Posts Tagged ‘white’

But when I go

out at night

and look at the stars,

my back presses against the snow

and I feel the feathery light touch

of the wind

and shiver,

and there’s shadowed white

on either side of me,

and only black-and-white night above,

yet all I can think about

is you

moving, or pulling me, closer

so we can try

to keep each other warm.

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Wheat Fields Under Cloudy Skies

painting by Vincent van Gogh

Sky with its blue scales
does not daunt
pastoral fields- great pools
of emeralds, celadon-
the flowers at their fringes-
white stars, blood spots-
arcing under the wind.

The land is made of curves.
Clouds wheel in and out
of their own whiteness.
The wind is blurring
the world’s colors.
They are all within one another.

Stare at the page

wondering what cosmic rules will

leap out of black numerals

and formulate sense-

then- ponder

how nature is frozen into fractals

and patterns,

and that you may not have

the solution,

but you uncover wonder just

by trying to find it.

In this whiteness there is desolation.

Ferocity abounds while ice plummets

to where a birdwatcher would make his or her observation.

But now the snow plunges into summits,

hiding landscape from humans at their windows.

All one can see are tiny white comets,

and in this instant, that is all one can know.

My white heart is gaining stains

and beginning to stink like garbage.

 

If you would have taken it,

it would have bloomed like a rose,

 

it wouldn’t become unsightly.

But, my dear, you’re not a good liar.

 

Truths bleed through the phone,

and I piece them together.

 

A half-truth is, after all,

a whole, stinking lie.

 

I’m wearing black now.

You’re wearing red

 

and consorting with a Union Jack.

You’re alive.

 

Where am I?

Not in your eyes. Not on your mind.

Windless stillness,

silence.

Sunlight slices through

dense clumps of silver.

Light perforated

only by gray, almost transparent

shadows- long and thin

shadows of trees.

The earth is wearing out its

white play-clothes.

They have gravel stains,

dirt stains,

and the beating heart

of its grasses is turning

as it enters REM sleep.

Earth is dreaming of when

she will burst from the womb,

naked and beautiful,

and will grow its emerald hair

long.

And will decorate itself in jewels of color-

blossoms

and leaves.

Who am I

but a vague mouth

preaching and conversing

to millions of unseen faces

who cannot see the teeth or tongue,

who can only imagineĀ 

the redness,

the whiteness.