
Color Wheel: OneRed
Comes in waves, like heat,
like the word "Thermopylae",
reminding of the battle that was there
and Spartan war flags. Cherries
preserved on a winter day, the jar
hanging right on the edge of a windowsill
framing the descent of snow
on an otherwise
burning sky.
Red.
Like eyes.
The bloodshot,
pickled-looking
mugged up windows
of a drunk, bleary soul
as he staggers past
a toy barn house,
slips on a sock,
obnoxious with color,
and cracks open
his head
like a bleeding drum
beat, beat, beating
the heart still bleeding.
Red, the color of pain.
Drunk man, now sober,
in a white-bed hospital room,
white lilies on displ

other shadesi want to write the grey things--
the underneath of bridges
and floors of public bathrooms,
and predawn
nightmistakes hanging on
and lingering,
fingering through dull hair
and resting in wasted breaths,
spilling from streets, greeting
clenched teeth and cold hands
and numb feet--
the hollow taste of the next
morning--the ashes you swallowed
to look glamorous, and the hair of everyone
in every photograph before 1840--
the smell of buses pulling passengers
to more promising places--
faded faces turned restless
toward the flat-rain sky,
spaces between the railroad ties,
and dusty dreams
deferred.

SupernovaIt was a '67 orange Chevrolet
Tinted windows, spattered paint
And the smell of hot sauce that never quite left
Leather kept the warmth of better summers
Dancing shoes and faded denim
Gas like Heaven on these city streets.
And wherever they went they took fireworks with them
Bursts of colour in the blackened sky
Just like popping paint balls against the drop sheets
Making love when there were backs to break and wars to see
No different than
Shaking orange
A chugging engine, sand and burning feet.
Years later it still ran smooth like memories
Of slapping wasps and tipsy victories
Giving freely of their speckled innocence
And gai

BlueThe Lancia Flavia gleams,
A blue made bluer by rainfall
Settling on the metal
And the interior is blue,
Too blue to have been an option offered
By the manufacturer.
The driver's suit is blue
And from his grandfather's will
He read like a catalogue.
On a cliff top
Overlooking the ocean
He thought the see would be bluer
But it is as grey
As the sky above it.
He puts the car in gear
And accelerates.

A Cavalcade of GoldA cavalcade of golden horse
Alights from out the maples' grove -
Abreast the unsown eastern fields,
They march a subtle, rising slope;
They share in banter at the square,
And ask the baker for a taste
Of breads and sweets all freshly pinched
And cooling on a window-pane;
They greet the maidens tending yards
Along the velvet uptown rows -
As if to beg a favor, knelt,
With tresses tied in buns and bows -
And press on further, slow and sure,
A touch of leisure in their gait:
Their laughter calling mockingbirds,
Their easy songs delighting jays,
But where they near, I turn them out -
I close my blinds and beg their leave -
Their

ChartreuseChartreuse, the awakening of spring at the pond
with life floating by,
and the explosion of sweet upon Eve's first bite.
It's Mona Lisa's smile
tipping back a glass while outside
the ivy creeps and the neon bats it's eyes.
Meet me midway, between the buttercups
and grass anew, where it all began in Eden.
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Colors Contestby #Word-Smiths