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
I forced myself
To travel roads
Unknown to me
To hear the howls
Of broken destiny
I chose to write
In this alien voice
To speak out
To explain the why
Now upon inked pages
It is all spilled
That pain, the twisted limbs
Of history that maimed
Lie bleeding across pages
Charred by words burning holes
Leaving me here
Stranded where I sought
To be—
In no-man’s land—
Waiting to learn of peace
Holding my white flag
Of surrender
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
Scarlet and black
Are a dangerous pair.
Katchtorian’s Sabre Danse
is their life’s song.
With a quick succession
Of ice pick wounds
Of heat and shock,
They steal, in tiny gasps,
the oxygen from any room.
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.
Alfalfa straw teases the senses
With a hint of wet green Springs,
The aroma of loam gone to must.
Its molting skin tickles the nose
Catches on clothes and hair
And follows you home.
Ground to dust and sifted
onto a tarred lot, Alfalfa
builds a phantom barn,
plows a phantom field.
There was always music
In my mother’s childhood home
Arriving with a fiery taste
In the air circling the crystal set
Her grandfather had built
Which sizzled with arias from New York
Orchestras in Chicago and Pittsburgh
And static almost all the time
Accompanying the syncopation
Of her father’s dancing feet.
Operas and symphonies spun
Out their magic lure
From treasured 78rmp records
Laid carefully beneath a needle
To release the secrets
Hidden in their grooves.
The music shared the room
With the smell of rosin
On the bow of her brother’s violin,
Her grandad’s fiddle,
Her father’s mandolin.
Her own fingers on piano keys,
Or her mother’s so gentle touch
Moving a piano’s hammers
Striking perfectly tuned strings
Painting the air with melody
Once upon a time
My hair rippled
And glistened in the sun
And swung from side to side
With the flippancy of youth.
What remains, lank and thin
Is not my hair, my mane.
This is a charade
Of what once was
A dastardly trick played by time.
No barrette strains to hold my tresses.
Clips slip, fall away and are lost.
Ribbons, too, fail to stay in place.
Scarves and hats may hide
But never replace what once was.
The thick, richness of yesteryear.
But what is it called when creatures
On this earth curl and sleep, when
Shadows of moons we don’t know
Brush across our faces?
—“Naming of the Heartbeats” by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
There are moons we do not know
Distanced across space.
Do these unseen mysteries
Send their shadows outward
Beyond their limited orbits
Into the world of my room
Trailing the faintest touch
Of awareness, something drifting
Over my face to alter
The inner tides within my dreams?