’s shock,

Like a single brief earth tremor,

You are separate once more?

 

Yet, in the moment of abandonment,

Alone in the silence,

You remain poised as if for flight

Lighter than eider down.

Were it not for the tiniest doubt,

The merest inkling of disbelief–

…..Which surely is all that tethers

…..You to earth–

Do you not believe at such moments

That you might gently melt into the sky?

 

#wind

Green is juicy, chewy and richly moist.

It is the end of hunger

And smells of dinner.

Green wraps the skin in baby bunting,

Soft, safe and warm.

 

Brown tastes like baker’s chocolate

Or the sand flavor of a desert wind.

It has a dryness that clings to the teeth.

It smells of loam and mulch warm in the sun

And may slightly tickle, like grass.

 

Black is the slick hard smoothness

Of tempered steel: unyielding, unforgiving.

Black has the chemical taste of polyester,

And the flat aftertaste of factory milled cloth.

It has no more smell that aluminum or plastic.

 

Orange is hot chocolate surprised

With a touch of cinnamon or chili spice.

It is the touch of chenille both soft and not—

With ups and downs, uneven.

Orange is thick with the smells

Of bleeding saps, the perfumes of spice.

 

Red is stiff taffeta petticoats,

The sharp cold that cuts

And tastes like blood

And smells of tundra.

Or it is hot, perhaps with a scalding heat.

It smells of wood smoke

And has the tang of resins

Charred and steaming.

It is a taste that clings

Dry as ash upon the tongue.

 

Yellow is the delicate sweetness

Of honeysuckle sap.

It is not heavy with overtones

Like honey or maple syrup.

It smells of spring blossoms.

In the coolness of evening

It has caught the warmth of sun

Found in ceramics and rock.

Yellow slips across the skin

Like  bangle bracelets

Ultimately delicate

Infinitely light.

 

The surface of velour or corduroy

Is the fleshy touch of Red-violet

Which tastes of fruit, soft yet crunchy:

Cherries or grapes,

Apples, plums or pears,

Melons or peaches.

It smells like the first cut

That opens the summer watermelon.

 

Blue is the touch of a down feather

Or the wet cling of a cold shower.

Blue has the contrary sweetness

Of rock salt or the sourness of brine

From too long exposure to decay.

It has the dank smell found in caves

Or in the hollows of sea shells.

 

Violet slips across the tongue

With the heady, heaviness of honey.

Velvet smells of night blooming flowers.

The touch of violet is the allure

Of expensive velvet or the softest of furs.

It is a tempting warmth

Deep enough to smother in.

#rainbow, #senses, #flavors, #textures. #prism, #color

All

all

all

 

The death of all

that was dear

 

All

 

that comforted

bought warmth

through the winter

of body, mind, soul

 

All

 

that consoled

brought serenity

in the midst of storms

 

All

 

that brought that most precious

moment of joy

gone…gone

 

All

all

all

 

Oh, what a prison cell

A pumpkin shell would make

For orange stings

the consciousness

With tiny irritating pricks

Like a pacing figure

In an unrelenting pattern

Intruding upon your vision.

 

There is no sitting still

In an orange-drenched room.

It is no place

For the contemplative to pray.

Silence is not an option,

And stillness contrary to its nature.

Rocking, pacing

Within the omnipresence of orange,

A prisoner could not rest.

 

Confined to orangeness

You would likely lose reality,

Begin to babble incoherently

Of other colors from years past:

Blue or red, brown or green

Yellow, pink, olive

Cerise or black.

 

You might easily lose your mind

As it spills out, washing over

The constancy of orange

In hallucinogenic visions

Of those other colors of memory

In a conjury of escape.

 

Oh, what a prison cell

A pumpkin shell would make.