#TellHisStory: Long Days, Short Years

May 14, 2014 | 82 comments

Anna sits on the polished wooden rectangle in front of those 88 keys, with her feet dangling. My baby girl is learning about treble clef and time signatures.

I’m kind of listening. Only I’m not. I’m not really listening like I should be. Like, maybe half-listening. Like pretty much, half-daydreaming.

“Mom?”

“Mom.”

I turn to my daughter.

She asks: “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh … Not sure what to blog about tomorrow, and sometimes I don’t know until it just … comes. Ya know?”

She nods a knowing nod. She likes when we talk writing. She tells me she remembers that feeling when the teacher asked her to write a color poem.

We both know it’s true — We have to pay attention not only to write life, but to really live it. The best stories are right under our noses, beside the piano bench, or under the kitchen table, or tucked in beside you.

It’s true — God’s grandeur has tended to favor ordinary places like barns and bushes.

And writing makes us pay attention. Especially when we’re not paying attention.

“I have an idea,” my daughter tells me, jabbing a single finger into the air. “You should write about how you just can’t belieeeeeve how time flies, and you’re kids are growing up sooooo fast.”

She rolls her eyes, and giggles.

I ask her, “Where would you get an idea like that?”

“Oh, moms say that all the time.”

“That’s because it’s true. You’re growing up fast. I feel like I just put you on the school bus for the first time.”

“Yeah, well, that was, like, really long ago. There are 365 days in a year, Mom. And they last for-e-verrrrr.”

Except they don’t.

They don’t last forever.

And someday she’ll know. Maybe it will happen when she’s sitting near a piano bench, listening to her own child expound on life, and wondering when exactly Tinkerbell got traded in for Taylor Swift. And sadly, she’ll be dreaming of tomorrow’s blog post.

The other day on Facebook, someone’s son asked the question, “Who’s Elvis?” Another friend reported that one of her younger co-workers asked who Donna Summer was. We’re here for a vapor of time, and even the icons are soon forgotten.

Later, I tuck my girls into bed. One of the girl’s voices wobbles with emotion.

“Mom,” she says. “I’m happy that summer’s coming and everything, but I already feel kind of sad. Because summers always go by so fast.”

I hug her tight, without a word. I just grab hold of her. And I hold her of a long time. I grab hold of this one day that goes so slow, in this one life that goes so fast, because we know when we look back, that we’ll regret it if we let these moments — soaked with the grandeur of God — slip through our fingers.

A Color Poem

Pink is:
first beanie on a newborn’s head
velvety edge of baby-girl blankie
Pink is the clenched fist around a mama’s forefinger
and the midnight cry
and the chubby hand waving bye

Pink is:
front step together, watching morning sky
half-eaten dinner, beets untouched
cotton candy that Daddy gave you anyway
frosting, licked off birthday candles
tucked-in girls, with fluttering lashes
summer breeze at dusk, and sweat on the Mason jar
Pink is
love-you-more-than-all-the-stars-in-the-sky-times-infinity!
and remembering that days are long but life is short

***

Just for Fun

Make your own “color poem” here.  Then come back and drop it in the comment box, or over on your blog.

So, what’s your Story?

A #TellHisStory is any story that connects your story into the story of God.

You’re invited to tell that story right here, in community with us.

Share your narratives, your poems, your Instagrams tagged with #TellHisStory, … your beautiful hearts. You are the chroniclers, the people who help others make sense of the world with your words and your art.

Story is how we know that, no matter what happens, we can get back up again.

Visit someone (or two) in the link-up to encourage with a comment. Then, Tweet about your posts, and the posts you visit, with the #TellHisStory hashtag. Come back on Friday to visit our Featured #TellHisStory, in the sidebar.

A final note: This is a safe place to tell your stories. You don’t have to be a professional writer to join us. Story is built into every single one of us. Your story matters, because it’s part of God’s story down through history, not because you punctuated everything correctly. Deal?

#TellHisStory

For more details on the #TellHisStory linkup, click here. Share the love of story by visiting someone else in the community!

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by | May 14, 2014 | 82 comments

82 Comments

  1. Lisha Epperson

    this was so much fun…have to do with the Lovelies today. Thanks Jennifer!

    green
    is split pea soup
    the first buds of spring
    and grass stained knees
    green means go and yes to anything I ask
    the best kind of smoothie
    the hush of a an open field
    green is wheatgrass juice
    fresh steamed broccoli
    and crunchy kale
    green is an open library
    boughs and branches and new books
    green is the scent of pine and the evergreen of Christmas
    green makes me feel alive

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      “boughs and branches and new books” … Love that, Lisha.

      Do come back and add the color poems from your Lovelies!

      Reply
    • Christine

      I love green, too! Grass-stained knees! I see green as Life, too! 🙂 And the nice reminder…green means GO!!! 🙂

      Reply
  2. Debbie

    Thank you for hosting! Love the story, yes, time goes too fast!

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Thanks for being here, Debbie.

      Reply
  3. Katie Reid

    Chocolate Brown
    his smooth beautiful skin
    wall color behind the piano
    delicious rich treats I sneak during nap time
    deep low bass notes
    the harmony that enhances the melody
    jazz that’s smooth
    warm hot fudge that covers a sundae
    thick molasses that flows like lava
    savory gravy poured over mashed potatoes
    leather thick and sleek
    velvet like Elvis’ home decor
    flannel sheets that warm in winter
    comfort to a weary day

    Reply
    • Dawn

      beautiful! 😉

      Reply
    • Lisha Epperson

      Love your chocolate brown poem Katie!

      Reply
    • dukeslee

      I just can’t stop smiling at the loveliness. Thank you, Katie!

      Reply
  4. Katie Reid

    Yes, this, “I grab hold of this one day that goes so slow, in this one life that goes so fast”, thank you.:)

    Reply
  5. DeanneMoore

    Green 
is the how you feel after the roller coaster ride, 

    and when you’ve eaten too much crawfish at the party.
    
It’s straight out jealousy for
    you friend’s curly hair.
    
It growls like a Deere mowing the yard 
and whispers loud like the
    ocean in the pines.
    
It’s sounds like children pulling weeds
    in a urban garden.
    tastes like pistachio ice cream
 and
    tart like limes.
    
It reveals it’s sweet side underneath
    the fuzzy skin of a kiwi.
    
It feels warm like summer
    
and ruins Christmas for the Who’s.

    You might think it’s talking behind your back.

    The color green is perfectly suited for the red head,
    sets off her freckles.

    Reply
      • DeanneMoore

        With there was an “an” where the is a “a”! I am a terrible editor! It’s the little things that drive a person nuts! ha

        Reply
        • dukeslee

          Ruins Christmas for the Who’s!

          Oh Dea. This is so very delightful, top to bottom.

          Reply
    • Lisha Epperson

      Love this…we both chose green.

      Reply
      • DeanneMoore

        I know Lisha. 🙂 Love yours too. The first time Jennifer posted this color poem prompt, I chose white. Not sure white is a color but it was fun. I want to write “all” the colors just for kicks. Maybe sometime soon….

        Reply
  6. Dawn

    Oh, I love this! I love the vision of the fingers and keys and the feet dangling and the way you painted the story, Jennifer. It makes me think of my own little girl at the piano. And I love the prompt to write poetically.

    Liquid blue
    sliding across the image in my eye,
    the rippling dress
    tinged with yellow and green
    as you sway to the notes
    and yoru fingers fly.

    Honey brown
    dancing to the floating notes,
    cascading curls
    highlited with twinkling sheen
    make me smile
    as your head bends to focus.

    Majestic white
    floating through the mosaic,
    the colored glass
    bending light in rainbow
    lifting my eyes
    by memories of music.

    Bless you!
    Dawn

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Goodness. Such beauty here in the comment box from you, Dawn, and the others. I’m feeling a little sheepish about that pink poem up there. But then again, I’m just over-the-moon excited for all the ways it’s encouraged such a colorful, beautiful display here in the comments. Such fun.

      Reply
  7. Mia

    Dear Jennifer
    This is beautiful. Your daughter seems to be quite like her mom. Yes, dear one, before you know they get married like my eldest did 4 weeks ago.
    Blessings XX
    Mia

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Oh Mia! Congratulations…

      Reply
  8. Rachel Britz

    One of the most gifted artists I know lives right under my roof. My 16 year old daughter Lily. Today I’ll share with you one of her recent works of prose. Enjoy~

    The Story of a Cloud and the Sun

    A heavy lightning bolt slips out of the limp hands of a dark gray cloud.

    The bolt hits the ground with a great force, shaking the earth’s floor violently.

    A loud groan from the cloud as he awakes to realize he’s lost his most valuable lightning bolt.

    Rage fills his translucent lungs as he shouts out in anger.

    A pang of sadness hits him as he recalls what he’s done to achieve that particular bolt.

    Tears begin to fall from his cheeks, he doesn’t bother to wipe them away,

    and lets them fall to the ground.

    Thus begins an unstoppable storm of tears that fall heavily from his face.

    Once again he fills himself with anger and shouts out,

    grabbing a basket of smaller lightning bolts from the shelf,

    and throws them to the ground.

    Each thrown hard enough to rumble upon its impact with the earth.

    He sits down and weeps gently into his hands.

    Sorrow overwhelms him,

    until a beam of light shines down on him.

    He looks up, blinded by the light, he calls out.

    A choir of birds sing such a beautiful note that it brings the cloud to his knees.

    With a voice that sounds like a chorus of angels playing their harps to a most wondrous song,

    the light greets him sweetly.

    The cloud finds himself walking towards the light,

    knowing in his heart that he’ll spend the rest of his days by her side,

    for she is far better than any lightning bolt he could ever earn.

    As he grows nearer he’s astonished to look down and see

    that he is the purist white of any cloud he’s ever seen.

    His heart beats loud and he smiles genuinely as he runs to her.

    For the rest of the clouds life he stays by her side,

    his love for her never wavering.

    They live out their days together in the bluest of skies,

    in the brightest of lights,

    and in a love that radiates across the world.

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      So good, Rachel. And Lily!! Impressive!!

      See if Lily will add a color poem for us. Would she?

      Reply
      • Rachel Britz

        Yes, I will ask her. But maybe you should? My suggestions these days are quite uncool. Oh wait, “cool” isn’t cool anymore…so I’m told. Ha!

        Reply
  9. Jody Ohlsen Collins

    Oh, a poem! In color… wow. Of course I got all teary eyed when I read this, and then just plain smiled big at the poetry. Thank you, Jennifer. I’ll maybe give that a try….

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      I hope you will, Jody! This is so fun! I posted this late, late last night, and was so tired, and felt a little guilty about not putting more time into my post. It just felt flat. But you all are bringing the colors … and the colors! I came over this morning to see such a colorful display here. Such loveliness!

      Reply
  10. Susan

    red
    chubby cheeks in the cold
    a single rose in a creamy milkglass vase
    the scissors on my desk
    the screech of a siren
    the crackling of thunder
    a teapot whistling
    watermelon
    cherry ice cream
    cough syrup
    warmth of a fireplace
    the sun on my face
    burning soles on hot sand
    red soars

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      I feel that sand between my toes! So fun, Susan. Thank you for sharing.

      Reply
  11. ro elliott

    red…

    red is strong as if it sits sentinel as a cardinal on a branch
    red is bold akin to poppies boldly displaying their glory
    red shouts warning resembling a fire truck racing through the streets

    red warns to us to stop… to look around before moving forward
    red colors a face… when we feel exposed
    red covers all imperfection
    red was bled from the cross
    red washes our robes
    red is our righteousness
    red redeems…red renews…red restores…
    RED SAVES!!!

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Ro! So fun to see you showing your true colors here today! 🙂

      Red restores and redeems. Yes, yes it does.

      Reply
      • soulstops

        Jennifer,
        so fun to read Anna’s pink poem…impressive 🙂 funny, i wrote about listening today…

        Reply
    • Susan

      Now I feel so unspiritual! LOL! Of course red SAVES – the blood of Jesus – my poetry attempt is so carnal. I am laughing at myself! Ro, you will have to read my worldly effort below! ♥

      Reply
      • ro elliott

        Please please don’t feel one is more spiritual than the other… Aren’t we all learning … All is spiritual… You wrote of the beauty of red too… God’s gifts… All the ways He loves us… After I hit publish… I thought I wish I would have said… Red is fun and sassy…read lipstick,nails and pumps. See… I wanted to lighten mine up…you think yours should be more “spiritual” and neither one needs to be any different… God’s world is too beautiful and full of amazing depth and layers…to express and reflect this best…we need all shades of all colors.

        Reply
        • soulstops

          Ro,
          So fun to read your poem….and yes, all is God’s gift 🙂

          Reply
  12. Lisa notes...

    “We have to pay attention not only to write life, but to really live it.” Yes! Attention is often the missing ingredient.

    Now to think about a color poem… 🙂

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Thanks, Lisa! Always enjoy your contributions to the weekly linkup.

      Reply
  13. Pam

    Love what you have written here today (as always)… ties in with something I’ve been pondering for writing on my blog too. Especially love your color poem… and I’m thinking on taking up that fun challenge! 🙂 Thanks Jen…~ Pam, apples of gold, http://wordglow.wordpress.com

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Always a joy to see you here, Pam. xo

      Reply
  14. Pat Baer

    I’m not a poet but this looks like too much fun not to join in. Here it goes for color brown.

    Brown, the uncelebrated color.

    Dirt, dead leaves, meals gone wrong.

    Brown, used by God and yet unsung.

    I know where I’m brown. On the inside.

    Covered with shame, hidden from the rainbow.

    Down deep it hides and waits for color glow.

    Brown is the place seeds go,

    the place new life can be birthed.

    Brown is the color of mountains and valleys,

    of worn pastures and worth.

    From the brown dust I was made, in the brown

    dirt I will lay.

    My secret sins and hidden parts are cherished by God

    and need not remain in the dark.

    He chose to redeem,

    He holds this brown one in hands that love

    and one day will lift from the earth to be his, above.

    Glorious brown.

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      I’m not a poet, either, Pat, but I think it’s so fun to play around with words. And this is a safe place to play. So glad you brought your word-crayons. 🙂

      Reply
  15. Susan Gadberry

    Purple
    a sparkly Senior Prom dress,
    graduation decorations strung across the social hall,
    my daughters favorite color,

    youth band praise & worship,
    the air whooshing through my bicycle tires,
    friends around my table belly-laughing,

    fizzy Shasta grape soda,
    soft as snow Hawaiian Ice,
    a steaming slice of blackberry cobbler,

    an ultra-soft fleece blanket,
    singing alone in the car at the top of my lungs,
    cruising with the windows down,
    Purple can turn a frown upside down.

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      I’m a sing-at-the-top-of-my-lungs girl, too! 🙂 Thanks for sharing your love purple poem with us.

      Reply
  16. Sandra Heska King

    White…

    White is snow
    a sheet unfurled from heaven
    swirling feathers from an angel’s pillow
    a soft dusting like a baby’s powder.

    White is clouds
    scooped like ice cream
    in a pink peppermint sky.

    White is simplicity
    frosted with a fresh stillness
    cool and calm.

    Reply
    • soulstops

      Sandra,
      love the image of “a soft dusting like a baby’s powder.”

      Reply
    • dukeslee

      Pink peppermint sky!

      Reply
  17. jenniferfrisbie

    Jennifer,

    Your post made me cry…and then it made me smile. I just love this!

    Orange
    is the sun stretching its arms above the trees on the east side of the lake
    staring at the color washed walls of my inviting kitchen as I sip my morning tea
    the vibrant yolks of the farm, fresh eggs lovingly delivered by a friend
    the sound of lively jazz music as I stand barefoot on the hardwood, mixing up muffins
    the sound of Coppertone being squirted into my hands at the beach
    the delicate crunch of freshly fallen maple leaves under my boot covered feet
    creamsicles in the sun
    citrus oolong on the back porch
    butternut squash soup on a chilly fall day
    my tangerine silk scarf, worn only on special occasions
    the nail polish applicator as I brush “It’s a bird it’s a plane” on my toes
    the sway of the boat dock as I soak up that wonderful Vitamin D
    Orange welcomes you to a new day. Gives life. Brings energy. Wakes up the soul…

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Oh my word. The Coppertone. Yes. I can see it, smell it. Oh, summer, come quickly!

      Reply
  18. Bruce Barone

    About many colors–and music:

    Royal Fireworks

    I am now writing
    About yesterday. An angel
    High up in pine tree.

    Two doves in a tree.
    A woodpecker pecking.
    Geese flying overhead.

    Playing Frisbee with my dog.
    The way my dog knows when I
    Pick up my camera we are going outside.

    Learning story of Handel’s
    Music for the Royal Fireworks.
    The music providing a background

    For the Royal Fireworks the wooden building
    Caught fire. Over twelve thousand people
    Rushed to get away. Causing a tree-hour traffic jam

    Of carriages, after the main route
    Was closed due to the collapse
    Of the central arch of the newly built London Bridge.

    I listened to the Overture
    In the car on my way
    To my physical. Stopping once

    To photograph The Lower Mill Pond
    In Easthampton, Massachusetts
    Where I once lived.

    The nurse said we now ask
    Everyone two question.
    Do you feel depressed?

    Have you recently fallen?
    No and no. And I said
    To her I remember being

    Depressed. Still so clear.
    I was waiting in the doctor’s office
    And I picked up an magazine and wept.

    When the doctor entered the room
    I help up the magazine, Newsweek
    I think, and on the cover a photo

    Two young women. One from Palestine
    And the other from Israel. They had
    Killed each other. And there

    In the doctor’s office I wept.
    I took medicine for a few years.
    Those feelings are gone.

    I told the doctor I had been feeling
    Light-headed and that my back hurt.
    He talked to be about the foot railing

    At bars. Made to help people
    Drink longer without hurting
    Their backs. He said I should

    Try using a foot stool when cooking
    Or cleaning the dishes. Raise one leg
    For a few minutes and the the other.

    I said to him it sounds
    Like a Seinfeld joke. And I was happy
    To hear my blood pressure was down.

    Back in the car heading home
    I heard to story of The Tam O’Shanter Overture
    By Sir Malcolm Arnold; based on a famous poem

    By Robert Burns depicting
    Tam O’Shanter drunk. Leaving the pub
    Tam rides home on his horse Meg.

    A storm is brewing. He sees
    the local haunted church lit up,
    witches and warlocks dancing.

    The devil playing the bagpipes.
    Tam is still drunk, still upon his horse,
    Just on the edge of the light watching.

    Amazed to see The witches are dancing
    As the music intensifies and seeing
    A witch in a short dress

    He shouts,`Weel done, cutty-sark!’
    (cutty-sark : “short shirt”).
    The lights go out, the music

    And dancing stops and many
    Of the creatures lunge after Tam,
    With the witches leading.

    Tam spurs Meg to turn and flee
    And drives the horse on towards the River Doon
    As the creatures dare not cross a running stream.

    The creatures give chase and the witches
    Come so close to catching Tam and Meg
    That they pull Meg’s tail off just as she reaches the bridge over the Doon.

    What a story.
    What a poem.
    What great music.

    Over dinner I tell Susan
    Both stories and we talk
    Later of framing art.

    ~~

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Wow, Bruce. Thanks so much for sharing. So many rich, vivid images here.

      Reply
  19. Jenna Guizar

    You’re amazing. And such an incredible inspiration. Thank you for writing these words. They’re beautiful and everything I wish I could say. ~Jenna

    Reply
  20. Holly Solomon Barrett

    Whew! It does go by in a hurry. Enjoy every minute, Jennifer, because before you know it, they’ll be 28! But there’s a lot of joy in that too. Thanks for hosting each week!

    Reply
  21. Holly Solomon Barrett

    Forgot to leave my poem:

    Purple is
    the color of my kitchen walls
    my favorite sandals
    the sunset over the ocean.
    I hear it in the baby’s giggle and
    a three-year-old running down the hall.

    Purple is on my lips like grapes
    and Kool-Aid
    and popsicles.
    Purple is at home
    in a grown kid’s hug.

    Purple can light up a twilight sky.

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Purple’s my favorite color, Holly. So nice to see that color through your eyes today.

      Reply
  22. Christine

    bubble tea
    crisp health like a spinach salad with abundant strawberries
    cold, fresh Wate:-) r over thirsting dreams
    freedom to twirl and twirl
    running around barefoot, a flower girl
    breeze through freshly washed long hair flying all about the face
    singing a new song, writing a new chapter…
    Green is Grace.

    PS i am still figuring out how to do all this from my tablet, as i am between computers! 🙂 Hope to join you all in community!

    Reply
  23. bethherring62

    They grow up way too fast my friend. Before you know it you will be a 51 year old Nana wondering how in the world she could be old enough to have 9 amazing grandchildren!! Have mercy and thank you Lord!

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Sigh… I know you’re right.

      Reply
  24. Christine

    Green of every shade
    late spring, early summer branches swaying in the breeze
    a crawling baby caterpillar under a steady leaf
    the patient new plant securely tied to a stake until due season
    laughter on the merry-go-round and jungle gym
    hope trying to take flight against all fear
    pure words of comfort from a trustworthy Friend
    honey-dew melon bubble tea
    crisp health like a spinach salad with abundant strawberries
    cold, fresh Water over thirsting dreams
    freedom to twirl and twirl
    running around barefoot, a flower girl
    breeze through freshly washed long hair flying all about the face
    singing a new song, writing a new chapter…
    Green is Grace.

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      I like that image, Christine … of hope trying to take flight against fear. And the breeze in fresh washed hair. Yes …

      Reply
  25. Sybil Brun

    Love this! I also love that you featured Darlene Collazo this week, she is wonderful! : )

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Yeah. She’s pretty awesome. Thanks for stopping by, Sybil.

      Reply
  26. lynndiane

    yellow
    daffodils blooming
    bright umbrella on the beach
    goldfinches courting
    honeybees buzzing
    wind chimes tinkling on porch
    classy, brassy trumpet tunes
    sweet tartness of lemon merengue pie
    buttery summer squash
    birthday cupcakes with candles
    warm sunshine on face
    hugs from grand children
    rainboots splashing in puddles
    Yellow can put a smile on your face!

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      I can hear yellow in your classy brassy trumpets!

      Reply
  27. Laurie Collett

    If only we had more time… but them, we do have eternity to look forward to! Thanks for hosting & God bless!

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Always a joy to have you here, Laurie.

      Reply
  28. Amy Jung

    I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hugged my kids and tried to figure out how to “grab hold of this one day that goes so slow, in this one life that goes so fast.” I wish I knew how to make time just…stop. Your words spoke to my “mother heart”…reminding me to hug a little longer again today.

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      So glad you stopped by this week, Amy. xo

      Reply
  29. faye k.

    Gold…
    the color of a wedding band that starts the
    adventure of two becoming one
    the color of eyelashes that cover sleepy blue eyes
    of your newborn son
    the color of life when you look back
    through the years.
    the sound of a grain dryer on a crisp fall evening
    the sound of a family laughing around the kitchen table
    the sound of your grandchilds’ feet slapping on the wooden floor as he runs.
    tastes like a cool, clear glass of ice water, when baling,
    on a hot, muggy Iowa day
    tastes like fresh strawberries picked and eaten right from the plant
    tastes like grilled burgers with family and friends
    at the fourth of July picnic by the lake.
    feels like the days after going through the
    darkest hours of your life
    feels like hearts so full of gratitude you can hardly stand it
    feel of God’s hand on the journey that is your life.
    the color of Gold can seep into you heart, mind, and soul…
    Love is the color of Gold…
    God is Love

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      I love this Faye … Gold, like the sound of a grain dryer. Perfect. Thanks for showing your true colors here. 🙂

      Reply
  30. LW Lindquist

    I was summoned
    on Twitter for poetry,
    assigned polka dots
    which–I never wear.
    Still, d o t s for a dancer
    in a wide puffy skirt.
    I don’t really mind them,
    circles make no right turns
    with angles that dig
    into ribs like the elbow
    that asks pointedly–
    would you please
    get in line.

    🙂

    Reply
      • Sandra Heska King

        And because I was Twitter absent, I was assigned gingham…

        You blew in from Kansas
        in a blue gingham dress
        skipped down yellow bricks
        in ruby reds
        with a dog in a basket.
        Your story’s a bit warped,
        your past hints at checkered,
        and now someone’s dead.

        Reply
        • Monica Sharman

          Ha! Someone ought to make a musical out of this one. 😉

          Reply
        • dukeslee

          LOL!!!

          I adore this.

          Reply
    • Monica Sharman

      Gotta love those polka dots. They’ll never line up. 😉

      Reply
    • dukeslee

      Squee! I love the way you look in these polka dots, my friend.

      Reply
  31. SimplyDarlene

    I found a strand of
    melancholy’s hair
    on my pillow
    this morning.
    It was dull
    brown.

    (btw – i dropped this at twitter this morning and then saw your link-y-tweet about this color post.)

    Reply
    • dukeslee

      Oh you…

      Thanks, Darlene.

      Reply
  32. Constance Ann Morrison

    What fun, Jennifer! Yes, writing does make us pay attention and see the unseen–usually. I didn’t notice the form for the color poems until after I’d written mine.

    White

    Child’s eyes watch white flakes
    settling on yellow, daffodil cups.
    Shivering, fearing that winter will never end,
    never thaw into spring,
    that it would be “always winter and never Christmas.”
    The un-truth swirling in the snow whispers,
    “Why pray?”
    “Nothing will change.”
    “There is no hope.”
    No white lie, but a black one from the pit.

    Wisdom’s eyes watch,
    waiting for the potential
    held in cold sap and dark roots,
    expecting spring.
    White apple blossoms bud and bloom.
    Petals flutter,
    fall feather-soft,
    full of promise
    of autumn’s white-fleshed, scarlet fruit.
    Like incense smoke
    prayers of hope rise.

    Reply

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