Seeing Red …

We are challenged today to really incorporate color into our poem. Whatever you see, whatever you write – really SEE it in color. This was fun. I just chose a few poet friends here on the Net and wrote bits about them, seeing them in the colors that they portray to me. This is at dVerse Poets Pub where the greatest poets in the world meet up for a drink and a few good words and “The Color Festival.”

A stitch here and
there, red thread
pulled. Red coat – rushing
to get her kids off to
school, Claudia – she stops
in the rain
looking down into the
puddle, a reflection
of her home
in red brick
rippling through
the water.
Little eddies
of swirling silver and
gray
with hints of
the sun coming out,
become a froth of
many whites
almost a silver
reflection
in their
splash.

Sherry with her
dog
Jasmine the color of
ginger putty
on a sunny day
the light is a deep
yellow
with the sparkle
of it’s sunshine
bouncing off
the glitter
in the bluest bay.
She sits
upon a log,
a paled wheat
bleached by the sun
with gray and black
streaks.
She sits
watching
white puff clouds
so high they fly
racing by.
She drinks her
dark rich brown coffee
from a warm olive-green
mug, as Jasmine plays
on the
loose
pale bleed of pink sand.

Brian a hand
out to each child
bringing them
along, everyone in a
variant shade
of blue tee-shirt,
gray-blue,
sky-blue
calmest ocean blue.
They head for the
park-bench on
a silvery
sunny day
where they will
sit down
for a picnic
beautiful wife and
mother
tagging along
green like the
earth bringing
PB & J
sandwiches
of love
the color of nuts
tannish, brownish with
grape jam oozing
from the bread
made of
family love.

Grace,
just that.
Grace comes in
many hues
I should think of her
painting by the
sea – palette filled
with every color.
Hair reddish
dress white
with a yellow
sash
silver dangling from her
ears. A purple
ribbon in
her hair.

Mary
off quickly
down the street
pencil thin
a dark shirt
perhaps a gray
white cuffs
with red buttons.
The three
little ones behind
gray, white,
tan,
brown and black
a walk by the
bay.
Swiveled
brown leather
leashes
never
tangle
each little
one with
a red collar
one blue
and one green.

Bjorn stands
against a dark
scowl filled sky
gray-black clouds
raging
across its dark
surface.
He stops briefly
in his burnt orange
cap
blue jeans frayed
just long
enough
to paint
with words the
angry waves
of green and purple.
While its
bubbly lemon froth
hisses spit
over the pier.
iPad in hand washed
over grabbed
by the angry water
a poem washed
away.