As the foliage changes and we’re awash with the vibrancy of autumn, we’ll take one of the prominent colors, orange, as our inspiration. Write something orange. Remember, nothing rhymes with orange. Except for door hinge. Close but no cigar.
MARIE’S ROSE
Lindsay Rose
It was early fall. She was young and animated. The baby girl who had cheated death had become a young woman full of soul, and bright as her favorite color. Her palette was in hand. Her imagination as open and vibrant as changes soon to grace the trees. Camaraderie, harmony, and laughter were yearnings, with promise of fulfillment. Until, on her way to a weekend of music with friends, her song was silenced.
she laughs with Jesus
as they paint the sunset with
orange Crayolas
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
(I wrote the 17-syllable ending in September of 2011, on the anniversary of Lindsay’s car accident, and her passing from this life to the next.)
##
WALT’S ORANGE HUE:
L’AUTUNNO (The Autumn)
Shadows reach across the meadow,
the fallow fields languish in wishes
of an anticipated rest, her best face
presented and rendered in orange,
reds and yellows and umber.
the best the harvest will offer,
It could leave one short of breath
as soon it is to pass into the embrace of slumber.
Marie Elena, your poem fills me with awe. It’s beautiful and moving. I love her painting the sky with crayolas.
I agree
I agree, beautifully expressed.
Thank you very much, all. You are all so kind.
Marie, this is as beautiful as it is heartbreaking.
Walter, your poem is full of rich colour and the intimation of what is to come. Beautiful.
Yes, and so vivid and so musical.
Most enjoyable to read, Walt
Thanks, Carolyn and William. My musical flair had gotten caught up in this one again. I love the here and now, but always taking a peek to imagine what the future holds.
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Marie, your poem touched my heart. A beautiful tribute to Lindsay.
Walt, You first two lines made me smile, as I could see them so vividly. Breathless is exactly what happens when I see Autumn’s splendor.
Here is my humble offering for today.
BITTERSWEET
A tangle of vine wraps around the post
like a lover clinging to the last vestiges of passion.
Old, bedraggled, it has lost the green of youth.
But, oh, the mystery is every present.
From afar, she is ablaze in a gown of orange,
still dancing her ballet of want and desire.
Those who advance to her side find tiny jewels –
red berries hooded in yellow caps.
She bows, heavy in fruit,
The final curtain held back for one more curtsey.
I admire this, notably for the allusion to performance. Wonderful.
You’re welcome for the smile, Linda. Love the line, “still dancing her ballet of want and desire” The final bow is just a prelude to the next moment in the sun.
This is lovely, Linda. It begged a second reading.
Thank you all for your kind words. Fills my poet’s heart!
“Tiny jewels,
Red berries hooded in yellow caps”
One gem among many. Love this poem, Linda.
Marie, oh how lovely, how poignant your tribute. Walt, you capture the splendor of autumn. I hate it when rain slashes the leaves down before we’ve had a good chance t enjoy its beauty. And wow, I want to find that tree!
Thank you Darlene!
Thanks Darlene. Autumn has slowed things down, that makes it easier to capture! 😉
Nothing too in my head here – came from “now all thumbs” in original poem and
sap flows freely from yesterday.
à l’orange
All thumbs
Plunging into
Orange fleshmeat until
Sweet sap flows freely to my mouth
Refresh
Peeled rind
Recycled fountain of flavor
Spreads orange tang abroad
Many uses
One fruit
Darlene Franklin
This brought smiles
I agree…and I can taste the sweetness!
“Recycled fountain of flavor” 🙂
A delectable treat in poetic form. Sweet, Darlene!
Love that “recycled fountain of flavor”. I could taste that sweet juice.
Bold
Bold orange colours the sky
the hue of her brightness
daring
and courage
It isn’t every day you see that kind of daring
squaring with the universe
and speaking of courage
doing her best with what she has
more than most who have more
she colours the sky with her gratitude
Carolyn Wilker
Ooh, I was thinking of the near rhyme with orange and storage and from there to courage. You speak of orange’s courage with power and beauty.
I never connected orange with courage, but the boldness of it fits. Wonderful.
Very clever, and beautifully done!
Brilliantly colorful, Carolyn! The one reason autumn has become my favorite seasons, albeit much shorter than I’d like around here. A good write!
I love the idea of courage, and coloring the sky with gratitude. Wonderful writing, Carolyn!
A CINQUAIN ABOUT A CINQUAIN
How sweet
to have a form
that marches line by line
and never forces me to rhyme
“orange.”
thanks for this morning chuckle 😄
That really makes me smile William. Awesome!
🙂 🙂
HA! This makes my day!
Indeed, William…straight from that classic tome, “Torture for Poets”
“Orange” you the clever sort, Bill?
Love this, William. Made me smile.
There Remains Much Truth
I’ve written before that
Elm Avenue in Wisconsin
no longer has elm trees,
only the brittle twigs
of our memories,
much like, I suppose,
Orange Tree Estates,
Orange County, CA,
has no orange trees,
only the faintly remembered
aromas from youth,
the sweet citrus dreams
of SoCal hipsters.
Many pines remain
in Pine Top, AZ,
and you can still find birches
in Birch Tree, AR,
but, for most of us,
we only have photo albums
to take us back to our roots.
The elms are gone
but the palms remain hearty.
Thank goodness there was no
Dutch Palm Tree malady,
although I’m pretty sure that
it wasn’t Dutch Orange Tree disease
that caused all those uprootings in SoCal.
If this global warming thing,
or some other planetary sickness
gets to the palm trees,
we’re in real trouble.
but that will be for
a different poet’s despair.
What beautiful, clever, and fun nostalgia Daniel!
Goodness yes! And the ending? Wow!
Daniel, reflective arboretum. Loved it.
Poetic truths told with conviction! Well done, Daniel!
Unique direction for this prompt, Daniel. Clever!
The Seduction of Orange
Autumn is a trickster, a seducer, slowly
Luring me away from summer love
As frosty mornings wilt the flowers and
Birds trade summer feathers for more somber
Coats of browns and grays
Fall bursts on the scene in not so subtle shades
Of brilliant orange that take my breath away
Until I am convinced it is my true love
I love the emotions your poem evokes. Very vivid!
Candy I am LOVING your poems in this challenge! This is just excellent, and the twist at the end is brilliant.
Oh my, thank you so much! I’m having such fun with the prompts you and Walt have conjured up for us.
It’s all Walter, Candy! He’s the prompt guy! I just follow his lead! 😀
Candy, really done well! The line by line rise to that rapturous 7th line is ‘breath-taking.’ Well done.
Thanks so much!
Orange as a seducer? Intriguing thought, Candy! I can see it.
Thanks for these prompts! I understand you are the mastermind behind these daily challenges. I’m having great fun and really like the idea of linking each day to the next with a borrowed phrase.
Well it certainly seduced me into becoming my favorite season!
😉
When Orange Became my Favorite Color
Burnt orange and dark blue
The call, the crowd, the city
Bronco’s glory days
Darlene Franklin
Aww! I totally get it, Darlene. In college sports, I have a similar passion for Scarlet and Gray. 😉 Clever little poem!
Gotcha! But red, white and blue… now those are colors!
Only Fourteen
When I was fourteen, I loved orange.
I painted my bedroom tangerine.
When I was fourteen, I also loved
a seventeen-year-old guy named Drew.
Every day of my fourteenth year,
Mom said, “You’re only fourteen!”
at least two or three times.
I didn’t think I’d ever reach fifteen.
Because of my love for orange, Drew and I
painted his MGB orange but didn’t wear masks.
For about a week, we blew orange into tissues.
Our relationship lasted on and off for four years.
After his dad died, we painted his living room orange.
I celebrated such abundance of orange.
I would have been happy if the whole world
was monochromatic in shades of orange.
I guess you can say I saw everything
through orange-colored glasses.
Even to this day, the color orange
reminds me of those teen years.
And I often think, “I was only fourteen.”
Oh Connie, what a beautiful story, so beautifully told!
A delightful story and memory thanks for sharing
Your memories continue to enchant me, Connie. This one brought a broad grin.
Connie, great memories seem to come with a thematic color. Lovely.
Another great memory told beautifully, Connie!
What a great memory, Connie. I could just see you painting that car!
THE BEAUTY OF FUTILITY
As summer ends and autumn takes over
the orange sunsets spar with the changing leaves
to remind us of colder days ahead
and dare us to revel in earth’s glories.
We rake and we hurry to cover plants,
racing the frost and the cold winds that blow,
knowing full well that there is no method
by which we can stop the seasons’ stories.
Oh, how true!
… and delight in the season’s changes.
Man, the endings to the poems today are all grabbing me. This one included. This is very well written, Linda. (And I’ll correct your opening words. Your keyboard failed you. 😉 )
Linda, this was full of brisk expectancy, loved it.
More of the orange I had in mind for this, Linda. Good foresight!
If you can’t stop a season, might as well love it. Good one, Linda!
.
.
Fire’s
orange glow
fades with dawn
beckening
our spirits
to new beginnings
awaking
potpourri of
places to explore
that
challenge both
mind and heart
Very nice, Marjory! This form certainly suits you!
Marjory, yes, you seem to me to be the master of this form. Love it.
A very sedate and comforting poem, Marjory. Beautifully done.
Form is perfect for your poetry here, Marjory.
This was a difficult one since the word “orange” cannot be found anywhere in the Bible. Had to twist it a bit, but only had to think about my mother’s addiction to Sunny D. Thanks, Mom.
Sunny D Lady
She starts every morning with Sunny D
Real orange juice bothers her stomach
The taste of the real stuff isn’t to her liking
She’s satisfied with the “citrus punch”
As long as she has her toast and coffee
She’s happy and content until lunch
Then there’s that second glass of D
From her seemingly endless supply
At 11am sharp she opens the doors
To her second story balcony that
Looks over the busy street below
Every day of the year she appears
Her name is well known to all the locals
Affectionately called the Sunny D Lady
So admired for her unending faithfulness
So loved for the kindness she shows
Every hour on the hour until 6pm
She stands on her balcony, hands raised
She prays for all of the passers by
Sincere and passionate prayers for all
Never does she pray for herself publicly
Those prayers are reserved for her quiet time
Her balcony time is for all of the others
Her neighbors, friends, and perfect strangers
She always mentions the Lord Jesus Christ
And His forgiveness and saving grace
Her messages touch the hearts of the lost
And encourage the hearts of the saved
The Sunny D Lady asks nothing for herself
Her mission is to fill hearts with God’s love
She relies on her faith that God will provide
Always receiving just what she needs
But appreciative people can be generous
Every morning when she opens her door
She finds generous gifts piled all around
And a whole new supply of Sunny D
Oh my goodness I want to meet your mom! What a sweetheart! God bless her! Thank you for sharing her with us Earl. Lovely poem!
Well, mama was the influence because of her Sunny D addiction. She lives in a trailer in Northern Maine, and has no balcony. But she certainly is a blessing.
Aww! What a nice tribute to her, Earl. Love this story! I bet she would love that this is how you envision her.
Outstanding poem and woman. Must be where you get your inspiration, Earl.
What a saint…indeed would love to meet her, be blessed by her, go by her balcony every morning!
I remember Sunny D. ! Your mom sounds like a wonderful woman.
Flame of Orange
Ooh la la! Orange
has come out to play–
not in a clockwork,
not as a fruit,
not as a prison suit.
This orange flames
leaves, arranges
sunsets with a wide
fiery brush. Some
upscale pumpkins are orange
-worthy, others, not out
-standing in their field.
Who, if not orange, is better
prepared for Autumn’s harvest.
Ooh la la!
Yes! Orange is a major player in this season…a part of every color, a director of the production. Well done, Sara.
Thanks, Damon!
You’ve captured it perfectly! And I had to grin at “not a prison suit.” 😀
Thanks, Marie! The thought process started with the fact that my sister loves a show called Orange is the New Black. Then I came to find out it was about women in prison, not a fashion statement.
HA! I’ve heard of it, but have never seen it. Not my speed, I think. 😉
Oui! Oui! Ooh la la, indeed. This poem is magnifique! Good one, Sara!
Thanks, Walt!
orange you glad, while
you wait for the chill, bored
fall plays with sharpies
Barbara, this is a sweet realization. Loved it.
I couldn’t remember the joke, but couldn’t get “orange you glad” out of my mind. Wrote almost a dozen bad haiku with the same first line.
Knock. Knock.
Banana
Banana who?
Knock. Knock.
(repeat until…)
Knock. Knock.
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?
HAHAHA! I taught this one to my little granddaughter Sophie when she was 3. She didn’t “get it” right away, but after a few times of her asking me to tell her the joke, she finally got it. The look on her face was priceless! 😀
And I gotta say, there is no “bad” poem if it makes you smile or feel. This brought a broad grin. 😉
Orange you glad I only brought the good one.
An old dad joke always good in rerun! A slight chortle this morning.
A FOREST HIKE, VIOLA HUES
I wandered toward a sound,
as I remember, thin, then thick,
a song upon the air,
a thrum, a tone.
At trail’s end what I found
upon the lake’s long pier,
a man, blind, playing a
viola, alone.
I listened to his sound,
a green, then yellow sound,
that deepened in the air,
a hum, a moan,
a sigh, the forest’s sigh,
as yellow slid to orange,
and orange to red,
hues somehow known
without the need for sight,
the reds then splayed
with gold and brown
upon the lake shore’s stone,
the colors of his strings
atoning for the loss of green,
a song he played
to honor autumn’s throne.
I heard the colors sing,
a thin, then thicker song,
and I was somehow glad
as well, for seasons come and gone.
© Damon Dean, 2018
You continually make me sigh with your GORGEOUS word paintings, Damon.
The sound colors … sigh …
A thrum
A tone
A hum
A moan
*sigh*
All I can say is it is an honor to share this space with you.
Thank you Marie…
You roped me in with the rhyme, Damon! Excellent hike and poem.
Thanks, Walt.
Love the word, thrum. Vibrating words are always welcome. The color of sounds is gorgeous.
Dance with the Spirit
Dance with the Spirit’s wind as He leads me deep within
the burning red rage of my pain, promising freedom I will gain.
On His wind I learn new ways until the agony and fury begin
to wane orange as He heals my heart of darkness and sin
Finally, the bitterness and hurt of the past mellow
into His sweetest, most precious peace yellow.
Another in the fine string of poems, Shelley. Well done!
Shelley, I loved the transition, the imagery, of mellowing into yellow. Lovely dance.
Walt, this is my favorite of yours so far. Love the embrace at the end.
Thank you, Sara!
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