Colors are like touch…

Colors are like touch, they can mean more
Than any words could say. When chosen well,
They may speak of the flags of ancient war
Of years ago, forgotten. Or may tell

Of pageantry, adventure, and romance –
The glorious and blazing sight of she
Or he, who braved the monster or the dance,
And kept throughout their great integrity.

Our favorite teams, or superheroes can
Always be told from others by the hues
In which they’ve long performed: woman or man,
Have colors known from helmets down to shoes.

  Other times, though, it is understood
  That colors just mean… colors. Which is good.

Driving Through Villages

They drove through villages for hours, and he
Was just a boy, but still he watched, enthralled.
What seemed like sameness wasn’t so to him,
Like models come to life, this row of toys.

The roofs, the windows, factories, and spires,
The bits of grass and trees, the shops and cars,
The animals, the kids out playing football,
The houses, big and grand, or small and fine —

His eyes, so sharp, discerning, saw it all:
The artist loves much others might find dull

Is That A Work of Art?

She asked me, “So —
Is that a work of art?”

I said I thought it was,
Most certainly.

She said, “It’s broken —
Even kind of random –“

“But broken’s beautiful
To those
Who see”


Photo credit: © Elena Egorova | Dreamstime.com

Artistic License

We reproduce the world, and see

What isn’t oughta shouldn’t be –

Then reproduce, on screen and page

A type of social macrophage

 

To crush the infamy, and try

For greener grass and bluer sky:

Artistic license, at it’s core —

Though we be small, we hope

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