The tour of co-hosting poets reaches across the pond to Almeria, Spain by way of Scotland. This multifaceted individual is as well verse in whatever undertaking he attempts. A poet, photographer, musician, cook, adventurer, ailurophile (cat lover) and on and on… This is a man I consider the “brother I’ve never met” in that I live vicariously through his exploits. Of course our co-host this week is Iain Douglas Kemp.


Poet, Drummer, Photographer, Musician, Cook, Educator -  Iain Douglas Kemp

Poet, Drummer, Photographer, Musician, Cook, Educator –
Iain Douglas Kemp

Iain Douglas Kemp lives and works in Almería, Andalucía, Southern Spain. He has been writing (on and off) for over 30 years. He considers himself a Writer first and a teacher second. He teaches English as a Foreign Language at a small private language school near in Almería from October to June and at St. Hugh’s College, Oxford in the summer months. He is currently studying for an MA in Applied Linguistics and TESOL. His influences include Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Wes Magee and Stevie Smith and twenty thousand song titles.

Publishing credits include the short poem “visual echoes”, published by Barbara Subraman/Gypsy Art Show in the visual poetry/music collaborative work “GAZE” in January 2010. In May 2010 the poem “Peregrine” was recorded for podcast on the ‘Born Free Foundation’ Web site by Virginia McKenna, the first time this has been done other than for the poet in residence!

His work was included in the anthology “Prompted” and “Poetic Bloomings – The First Year”. In 2013 Virginia McKenna recorded his poem Thunder Birds which was first published on Poetic Bloomings. He is a member of the on-line poetry group “The Baker’s Dozen”.

He became known amongst on-line poets after contributing to the first Poetic Asides PAD challenge in 2008. He regularly records his poems for podcast and last year did a summer series of guest poet podcasts, recording poems from some of our favourite poets in the blogosphere; something he promises to do again this year. He is also a musician and singer/songwriter, playing drums, percussion and blues harp

His blog includes cookery, music and travel and of course his cats! It can be found at


PROMPT #147 – THE SPECTRUM OF EMOTIONS: We live in a colorful world. At times we are awed by the beauty resident around us as it is represented by the spectrum of light. Emotions are the same way. Think of the phrases “Green with envy” or “Red with embarrassment”, we often use color as a metaphor to describe our emotions. Find one, or better yet make up a color metaphor of your own and back it up with a poem.



You wait below the surface,
the gentle idle of a loving heart.
You keep me alive as I strive
to put words to your prowess.
I am powerless to stop
the unbridled flame once ignited.
You have lighted my soul
showing every corner in brilliance,
this dalliance of expression
shows itself in shades and tints:
lavenders, and lilacs, violets
and amethyst. This tryst is grape.
It is orchid. It is the magenta that flows
in the throes your insistence.
A longing dance waged closely;
the deepest hue is reserved for you.
My passions burn brightly; rightly
in the brushed velvet of night.
A purple mistress is my passion!

©Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014



Colour Me Happy

Like a kaleidoscope prism
refracting bending
and twisting the light of truth
the light of reality
emotions have coursed like rainbow hued blood
through the body
through the mind
through the soul
into and out of depression
up to and down from soaring giddy heights
but the blues reached out to get me again and again
the red rage of anger flared though my red hair
and spat the vicious venom of the green eyed monster
at all that I envied
those that I aspired to be
those that seemed immune to the ills and burdens of this world
the blackest moods would weigh me down
and then suddenly hitting a purple patch
I was inspired
on fire
only to fall
sinking like a stone
and cowering in the corner
the yellow bellied coward
who dare not
could not face the world
the truth
the self
hating with the blackest heart all those who inflicted pain
who trod me beneath their boots
and then suddenly
there was a flash
a crash
a lighting strike
out of the blue
a rainbow of dreams and schemes
came pouring forth – nothing there to hold them back
the dam had burst many years too late
but better late than never
the black dog was dead
the blues were washed away
and all that remained was a bright pure blinding
white light of joy
as finally, after so very long in the dark
I was not a shadow seeking shy violet
but full of life
full of energy
full of confidence
colours flowed from my mind
from my fingers
magical swirling technicolor pictures
were drawn by the words from my lips
and I stood proud and declared:
if colour me you will then
for my spectrum knows no bounds

©Iain Douglas Kemp 3/14


  1. My Color Blue

    Thick in blue haze
    Of depression hue.
    Swept like waves
    In overcrowds of care.
    Jangled nerves
    Wrought with
    Message true,
    Decoded affliction,
    invoked despair.
    It stretched the pain,
    Well past resting length.
    Something snapped
    —And my color rained bare.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  2. Red Hot Muse

    Radiant red energy
    In splendor,
    Spreads rapidly,
    By convection of muse.
    Until all it’s power
    Is consumed or used,
    To generate
    the next poem.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  3. Tug of War

    is actually
    as almond
    like two ends
    of the same
    pulling and tugging
    at heart

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  4. Surf’s Up

    Life is quite
    the joy ride
    of human

    It’s color
    like the time
    of day.

    Catch the wave,
    then brave,
    it’s stellar

    Learn to surf…
    The spectrum.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  5. Melted Hue of Love

    I was tickled
    By her indigo
    And substantial
    Retina display.
    Froze me
    Into baby blue,
    Until I didn’t
    What to say.
    —Her presence,
    Roused solid ice.
    Me out,
    With her
    Magenta smile.
    Until taken captive;
    Melted hue
    Stretching out
    Across a mile.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  6. (WOW Walt and Iain-just WOW)
    I Wish I was Red

    Red is no lady
    she’s wise cracking
    gum chewing
    a long inhalation of smoke
    exhaled slowly in your face
    sexy and brazen
    Confidant, cocky, strong as
    espresso in a dainty cup.

  7. March Madness

    Some people bleed heavy blue in march.
    While others let the buckeyes roll.
    Some are still flying high, in the sweet
    Sixteen, aiming for that final four poll.
    We’ll see who still stands at the ultimate dance, and whose colors remain primary true.

  8. I Picked some stones, throwing some color and strung them with words—

    The Spirit Of Colors
    Crush some lapis, in your aqua marine
    Wear your red rubies with a Jasper spleen
    Taste fresh leaves of Jaded greens
    Root your Ochre, in yellowish dreams
    Spray Lavender scents, on your Amethyst hat
    Enliven your jell with pink Topaz
    Define bold Druzy in carving your Quartz
    Tease in Galena, to gray in some waltz
    Brown your Tiger with cinnamon, beige Eyes
    Reflect your gaze, in Moonstone whites
    Smear your cloaking with ambers from within
    And soar with the fire, that blaze in their wings—–

  9. Kaleidoscope Symphonies and Solos of Every Hue

    When I’m feeling down
    all the colors sag
    into a murky gray –
    as if someone took
    a paintbrush filled
    with black paint
    and dark washed the world.

    When I’m feeling up
    all the colors pop
    so blinding is their beauty –
    as if a hundred watt bulb
    was behind each and
    every hue and I need
    sunglasses to see clearly.

    And when everything is right
    in the world, then every
    color has its own beauty –
    and can be appreciated as
    the solo act they provide
    or together as a symphony.

  10. Midnight Blue

    An acoustic guitar strums an old folk song
    A campfire scent drifts in a cool breeze
    Kayak paddles dip in glittering water
    A horse gallops on a moonlit beach
    Lovers kiss in dark silhouette
    Romance, adventure, mystery
    A touch of fantasy


    is my passion;
    green is my love for life;
    but most know me for my yellow

    © copyright 2014, William Preston


    as the sun
    Pizarro sought in Peruvian hills
    will not purchase you a place in Heaven
    not even
    at your command or moon or all the stars
    that light the universe can save your soul
    glittering treasures of golden sovereigns
    can make kings of men who must someday die
    not Gold

    on jagged seas
    bob in the huge yellow eye of the lighthouse sun
    dark seedlings deep in late winter ground
    to the yellow-plant god
    and I in the winter of my life’s descent
    Forget when yellow meant walking away
    and name calling hurt worse than sticks and stones
    yellow as


  13. My man Iain! Good to see you.


    Not the Baxter’s maid,
    but the hybrid shade
    of color of the eye,

    hazel is the choice
    when brown and blue
    won’t do.

    or brownish green
    I’ve seen

    in other places,
    besides in faces
    but they’re called
    by other names.

    There’s not a crayon
    in the box
    called hazel—
    what a shame.

    burnt sienna, umber
    other hues I find.
    Who left the hazel crayon

    N. Posey

  14. I loved reading this. I have eyes that color, I’m told, and they’ve been described so variously, I’ve often wondered which hazel I have. The idea of a “hazel crayon” made me smile.


    Red writes in rages;
    purple writes with gauze;
    blue describes the somber stages
    that given the soul to pause..

    Brown will pen for spite,
    paving the way for grey,
    but yellow never deigns to write:
    it simply lights the way.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  16. Walt and Iain, I’ve read and re-read your poems numerous times. Both are so stupendous, I feel almost trite in trying to comment on them. The pure passion that flows from your work, Walt, carries me along as if if on a purple raft; the poem’s energy creates more energy as it flows. or so it seems to me. Your poem, Iain, works for me on at least tow levels: imagery and shape. The mental pictures you generate are emphasized by the varied line lengths: surges and crashes are reflected in long and short lines. For me, the most arresting line in the poem is “the black dog was dead.”

    Talk about setting the bar way up high! Magnificent works, both.

  17. A Riff of Blues

    I’m feeling blue, light, sweet baby blue
    floating on a sapphire stream of velvety
    smooth, tourmaline memories of you.

    Melancholic indigo thoughts, rough, crude
    tumbling like polished Angelite, barely blue,
    edgeless, safe, like my memories, subdued.

  18. Black and White with a Touch of Grey

    By David De Jong

    Atop our mountains; the air is fresh, pristine blue,
    Nothing in life, circumvents, our celestial view.
    Our hearts race in rhythm, to stratus applause,
    While we raise our hands and glorify our cause.
    Each pulse brings a spectrum, of being alive.
    Each breathe seems whimsical, a breeze to survive.

    In our valleys; broken, bleeding, crushed and torn,
    Grasping for relief, loosing belief, alone, forlorn.
    Jagged bones of broken promises, spill their blood.
    Tempted by death to ease the pain, to pull the plug.
    Each pulse brings a spectrum, of being alive.
    Each breath gives reason, a reason to survive.

    Both bring their mercies, their demons to overcome.
    Only looking back, can we see, how far we’ve come.
    With scars on our hearts and blue sky for our lungs,
    We’ll tell of our travels, with lyrical tongues.
    Thankful for both the calm and the tempest survived,
    For times of pain – reassuring us – we are alive!


    Today, grey wraps green
    in softly muted tones
    and flows quietly onward.

    In passing, it bids the yellow
    stop its shouting
    and hushes reds and oranges.

    It greets blues and purples
    with knowing smiles
    and winks as it goes by.

    It even charms the browns,
    kissing them all
    with glistening glances.

    Only the blacks
    are impervious to its passing;
    they snort as it goes by.

    Still, it is not perturbed
    as it wraps the fevered land
    in graces of grey.

    © copyright 2014, William Preston

  20. Iain, it’s so good to see you here and to see more of your talent on exhibit. And Walt, you’ve again chosen just the person for the theme. Good for you. Love both of your poems, too.

    I’ve only the one today. I’ll be back later to comment. Sorry, I’m running behind today.

    Confidence Breaker

    Cold gray congeals
    On spirit’s view,
    Hovering, ready
    To stoop on any
    Thoughts of correctness
    Or adequacy,
    Ready to blacken any
    Desires creeping to
    Life’s front line.
    Doubt, with its crippling
    Wraiths circle the mind,
    Leaping in, leaving behind
    Shadowed blue or
    Sullen red, creating
    A maelstrom of swirling,
    Muddying color to
    Confuse and deepen
    Doubt’s gray mist
    Until it drowns its
    Host in a fog.

  21. “The blight of Spring”

    Though the sun sprinkles promises
    of earthly rhythms
    and the stars hum infamous melodies
    into eternity,

    I lie asleep in March like turquoise ice
    lodged between the currents
    of the crowded cosmos and
    the artsy misery of stifled creativity.

    Read the medallion shackled to my heart,
    ponder the patina’d scrivenings
    of the crusted sages etched in spiraled calm.

    They sketched nature’s delights
    or romanced the heroes of old
    or pitied the centuries of bleeding hearts.

    I can’t write with diamonds,
    I can’t read with garneted eyes,
    nor ponder these poetic hummocks,
    nor comprehend this frigid blue-tongued
    empty time.

    My pages are a mosaic of cold
    and even as I strive for dawn
    my veins pump turquoise
    blood, neither blue, neither green,
    A winter malady.
    A spring-time blight.

  22. Good to see Iain here leading the way with Walt. Those were two wonderful poems, gentlemen.

    A Child’s Primer on Color

    snow flurries fly
    the earth grows white
    ice becomes prisms
    tinting light
    beneath the earth
    drinks Nature’s inks
    reds yellows blues
    greens purples pinks
    dazzle of color
    paints the world
    like rainbows’ ropes
    have come unfurled
    on meadows hills
    on shrub and tree
    God finger-paints
    for you and me
    to show us that
    bright smiles can heal
    and teach us art
    can make us feel


    explosion –
    all consuming, like
    a drugging incandescent fire,
    searing mind, heart, and every ounce of life in respond
    to that one definitive love to last a lifetime.
    Through all the good, bad, sickness, health,
    strived to keep until
    razed by death’s

  24. I just realized I didn’t really assign colors to emotions, which I think was the point. I did, however, personify the heck out of natural things. Hope that counts 😉


    Winter grays and browns give way to white,
    as snows envelope landscapes in bright dreams.
    Let seeds and vegetation ingest light
    and choose a color liquid as spring streams.

    Let sun rise golden penetrating soil;
    let skies descend in drops of varied blues;
    let sunsets’ bleeds and rainbows’ spectrums roil
    in swirls and strokes of sundry lively hues.

    Each seed imagines multi-colors, sings
    in vivid shades or whispery pastels.
    Let spring repaint the meadows, tint birds’ wings,
    its palette drawn from Nature’s own ink wells.

    Colors collect beneath the ice and snow:
    beauty is born of waiting, don’t you know.

  25. The Alchemy of Red

    I am the happiest when dressed in red.
    Ruffles of taffeta, layers of vivid scarlet,
    Livid and riveted vermillion that swishes
    Chameleon bright, angled light chipped
    Off the first ribbon of rainbows, where
    Pots of gold take root and reside rosy
    On my smile that matches the tips
    Of my fingers. Classic. Fire engine.
    Flaming. Apple. That long kiss
    After you read my lips.
    Remember that wish?
    You read my lips.

  26. Concentrate on White

    when my heart breaks
    when I’m too vexed to speak
    I concentrate on white
    luminous gleam
    a little tint
    of lavender perhaps
    so that my mind’s eye
    is not blinded so

    when my existence snarls
    and I am lost
    when love in life
    is not in evidence
    I clean my mental white board
    still white noise
    erase until it gleams
    and concentrate on white
    until it seems I’m whole again

    I don’t seek purity
    absence of hues
    to still my mind
    for that’s too much to lose
    I want the colored world
    blossoms and skins
    I want the mix
    of possibilities
    in varied tints
    delicious as the night

    but I must clean
    the backdrop in my brain
    so colors can be splashed
    against that screen
    I concentrate on white
    on peace, serene
    and change my attitude
    from what it’s been

  27. A
    a single light
    will explode into
    a rainbow of colors.
    While flooding my room with
    soft warmth, I am reminded,
    all colors, when working as one,
    will give beautiful wholeness to our lives.

  28. Walt and Iain, great poems. Iain I hope you read this one on your blog. It “reads well.”

  29. Tell Me Please, What Is the Color of Tenderness?

    A rosy peach
    defined in light,
    a sumptuous squeeze
    in morning bright,
    a passerby with almond eyes?
    I taste them all,
    A sweet surprise…

  30. Effluent

    For several years, a poetic stream
    Bubbled and flowed within,
    Quenching a thirst she didn’t recognize.
    Channels now desiccated
    Reveal a bed,
    Muddied gray and pleading.

    • Sorry for the downer poem, lovely poet friends! This is where I am poetically these days, and I’m not sure why. Looking forward to returning fresh streams one of these days.

      You all are fabulous inspirations to me. Please forgive my lack of commenting. Time and brain power seem so limited of late, but I truly do still adore your heart and your words.

      • No need to be sorry, ever, Marie…please, don’t ever feel the need for forgiveness from this community about your level of activity here….you’re always here, Marie…your persistent attention, kindness and loving care are the seeds that started this garden….you’ve given SO much…there’s only love and acceptance and prayer and hope that passion for words will return when you want them to…they will…they always do, they’re faithful that way…like friends. ♥ Love you.

        • I’ve been reading… too wowed to find proper words to comment, but here i agree with Hannah, Marie, a poet never really goes away…you began with Walt what continues to be such a lovely garden and the atmosphere is you…your warm, kind, gentle words of encouragement shine! Maybe you’ve earned a season of rest?? love you and miss all of you, but I hit a season where I needed to pull out of all poetry prompts for a while.

        • Yes, I know. Not a good feeling, for sure, but there are certainly worse things in life. This too shall pass.

          Thanks so much for the understanding, Debi. I’m sorry it comes from the same root. 😉

    • Marie, your poem reminded me of a conversation I had years ago with a douser, one of those old guys who find water guided by forked branches. He said streams would sometimes go underground but still be as vigorous as they were on the surface. “‘Course it takes skill to find and tap it”, he said, a little compliment to his line of work. I’m thinking that’s true for poetry too. It’s still in there, but gone deep underground. Hugs to you

    • It seems to me that, even in “downer” times, poetry is a release, a way of coping as well as celebrating and sharing. I hope this poem does a little of that for you; it certainly is effective in helping us share this time with you. For me, this site is still your and Walt’s “baby,” and we whom you brought to it are here for you, no matter what.

    • Marie you know well how I have struggled with writing – the point is you wrote. Not only that but you eloquently expressed your frustration. Well done and I hope you soon find a bubbling spring to fill your streams. :-).

      • Yes, I remember your struggles well. I felt so bad for you, and couldn’t imagine how that feels. Now I don’t have to imagine. 😦

        I’m guessing that the vast majority of us struggle with writer’s block from time to time. It’s frustrating and such a bummer. But in the context of life, it is a small struggle.

        Thanks much for the kind words, Iain. Warm smiles to you.

    • Hey Marie, this write to me is hard evidence of a bubbling stream picking up speed and strength as it flows seeking opportunity and gathering materials as it goes, along through you. You are missed.

  31. Pingback: Burgeoning…A Matter in Balance | Metaphors and Smiles

  32. Thank you for the hosting and colorful poems, Iain and Walt!!

    Burgeoning…A Matter in Balance

    A sage shade begs to start my day
    full of peace and tranquility,
    it resides there awhile
    aromatic and wise-
    slow to speak
    and sometimes unexpectedly
    something else takes over…
    Pride rises
    in all its peacock glory,
    storied of cobalt
    and incensed of indigo
    but please…
    seek to really know
    do peer deeper
    there’s more.
    A living cerulean strength
    and alternately a tenderness resides
    rendered palely of true-blue;
    a sadness of self,
    an unworthy tone
    groaning of despair and doubt.
    Though this soul flows a sapphire sea
    spiraling within me
    it still longs for the salt
    it leans in for the surge
    and it’s hungry for the sun
    to light on its surface,
    the coming of crimson
    and a sense of fulfillment
    not found without
    but sought internally…
    Absolute joy will not be captured
    in the self-sabotaging depths of craving navy
    or in the self-promoting salmon swirl
    of mountain top screamed heights
    and it simply won’t be found
    in the rise of peacock purple pride.
    One must search for it in the stillness
    in that inner well whose walls are growing,
    emergent of moss;
    where the heart center thrums
    it’s olivine, vibrant and nourishing,
    glowing gem of emerald compassion.
    This crucible
    my body
    it’s calculated and dark
    and it’s hallowed of light
    it holds a shard of gold-
    a citrine hue of you,
    a tangerine tint of me
    and a green swelling center of we.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

    FYI if anyone’s interested I have an image linked to an article about chakra colors the energy body @ my blog…I loosely included some of the meanings in my poem…for example green is the heart chakra. 🙂

    Warm smiles and a peaceful weekend to all…I’ll be enjoying your poem this week!

  33. Welcome Iain. Good to see your poetry again.

    In The Beginning

    She was a blushing peach
    in the first stages
    of ripeness, each time
    he was near.

    He was true-blue
    from the first time
    he saw her face.

    They were in the pink
    of their lives. Steel gray
    skies were distant.

  34. “Periwinkle in our shoes”

    We mistake this beauty
    as a backdrop,
    a static scene
    against which we play
    out our small tales,
    believing our foibles
    are somehow grander
    than grandeur
    until some place
    shocks the system,
    forcing the eyes to open
    themselves to the majesty
    of an oak
    twice our wingspan
    which captures our life
    in one of its branches.
    So we stand,
    oak bark against our cheek
    and periwinkle in our shoes.


    In winter-time, earth and sky lend ice
    Not enough hours to entice
    Blue when weather’s vice
    Gives white prize

    Equinox pours blue to each day’s slice
    Teasing us with spring’s advice
    Sky and field, so nice
    So precise

    Heaven is gold with rainbow’s allspice
    Azures, sapphires, beyond price
    Only sacrifice

  36. Thanks, William. I was trying for the (was it a nonnette?). I have a very limited repertoire of poetic forms, but I find them helpful for structure of my inspirations.

  37. My Fair Tulips

    My fair tulips

    My fair two lips
    Every gleeful

    In provocative
    Coats of colors

    A lavish banquet
    For seeking eyes
    She’ll bring.

    And giving,
    She lends
    The perfect

    But many
    Still grieve
    Her temporal

    Her glory,
    Simple elegance,
    An inevitable
    In passing days.

    No forgiveness
    Is granted,
    For her petals numbered,
    A sure fade
    Into soil’s grave.

    We sadly mourn
    Her seasonal blossom,
    While burying
    All the memories
    That she gave.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  38. Soft as Pleasing White

    If I were crayon,
    What would I be?
    Perhaps a soft white
    Swan of purity.

    Soft as pleasing light.
    Soft as feathers suave.
    Soft as white, white, white.

  39. Midnight Sun

    I’m haunted,
    for midnight Sun.
    Restless I lay.
    To be baked away.
    Slowly drift,
    Into flush golden dust.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

    • I’m getting a haunting feeling from this, but am not sure why. Maybe it’s the dust. This is a rivetting little piece, for me.

  40. Indecisive Flight

    If I were a boundless kite
    Skiing the sky blue,
    What would I choose
    To be my hue?


    If were a skippy kite
    Flying high until eternity,
    What would I choose
    To color me?


    Ah, perhaps a solid tone
    Of burgundy.


  41. *Rewrite Alert*

    The Alchemy of Red


    I am happiest 

    when frocked in red.

    Ruffles of taffeta, 

    layers of scarlet vivid,

    livid and riveted to vermillion,
red swishes,

    chameleon bright, 

    angled light chipped

    off the first ribbon of rainbows, 

    where pots of gold take root, 

    reside rosy on my smile, 

    that match my fingernails. 

    Red pouts.

    Classic red. 

    Fire engine.



    Red smeared. 

    That long kiss
    after you read my lips.

    If wishes were kisses, 

    and then you read me.

  42. Today’s offering- (I can’t seem to get passed a metallic obsession of rhyming)—

    Grey Hoverings
    The sky leans down, and opens its chest
    A silent request,from the earth’s thirsty breast
    Grey smoking oceans come circle around
    Boosting the green, and calming the brown
    The birds are quiet, and cleaning their wings
    No shadows around, just a glazed hovering
    A cold appearance, with a warm intent
    It slowly streams in, moist gleaming accents
    Its color-free stew and haunting rendition
    Enhances soft tones, for a deeper transition
    A soothing presence, that strokes my mood
    And makes me reflect, and soak in its rue—

  43. My True Color

    …Her light was like a most precious stone, like a Jasper stone, as clear as crystal (Revelation 21:11)

    My hope is,
    to become precious
    jasper stone.

    Crystal clear,
    through daily transformation,
    splashing jasper tone.

    has been determined

    And each day,
    opportunity awaits,
    to become jasper.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  44. The Man in the Mummy-Colour Coat

    It’s that raincoat.
    Spies wear coats like that.
    Must be undercover, I think.

    Hovering about
    Muddy trenches.
    Pigeon stained.
    Slightly crusted
    Stiff to the wind.

    “Are you okay, Mister?” I want to ask.

    His skin is petrified dark.
    There’s an Egyptian mummy
    in the Louvre that same colour,
    sort of like burnt oak bark.

    Mummies’ve their plumbing drained,
    my plumber explained to me last year.

    He told me, put soda down the drains.
    Do it once a week, he said, “but it’ll kill
    your son’s pet snake.” Pete’s sake, said I.

    That stupid stripy snake
    slipped straight down
    the bathroom sink hole.
    Little stinker stuck himself fast.

    Had to ring up a plumber.
    One who loves snakes.

    Pop my clogs and bless my socks, I thought.
    I approached the man
    in the mummy-colour raincoat.

    He’s a statue.

    I blame it on the alchemy
    of winter’s waning light,
    but I swear he’s eyeing me

    with a questioning expression,
    as if to ask, “Are you okay, Lady?”

    Note: Purely fiction, although this poem is inspired by a statue near Town Hall. (c) Misky 2014

  45. Spectrum’s Gate

    They say beauty
    is in the eye
    of the beholder

    But sometimes
    beauty is the eye

    and savoring

    lively in shades
    of spectrum

    Hazel sweet
    cinnamon bark

    Perky clean
    emerald greens

    Variable moods of hue
    like happy reigning
    majestic blue

    is perceived
    passing through

    The beauty
    of the eye
    spectrum’s gate

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  46. Digesting Inspiration

    Is all around
    surrounds like depths of sea
    crowding senses
    as steady streams of light
    slide through pupil
    to inspire

    They playfully
    color iris
    tickle the retina
    asks me why?
    —I haven’t written them.

    Didn’t you see
    irish green
    baby pines sitting
    settling roots?

    Rustic crimson barn
    standing crooked
    telling the truth?

    Every barren tree
    with countless pleas
    for rain and coat of leaves?

    awaits you.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  47. The Story of Color

    I flogged myself in cannons of red.
    Made my bed in cubes of blue.
    A pillow for my head in purple dianthus,
    Laid all to rest, started anew.

    Ten thousand strokes of green blades greet me, rising now in grassy knoll.
    Memories haunt, slither, still creeping,
    Yesterdays dung beetles take their toll.

    A bleeding past surely wounds the present,
    I bind now wounds with oil and wine.
    Newness awakens garden sleeping,
    With fresh youth evergreens, well scented pine.

    I bathed myself clean in golden locks of yellow, with express permission of yawning sun.
    Tread the path of a reeling wanderer, found each step as the day begun.

    I found myself descending valley,
    The valley of the shadow of thieving death.
    My skin grew stoic a plastic pale, as it tried to siphon my remaining breath.

    A band of restless ravens crowed black mockeries, as I became light charcoal dust, But I gathered myself somewhat quickly, instead of sinking into earthen crust.

    Greying clouds circle right above me,
    Anxiously to drain it’s sludgy hate.
    But my heart was red with ruby joys singing, and somehow I was able to escape.

    King of the hill I stood at last,
    Victory was solid underneath my feet.
    I rolled wild down winding hill,
    Til’ toasty brown, soaked in mud knee deep.

    I finally raised my head to greet bonnet-like floating skies, and whispered, the grass is always greener on this side.

    © Copyright 2014
    Benjamin Thomas

  48. Pingback: Red | echoes from the silence

  49. Click on the link above (in the pingback) to go to my blog for the more colorful display of my poem, “Red”.

    here’s the text:


    Hearts should be red
    not filled with envy
    nor dark with hate
    or sad and broken.
    Cleanse and heal me, Lord.
    Restore me to red once more.

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