During your travels today/this week. Listen for colorful words that we all use to spice up our language. Fill your poem with the spectrum of this laguage. It could be a poem about a color, or just some very descriptive adjectives that help say things in a bold way.



A wide array of tans and beiges,
all with names that span the range.
It’s strange that all these lighter browns
are found to be so different.
Vinyl siding in all shades has made
me quite perplexed; quite sicker.
My house once green for all these years,
is now a lovely “wicker”!

(C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014

160 thoughts on “PROMPT #164 – COLOUR MY WORLD


    Yellow afternoon appears
    Orange at sunset,
    Red at sundown.

    Your hair, ebony
    In yellow moonlight,
    Green in tree shadows.

    Blue ocean waves
    Lift white caps
    Towards solar red.

    Blood red lips
    Kiss blue princesses
    Awake. Gold dawn.

    These purple eggplants,
    Pale brown, simmering
    In gray pan.

    I asked Rose
    If her brown
    Terrier was yellow.

    Love’s color red?
    if green, thriving;
    Black, if unrequited.


  2. (OK, I’ll be back with a real poem later but this is a true story told by my MIL about one of her relatives. At least I think this is colorful -don’t mean to offend anyone.)
    What’cha doing, Ma?
    I’m cleaning the cabinets.
    What fer?
    I’m cleaning the ratchet.
    Well, what’s the ratchet doin’ in the kitchen?
    Them dang rats got in the flour agin.

  3. I was looking at the spectrum of colors and decided this was a good place to try a palindrome. . .


    White begins empty
    Sky stonewashed with apricot melon
    Boulders of pistachio denim
    Brown soil from slate blue plum
    Bark on sea green sienna
    Black ends full

    Full ends black
    Sienna green sea on bark
    Plum blue slate from soil brown
    Denim pistachio of boulders
    Melon apricot with stonewashed sky
    Empty begins white

  4. Self Portrait in colour

    From the top ,
    a sickly red squidgy wobbly bit,
    not my finest feature;
    a wicked eye twinkles in a crinkled face,
    a pointy ochre beak
    and floppy red dangles
    surrounded by silky-smooth auburn
    flecked with yellow
    and gleaming with health.
    My chest swells,
    a petrol-blue-green
    merging with flanks of copper
    descending to scrawny, scaly legs
    on unspeakable feet.
    My cliché crowning glory
    – though at the wrong end –
    is a flourish of arching,
    waving, polychrome plumes.
    What a fine fellow I am.


    I used to be
    a homegrown
    red hot chili pepper;
    spice laden,
    and full of zing.

    Now I’m stately dressed
    in modish blue indigo suit;
    antioxidant rich,
    and so preciously sweet
    as blueberry fruit.

  6. Periwinkle

    P urple-blue like the flower
    E legant and dainty like a fairy gown
    R eminding me of grandma’s eyes
    I cy and vibrant
    W arm and relaxed
    I independently lovely
    N ew-song inspiring
    K issed by angels
    L ovely and delicate
    E ndearing, gentle and cheerful

  7. And this is a subject I’ve had in my idea box for months. . .now was the time


    My past is an evolving thing
    I cannot trust the paint it brings
    The winter white I loved to see
    Gave black and blue, arthritic knees
    The sunshine yellow childhood hours
    Matured to taste both green and sour
    The pale horse darkened many times
    Blue mountains I learned how to climb
    Once I favored pinkish hues
    Until a fierce red hat I grew
    And now although my hair is gray
    The years ahead are golden paved
    When oft I slid down rainbow’s arch
    I found I must repeat the march
    The pot of gold can’t be dismissed
    When it is filled with heavenly bliss

  8. Where do all the
    Colors Go?

    Sometimes the day arrives
    With a dark, rainy night
    Slowly giving way to a gray,
    Sad-looking world. If I
    Have been feeling bad, this
    Kind of a morning lets me
    Blend right in.

    Now I am old. I shuffle
    Through the mornings,
    Nap in the afternoons
    And stay up half the night
    Looking up strange stuff
    On the internet where
    Everything is black and white.

    If I am lucky, the sun will rise
    And the morning will be blue-
    Skied and bright. My houseplants
    Will perk right up when I water them
    And even in the middle of January
    My kitchen windows will be filled
    With fresh, green spring.

  9. Cabin

    By David De Jong

    One room cabin guarding the meadow,
    Just past the giant sequoia isle.
    Its chimney whispers to the shadows,
    While the moon approves with shimmered smile.
    Lamp on the mantle, fire in the stove,
    Effervescent glow of belonging;
    Deep within this timber’s sacred cove.

    Roughhewn rails, corral the porch’s deck,
    Harboring old, bent, hickory chairs.
    Front path disappears into a fleck,
    Granite slabs clime up, like back-porch stairs.
    Humble luxury, inviting peace.
    Silhouette anthems stir through the night;
    Tranquility, longing never cease.

    New sun embraces horizon’s ledge,
    Atoning mist, ceremonial air,
    Lightly dance, over the eagle’s edge,
    Feathered song breaks silence, everywhere.
    The cabin rests, still, soaking it in;
    Life at the dawn of creation’s day,
    Finding purpose and fitting right in.

  10. Color My World

    Color the ocean buoyant blue
    and let me sail right across you
    color the sky azure and white,
    paint the moon tangerine by night
    thread garnets, peridot, citrine
    hang them like pearls on silver string
    round the neck of the milky way
    and forever with you I’ll stay,
    I’ll stay, ever with you, I’ll stay.

    Color the trees in autumn hues
    dab the flowers with tears of dew
    color the fields brash corn and wheat
    with flourishes, bold indiscrete
    paint the grass green under our feet
    with hues of sage and minty sweet
    swirl the wind a cordial cherry
    and ever with you I’ll tarry,
    I’ll tarry, with you, I’ll tarry


    Upon a deep-in-winter day,
    when winds were blowing chillily,
    I spied a snowman, bold and gay,
    that set me laughing sillily.

    Its ears were red; its cheeks were blue;
    its nose was ice-creamed carrot;
    with coat of many colors too,
    it seemed a blooming parrot!

    It wore a hat of cactus ear
    and stood in grey-dried sand
    with swim trunks tacked upon its rear
    and rosebud in its hand.

    I laughed so hard, my face grew hot;
    my sweat did flow, and verily,
    I think the snowman that was not
    commenced to laugh, and merrily.

    Upon a deep-in-winter day
    that could have been a bummer,
    I spied a snowman on my way,
    and winter turned to summer.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  12. Pingback: Palette-able Life | echoes from the silence


    he feels
    his world has
    faded to black,
    he reaches for his
    palette and putting brush
    in motion–warmth of yellow,
    coolness of blue, passion of red,
    green growth, and sacred purple–his world
    comes back to life, one color at a time.

    P. Wanken

  14. The Crumble of Lilac Blossoms

    I can smell it, she said, and I could, too.
    It was in the moss, gauze in the breeze,
    an old man’s beard, whiskers rough
    and ruffled and stiff as net curtains,
    and it was in the crumple of lilac
    blossoms, dried and crooked pokery,
    an old crone’s finger with accusatory
    pointing. And it all sniffed of summer’s
    end, smelled of those last few gnarled
    days before fog slipped into long months
    ahead, and gloom swallowed us whole.

  15. Grandma’s Blue Box

    She didn’t carry much
    in her royal snail shell
    under her catalina bed cover
    Some ink dipped feathers of memory
    2 cotton cloud saris with lavender edges
    A handful of ruffled indigo bills
    folded neatly in a cerulean pouch
    in case of purple rain
    A crayola photo album
    of iridescent treasured smiles
    and emerald chrome salt
    Her mother’s sapphire comb
    whose silver ragged edges
    she mysteriously smelled
    every now and then
    when she wanted to travel
    Slow and steady she breathed
    in the colored azury air
    of this lapis lazuli chest
    like a daily prayer
    keeping it unlocked and safe
    under her bed
    She didn’t carry much
    that’s all she needed now—

  16. Color Me ____

    In perusing lipsticks, I search
    high and low for that perfect
    shade of pink. Ah, there it is,
    titled, “Chatterbox.” Knowing
    this hue is not indicative
    of my verbal verbosity, I still
    hesitate before buying. This
    appellation is no worse,
    than when I select a satin
    nail color, which, sans glasses,
    reads as, “Serial Killer.”
    Happily, I find it is named,
    “Serial Shopper”, also not
    a description of me–no really–I swear.

  17. Separation

    This pretty piece of glass, well cut,
    shaped like a dew drop or a tear,
    had many angles, tapered, clear,
    suffused with light and color, mute

    but speaking many languages
    in tones that I had never heard
    like bells or morning calls of birds,
    like depths where longing languishes.

    I held it gently to the light
    and watched it bleed its many hues,
    colors my heart would never lose,
    imprinted on interior sight.

    A tiny crystal, born of stone,
    taught me the tints white light can hold,
    a world of wondrous warmth and cold,
    like memories of time that’s gone.

    I reckon how life hardens, blights,
    but renders crystals in the dark,
    then like a rainbow’s lovely arc,
    it spills love’s spectrum in the light.

  18. Shades of Red

    By: Dr. Nurit Israeli

    I choose red.
    No, not the crimson red of blood,
    though you told me how much
    of it was lost during that long
    and arduous surgery.

    No, not the rebellious red of
    raging cells turning your body
    into a combat zone, or the
    hospital’s Code Red, warning
    of some unforeseeable danger.

    No, not even the red of the roses
    on the side table by your hospital
    bed − misfits amid the chromes and
    barren whites, their sweet scent
    challenging the sterile antiseptic air.

    No, not those reds, but the fiery red
    of the lipstick you put on once
    you ascended from anesthesia:
    Bold. Daring. A red stamp of life
    on your still pale face.

    Yes, this is the red I choose –
    the vibrant red of the lipstick on
    your sore lips. Like a red sun coloring
    the morning sky with the promise
    of a new day, your red lips assure.


    Color me black
    and let me dance
    with the night

    Color me bold
    with a sea of massive blue
    and observe
    unfathomed mysteries

    Color me gold
    and bright as day
    striking fields
    in soft array
    like rampant child

    Color me smooth
    in fashionable satin
    color me worthwhile
    with pomp and style


    We just painted the kitchen,
    which in dogs years is forever
    (never to be confused with
    refusing to paint).
    You see, in my heart
    it’s the color chart I fear.
    And to be clear, that wheel
    just makes me feel tense.
    The pretense of picking a shade
    to be sprayed on the walls
    appalls me.
    Should we pick a green
    for an outdoorsy scene?
    Or a yellow for mellow dining?
    Perhaps a refining blue
    will do the trick.
    And so it begins, I’m getting sick.
    There must be way to end this abuse?
    What if I would say a lovely chartreuse
    would be a good choice?
    Could I smile and rejoice
    or would we return to the wheel?
    I’m starting to reel at the thought
    and find myself overwrought.
    Let’s paint the darn thing in blacks.
    Is this how we get heart attacks?

    © Susan Schoeffield

  21. Pingback: Color Me Crazy | Words With Sooze

  22. Pingback: Message from the Geode | Metaphors and Smiles

  23. Message from the Geode

    From what shore did you travel
    which steely ledge broke you free
    where did your storied journey begin
    what tumbled ocean bottom did you tour
    how did you arrive here – rock at my feet –
    did you meet many others along the way?
    Tell me your tale in dappled shades of gray
    low spoken saga given in breath of waves…
    please, go on – I’m ready to hear you now.
    I’ll listen deeply of your smoky quartz lore.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

    • Oh, so I forgot to post the part that explains…I found a geode at the beach yesterday! There’s a picture of it on my blog post if you’re interested.

      I’ve been missing poetry and people lately…busy making fun with the end (?!) of our son’s summer vacation. 🙂 I expect I’ll be back to normal blogging etc. soon. Smiles.

      • Also, this just in… 😉 I awoke with more from the Geode this morning…I hope you guys don’t mind if I re-post the updated version of its message… 🙂

        Message from the Geode

        From what shore did you travel
        which steely ledge broke you free
        where did your legendary journey begin
        what tumbled ocean bottom did you tour
        did you implore of the water-blurred stars
        look to lemon-bright constellations
        seeking guidance to the closest inlet and bay
        or did you ramble the rough-ridged-depths
        knowing that it was predestined for you
        it was this very trip that would soften your edges,
        weather you and wizen you to the way…
        how did you arrive here – rock at my feet –
        did you meet many others along this sacred passage
        did you bump stony shoulders – swap stories?
        Tell me your tale in dappled shades of gray
        low spoken saga given in breath of waves…
        please, go on – I’m ready to hear you now.
        I’ll listen deeply of your smoky quartz lore.

        Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014


    Color this world a better place
    where lavish evergreens run wild

    Open wide with sustaining grace
    the mighty gates of freedom

    Liberating her green hills in haste
    with the passionate thrill of release

    Stand and give
    a starving world a better taste
    of vibrance it so desperately needs

    Be the seeds
    of hope
    and cloud on the day of rain
    captivate a dried earth
    from her barren pains

    Be a solid rainbow
    after the storm
    in primary wisdom
    illuminate the norm

    Color this world
    a better place

    Stand up
    give it a better taste
    of vibrance

    Benjamin Thomas

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