Translations of Color

 —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein,
Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

THE COLORS OF LOVE
 
"It's right that I should care about you
and try to make you happy when you're blue”*—
but blue is also a color of love,
azure, emerald, Antigua:
Take this sapphire in your hand
and squeeze it as hard as you can.
Can you feel my heart pounding,
the reddish liquid inside me gaining heat,
rose, maple leaves in autumn,
the sunset over Key West,
rich carmine with a splash of crimson?
Purple, too, talks the language of love,
violet knows how to translate it,
orange ripens the air smoothing everything,
yellow has the kiss of the sun,
white the hug of the moon,
green the blessing of evergreen,
and brown, yes, brown comfortable and soft,
the complexion of foothills rising to mountains,
fertile soil and exactly what is needed for growing:
Too many colors of love, but me,
I'm happily in love with every shade of you.
 
*from Vanilla Fudge 

 

 

 

 
MEDITATION

I need to pause for a moment beneath great oak,
let the nester of sunshine sift through its heavy limbs
and lather me with blossoms.
                                         A soft pillowed breeze,
down-beat of cicada, ballet of tall grass, leaf-work,
the translations of the color green in wind and light.
                                         a line of ants and leaf.

 

 

 

 

MY WIFE AND I BECOME A PART OF
WHITE PINES INDIAN RESERVATION

The hurt and pain is starting to become a norm 

here. We had 4 suicides in two days all young 

men. 2 by hanging and 2 by gun shot to the head.
        —Tiny, our mentor in her homeland—
        the Sioux Nation, White Pines, South Dakota,
        in a text message to my wife


so it goes beyond belonging
tall grass and feral dogs
unpaved roads and thick back country
some buffalo and some buffalo bones
a score of litter within the park

and so it goes beyond educating
a body of politics and badlands
the rattlesnake on the cliff
a bobcat in the field of elk
a score of racism at its borders

 

 

 

A WEATHER REPORT

Summer came to Mid-Missouri in February,
eighty degrees for more than a week.
Someone said, If you don't like the weather,
wait an hour and it will change.
It did not change, the sky boring blue,
and every now and then a lisp of white,
a wagon train of clouds, blue and more blue,
the great shadow of turkey vultures.

 

 

 

 

INTO THE LIGHT

We left after supper,
the summer sun still high,
traveled south towards the gulf,
her head resting easily on my shoulder,
her hand folded in her lap,
and I drove to Louisiana into darkness,
she sleeping with a great smile
and i drove down the highway
safe and well, the darkening sky
growing thicker and thicker
until I wondered if there had ever been a sun.
Early the next day I thought I saw dawn,
but it was only lights from somewhere else
and I allowed that false dawn to multiply
into a dozen false dawns.
She did not wake. She didn't snore.
She didn't stop smiling.
and even when we pulled into
gas stations, she held her place
waiting for my shoulder's return.
The sun did arrive finally,
she did wake, stretch, ask where we were,
and I could not answer, not knowing.
I drove through the morning's sunlight
and we arrived at the edge of a swamp.
She knew the place, gave directions,
and it seemed everyone was waiting for us.
I don't remember ever being that hungry,
that tired, that wide awake
and we did not sleep until hours later,
the road still in my head,
the worry the sun had forgotten us,
and that night the largest moon
I had ever seen rose over the swamp
and we listened to the music of insects,
birds and all of the creatures
living at its edge, deep in their thoughts.

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I try to apply colors like words that shape poems, like notes that shape music.

—Joan Miro

________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 “Purple, too, talks the language of love…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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