I Am Color. I Am Light.
“I Am Color. I Am Light.”
A radical affirmation of my beauty, my purpose, my passion, my fullness. A call to consider my presence in everything, and everything’s presence within me. A bridge between myself – my textures, my tenderness, my contradictions – and divinity. Divinity’s arching awareness of itself. Where all is bent, but never broken. Where whispers weave into unseen worlds. I Am Catastrophe. I Am Creation. I Am Confusion. I Am Calm.
Below are 50 poems by 20 bright & colorful poets. This entire collection was inspired by the inaugural poem The Rainbow by Cameron Cox, written in response to Cerren Ered’s Prism of Light ceremony – where all are welcome, all are worthy to take part in honoring that which is larger than ourselves alone.
Here, the Scribes seek to celebrate the animate everything, examine the mystery of oneness in plurality, and explore the infinite connections that create our shared reality.
Keep reading to enjoy a brilliant selection of poems about colors & emotions, the spectrum of light, big feelings, visceral memories, and individual parts coming together in wholeness.
Featuring the following poets:
Cameron Cox
Amethyst Drake
Blair Correll
Dane Osborne
Frances Denise
Olivia Gilreath
Joshua Walker
Angel Joseph
the dithyrambler
Sheena Fry King
Bobbie Foster
Brandon Thorpe
Stephen Young
Chris Wood
Angelia Ross
Flossie Hedges
Victoria Sexton
Sam Hendrian
Trinity Smith
Guiliana Noto
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
I AM COLOR. I AM LIGHT.
THE RAINBOW
I am red, both gentle and violent
I am the passionate love that sustains
and the furious rage that consumes
I am the heartbeat, forever steady
I am the blood the seeps from the wound
I am red.
I am orange, warm and bright
I am beginning and end, sunrise and sunset,
light and in shadow
I am the warmth of the campfire’s glow
I am camaraderie though difficult times
I am orange.
I am yellow, full of hope and joy
I am sunshine and banana popsicles
and running barefoot on a hot summer day
I am the innocence of childhood
I am wonder, awe, and the hope for a brighter tomorrow
I am yellow.
I am green, vibrant and lively
I am nature, the source of all life
and growth from seed to sapling
I am the medicinal herb, and the poisonous plant
I am kindness, healing, and change
I am green.
I am blue, both sorrow and joy
I am the tears shed for those lost
and the comforting arms of those who remain
I am the river, the rain, and the cool drink when it’s needed most
I am succor and sustenance
I am blue.
I am indigo, wild and untamed
I am the deep sea, so far from land
You can’t see the shore
I am the raging tempest that threatens to overtake you
I am the strength to face the storm, and the courage to stand against it
I am indigo.
I am violet, both sour and sweet
I am the grape on the vine
and the vintage made from it
I am duality incarnate
I am the meeting, the parting, the alpha and omega
I am violet.
I am the rainbow, the fractals of light.
My absence is empty, dark, and devoid of life.
My presence is needed for all things,
To shun any of me is to reject my whole
for without the whole spectrum,
each disparate part means nothing.
–Cameron Cox
⚘
I FOUND A RAINBOW
I found a rainbow
ripped it from the sky
for safe keeping.
When the winds kick up
swirling gusts
and the sky is black
as sable
I subdue the gale,
conduct the tempest
from my throne
of crumbling dirt
with a rainbow
in my pocket.
–Amethyst Drake
⚘
A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES
My head was hurting with life
My inner eyes had seen too much
I popped them out one day at lunch
Wrapped them up in cloth and
Made God a sacrifice hoping
That He’d save me from myself
Left behind with the memories of
Dark blue oceans and warm nights
Laughing with friends and red fireworks
Midnight screenings and walking
In new dazzling places and holding
Hands with uncertainty and privilege
I watched my previous life like a movie
What else is there to do when
Ten years underground leaches life’s color
Making me a cavefish in my parent’s basement
Dreaming of tomorrows, reliving yesterdays
No one can tell you when you’re in it that you’re in it
First I gave up my eyes, my time, then
My ears, my mouth, my words, my feet too
I laid down my life as a beast of burden
My penance for simply being alive
What will it take to reform, to reanimate
Can I wake from this dream now
This time around I’ll be more grateful
This time around I will run under
The white moon with my eyes in
I will stand with a multitude and
Sing my heart out and be afraid but
Love it with every next and shaking breath
–Blair Correll
⚘
BEYOND OUR SKIN
The sibilance of a banshee's scream
In the heat of the night
Beneath the incandescence of
A white Moon is feared as a doorway
To the phenomena of certain death.
But is death not supposed to be a doorway
Which leads to an eternity of endless colors?
The dynamics involved in this realm of skin
Is ephemeral
But meant to learn from
When it comes down to the implications
Of the presence of mathematical infinity
And what it implies.
There is a better world beyond our skin.
Just wait and see.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
DISCOLORED
That day
In my memory
Is tinted gray
Black and white
Like a picture
From an old newspaper print
I can't describe to you
How I felt then
Pulling suitcases
To take flight
On my own
Leaving the only world
I've ever known
I held back tears
Tore my gaze away from
The most familiar faces
Pretended
That this was simply
An extended vacation
I ignored myself
Growing discolored
By separation
That girl, ever hopeful
She does not yet know
She is to fall into
Many a depression
And it will be quite a marvelous
Heartbreaking ride
Hard lessons taught
Over a very long while.
If you happen to go back in time
And catch her at the gate
Tell her please:
Soon she'll find a wider range
Of colors
More varied, more vibrant
Than what she's seen in her dreams
And tell her that I trust her
That I love her –
That's the most important thing
–Frances Denise
⚘
THE COLOR OF US
If love had a color,
I think it would begin with the blue
of your name in my mouth—
steady,
like dusk that promises morning.
But love is never just one thing.
You are never just one thing.
And neither am I.
You are red when you laugh—
not loud, but full,
like something that belongs here.
Like something I almost forgot I needed.
You're the green I didn't know
was growing inside me—
quiet roots,
the patience of wild things
that trust in spring.
You are yellow on my worst days—
a soft light I can lean toward,
even when I can't see the sun.
And when I doubt,
when I unravel a little,
you’re violet—
something sacred and still,
hands that don’t hold me tighter,
just better.
There’s orange, too—
that brave part of love,
where we forgive before the words come,
where we choose again,
even on the days
when choosing is hard.
We are a spectrum.
Not perfect.
But true.
The way white light is every color—
not blank,
but whole.
The way love,
when it’s real,
doesn’t ask you to change,
only to show up
as you are.
So here I am.
And here you are.
Every color I’ve ever felt
finally making sense.
–Olivia Gilreath
⚘
TECHNICOLOR SOUL
My soul reels like broken film,
splicing joy with ruin on repeat.
Red burns for rage, for hunger, for love—
their borders erased.
Blue drowns the sky into silence,
an ocean without return.
Yellow is merciless laughter,
too bright to trust, too brittle to keep.
Green claws through cracks of grief,
vines strangling scaffolds of hope.
Purple bleeds like bruised memory,
half-sacred, half-poisoned by want.
I was never meant for grayscale.
My spectrum is soldered from scars,
each wound ground into pigment,
each failure another shade of fire.
Call me stained glass in a storm,
a window refusing collapse.
Break me, and I scatter brighter—
the technicolor soul endures.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
THE LIGHT BENEATH OUR SKIN
We are born in color—
not just pigment,
but feeling.
The blush of first breath,
the bronze of survival,
the deep indigo of silence held too long.
Our skin holds light
like stained glass—
fractured, sacred,
never the same twice.
It glows in the sun,
but it burns in the fire
of being misunderstood.
Some wear skin like armor,
toughened by stares,
by slurs,
by the weight of being “other.”
Some wear it like silk,
soft but strong,
woven from stories no one asked to hear.
We are not just shades—
we are shadows and shine,
the dusk and the dawn,
the spectrum that refuses to flatten.
Touch us,
and you’ll feel the pulse
of ancestors dancing,
of children dreaming,
of voices rising
from every scar.
We are color.
We are light.
We are the truth
beneath the surface.
–Angel Joseph
⚘
HOUSE OF MIRRORS
you had a house of mirrors where
the light fell from the walls
and hit the highest ceilings, found
the ground gives way to all
lines of luminescence
looping back and forth
at infinity’s insistence
that life will stay the course
cross paths with other beings –
beams in such a state
that illusion rules appearance
as they seem to separate
themselves from each the other
then again they were intwined
with always their own likeness
as if they shared a mind
and thus as fate would have it
the mirror-house revealed
a truth made up of oneness,
once so well concealed.
–the dithyrambler, from a trick of the light
⚘
WE ARE NOT JUST ONE SHADE
We are colors– wild and loud,
A riot painted on the clouds.
We are rainbows after storms,
Bent light in fractured forms.
Each hue a mood, a scar, a flame,
No two of us are quite the same.
We are glitter– don’t dismiss
The sparkle buried in the abyss.
We toss confetti made of dreams
Into the cracks of broken seams.
Even when we fall apart,
We shimmer with a stubborn heart.
And yes, some hearts are black as coal,
Not empty– just a different soul.
Not cruel, not cold, but carved by time,
A shade that sings in minor rhyme.
Complex, not cursed, just hard to read,
A heart that bleeds but doesn’t plead.
So, call us chaos, call us art,
Call us soft or torn apart.
We are not simple, not just light.
We are shadow, spark, and fight.
We are the palette, not the frame,
And none of us are just one name.
–Sheena Fry King
⚘
I AM LIFE
I am the hues
The ones we see in the sky
The colors when we look around
Yet I'm the shades between contrasts
The ones overlooked in a room so crowded
Winding under my skin like vines
Are shades of scarlet and mahogany hidden
My heart, continuously beating with each breath
The brain inside my skull, my lungs trapped
Under my bones
The shades that say I exist in a world where
I am the book unread
Persimmon shows when I am most prideful
My heritage, my home
Things I have to leave behind when my clock
Is finished ticking
The early morning is when fawn peeks
Through the mountains
The mornings where I wish to remain dead and alive
The mornings of which remind me
Of my existence many forget
The wind blows the mixed sights of
Fern and chartreuse
The smell of the grass when it rained the
Day before
Before the sun set and rid of the aegean sky I
Dearly loved
The same color of my veins that scream
Look at me
Palatinate is the past
Of bruises from being a kid
To the scars that line my body
Nostalgia warps my mind as the color
Wraps me in an embrace, sends me spiraling
Through emotions I dare not speak of to those
Around me
The emotions that want me to rid of my existence
Entirely
It is then when I remember these colors that
I am love, I am rage
I am hate, I am reverie
The colors which I see
Prove my existence when I don't want it to
When I don't want to believe
I am real
–Bobbie Foster
⚘
SELF SACRIFICE
A generous fire, that wanted to live
but needed to eat more to survive
than it could ever give.
So it starved itself
till nothing remained
and left the consumables
to be consumed
by nicer things.
–Brandon Thorpe
⚘
SOIL OF A SERUM TOO POTENT
In order to bloom, one must grow,
In order to grow, one must be planted.
Fortunately, I was planted under the swaying
branches of that pink magnolia tree that grew
up as I did.
Although, unlike the vivid flowers
that adorn that tree each year, my petals didn’t
blossom without repeated bruises and battering.
In other words, as I was sprouting,
I was interrupted by the deluge
of darker clouds.
As I move up the vines of my jagged and thorny memory,
I find myself with those same bruises.
However, while it hurts, I don’t let that pain define my future self
as the future holds new growth and those leaves are greener.
Taking this new growth, with my flowers vibrant and thorns now
veiling judgement, I find myself with these ingredients pulled
from the remnants of that time of crowded growth and splayed upon
the surface of those same memories.
Ingredients of pain and hardship akin to the past.
Belladonna, with her beautiful purple flowers, ripe berries, and her
ability to poison you with only one of them– give my tonic of forgotten and
painful memories the danger it was yearning for.
Along with those pink magnolia flowers and
the screams of anger thundering from the windows of that
unfinished, ramshackled house…
Along with those thorns pulled from lower down the more beaten vines.
Along with the love of my mother through it all, even if
her and her ailments and addictions might have caused a portion of the damage.
This serum is laced with smooth, but generous, helpings of lonely nights and
crying children, water dripping but not flowing, black mold creeping in the corners,
Father’s leaving, Mother’s “sleeping”, Brother’s teasing…
And yeah, this poem is about my past but if I told you about my future
I'd get laughed at and called slurs and discriminated against more
than I already do, in my own home.
I could tell you how I’m gay, I could tell you how I have a learning disability,
or how I'm fat, or how I'm tall, or how I talk too much,
or how I make fun of other people “jokingly” to hide my own insecurities,
but I hate talking and I hate that I stand out, I hate that I cry and
I hate that I bleed from those same wounds– from those same thorns,
I hate that I hate things, I hate that I constantly think my friends hate me,
I hate that I push away my only friends, I hate that I hate showing my real
feelings and real self since– I'm hated and hate hurts.
I could tell you all of these things.
But–if I did– Could you take it? Could you seriously read
a whole poem about my life and not judge me?
I don't think you can.
I could go on but I've said too much and, to be honest,
anyone who's read this far is most likely depressed enough.
What I'm trying to say–
What I'm trying to write– is that all of these things amalgamated
into one serum… A truth serum… would be too potent– too different.
So, forget the recipe, lock it away to simmer with those thorns,
with those rotting roots, shut the truth away just like everyone else
because that's what the social class wants.
Why read this far if you're snarling or gawking at my words–
Why take the time of day if you didn't gain something from it?
A moral perhaps? A sense of acceptance?
Don't judge me for not being afraid to write what should be wrote
instead of shying away and performing the same choreography
done by almost everyone else in today's society.
Please, take a bow for another performance about
cornbread and mashed potatoes– or trucks and farms,
but I'm not going to sit here and write something that isn't the truth.
I'm not looking for applause, or roses thrown at my feet.
I'm looking to teach a lesson and write something that's
worth reading and learning from.
Because if I ever get to plant a seed, I would want it to grow
happily and vividly and without restraint from crowded flowerbeds…
Without the experiences that I experienced…
Wouldn't you want that too?
–Stephen Young
⚘
PAPER INJECTOR
A carbon lattice nano crucifix
being constructed by tiny pink
spiders on the pillow billowing
up around your cheek,
one open eye
In delirium you have such sharp
vision, with macro focus, fixed
on the fibers being climbed
by the spiders
Hard at work, repairing your
hidden injuries and defects
the professionals claim they can’t find,
but the spiders say they're liars
and you can only wonder why.
You would know what
cancer feels like,
or a blockage
building in veins, a clot moving
to your brain, just then
The TV says something that sure
makes it seem like it knows
what you’re thinking,
and knows you alone need to
receive this information
The sun sinking behind the silhouetted
2D tree texture wrapped around the map
by the developers
of your house
to create the impression of depth
but they're just empty pixels
a paraffin casting of familiar hands
a simulacrum,
if you tried to walk past them
you’d fall out of the map
then like waking from a dream
you'd respawn back in your house.
The fatty oil smell in the air
from the frying food,
you received a message,
from beyond,
that it can do something bad to you.
With eyes closed you can see
the oil particles
filling alveoli, and it looks
like a fake movie effect
high contrast, black background,
saturated colors.
Besides the things shown to you,
there are also the things you
realize are true.
Like how everything in public
is directed towards you.
Models smiling from
advertisements that know too much
growling at you from
the side of a rolling bus.
Then finally a clear instruction for once,
in the form of a keychain
that broke off its ring, saying to go
visit a neighboring state.
So you drove there and waited
until the mystery faded
and realized it was time to drive back
home.
Maybe nothing means anything,
things ARE exactly as they seem.
I wish my mind would just
leave me alone
–Brandon Thorpe
⚘
THE COUNTING OF HOURS BE
The counting of hours be:
A tragedy featuring clowns who
Dance on shattered glass as
They preach love free of payment.
Colors Infest the psyche, they
Cannot be escaped, the colors
Will follow you
And make you
Believe in the logic
Of your insanity.
For many a year,
The spells of the moonglow
Will create car wrecks
And human birth.
Be afraid of the glow,
You belong to it free of payment.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
MIXING COLORS
In the dreary haze of a haphazard room
I mix colors.
The purple and yellow are my favorite;
Crushed into a fine powder and mixed
into even lines.
This tiny mirror always captures my reflection
just before my favorite little shame.
Staring into hollow blue eyes.
Consuming the purple and yellow.
And then we’re golden.
For the next four to six hours
I can tolerate the darkness in my soul.
–Amethyst Drake
⚘
THE NEON PRISM OF DREAMS
The city hums in fractured color,
glass spines clawing the sleepless dark.
Neon bleeds like wounds on fire,
each sign a false eternity.
I drift through shadows of voltage,
a vagabond of broken reflections.
Every mirror splits me into seven selves—
none whole, all burning bright.
The prism bends what I cannot face,
grief dissolving into violet smoke.
Hope crackles—green lightning trapped,
buzzing against the silence of scars.
Lovers leave fingerprints on glass air,
vanishing before I can hold them.
Even my name flickers like a marquee,
destined to gutter before dawn.
Still I chase the light—
because darkness tells truth too clearly.
In the neon prism of dreams,
even despair learns to glitter.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
SUN SHIP
Pure white electromagnetic waves perform
An intricate dance all across the empty midnight canvas
And may expose tyrannical codes written with dishonesty.
I see no Ego
Because I have no Ego.
Everything ever sold to me
I give away for free to the moonchild
Next door with his brittle glass eyes
That crack open from slight pressure
Of invisible photon rays.
An act of simple charity as my penance
For blowing up the whole sweet Earth
In a future life.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
MOONLIGHT
I have traded the night
For all of days endless bright
Forever waiting on the sunrise
I long for the dark’s eventual demise
But there is no sky so blue
Nor picnic by the creek too few
That I will forgive myself for
When I can have it all and more
Life is light and life is dark
Life is color and leaves its mark
Life is learning to live with never
And still contending with forever
Give me back the whispers of the moon
But leave me the high sun of noon
I am too greedy by half
But I was made to walk this path
I will have yearning blossoms in spring
I will gaze lovelorn at the moth’s wing
Have I not waited long enough
Am I not made of stronger stuff
Maybe I was initially blessed too much
Made of not a little fear and stardust
Heaven I only ask you for this simple thing
Give me, give me every thing
–Blair Correll
⚘
SUN STING
An itchy late summer night, skin aflame
from old and new bug bites
sunburn and irritation from rolling
in the grass and plants,
and all the little scrapes
and spots on fire from all that
salty sweat
drying and rehydrating with
new sweat on your
burning skin.
Your muscles and joints ache
the weakness that came
in waves, now transforming
into a comfortable exhaustion
with the setting sun
evenly fading into
sleepiness, but not yet.
The workday adrenaline is still
being replaced with
pain-killing endorphins,
with each heart
beat, but the hundreds of
stinging and itching injuries
scream all
throughout your body
and it feels
wonderful.
–Brandon Thorpe
⚘
EFFLORESCENCE
The hillsides roll with sweet spring storms
Of efflorescent beauty.
Bright amaranthine swirls
Etched lovingly onto
Living canvas.
Radiant, vibrant, eternal
Beneath a pearlescent moon.
Thick purple clouds
Adorn a roiling sky
Full to bursting.
A timid thunder crackles
Way off in the distance
A soft sudden rain speckles
The hungry ground below.
Out of such tender violence
Blooms a precious garden
Demanding to be admired.
–Amethyst Drake
⚘
SING NO SAD LIES
Velvet petals slashed
Swiftly by lawnmower blade
And Mother Death sings no sad lies.
In spring born out of a fading year,
There is warmth here in the green dream
And I hear no sobs
And see no day cursed faces.
Mother Death speaks nothing under blue light
And sees behind the facade of my eyes,
I say nothing to her either.
Malfunction stops the melody
With no precision and we both understand
How the magic has failed us both.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
SUNRISE
I wanted to watch the sunrise today
To remember what I did with my rage
I turned it into a glowing orange ball
Large, and low
First a subtle light, you can see it without squinting your eyes
And as it climbed the sky
It burned brighter, yellow
It gave eager creatures life
It melted ice
Lent energy to growing things
Cast reflections on bodies of water
A great big spiral of never-ending fire
I work with it, it gives me warmth
It was years before I learned to hold it in my hands
Brave and afraid,
I didn't want to hurt anyone
That is why I traveled inwards
And turned my rage into the sun
–Frances Denise
⚘
GHOST DANCE
I see new daydream effects through
The reflection of liquid mirrors.
Soft blue patches of air mutate
Into white mists of clouds
And becomes a background for the
Assassination of my imaginary enemies
Who live and breathe in my crackerbox mind.
Ethereal green reality vibrates from New Earth
And teaches my good eye memories of laughter
In perpetual motion.
Ghost Dance Purity creates itself
And becomes the infant flow of sun-tinged mirth.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
GROWING
This is the first of her olives
She will scratch and claw
She will bargain and plea
But she will swallow it
Fierce like a gray summer storm
Blooming out of a blue day
She must first shade her eyes
Until she can see through the white rain
Change is startling color
In a dull world painted by
A small shaking hand that
Dreams up new tomorrows
You must ride the unknown waves
Eat up shadows and drink sunlight
Build and create and
Feather yourself a new nest
–Blair Correll
⚘
WHEN THE POET ANSWERED THE CROW
Why? I'm dead,
And this be not a state of expiration.
Suspicious humans who hide in trees
And light up the earth are to be comprehended
Only in the language of fever.
The music of the crows
Is out of tune
And I reinvent commotion
With calm reasoned lack
Of conscience.
(A tribute to my own cracked face)
–Dane Osborne
⚘
HOPE IN SEPIA
The photograph trembles in its frame,
edges curling like lips at dusk.
Sepia burns memory into silence,
a tongue older than forgiveness.
Faces blur but eyes remain,
haunting with unfinished futures.
Hope is not golden here—
it is rust, it is dust, it is held breath.
Still, faint light endures,
a candle refusing extinction.
It flickers across cracked wallpaper,
reminding ruins they once were warm.
The past is brittle, a hymn on paper,
yet marrow still hums its gospel.
In sepia, even grief softens,
turning anguish into muted tenderness.
I keep the relic not for what was,
but for the ghost it promises tomorrow.
If sepia can cradle hope,
so can I, in my fractured frame.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
SOUND & SIGHT
what do i have but the pen
on my side? – i scratch
out some letters and scribble
some lines – swirling
and curling toward
what they suggest –
teeming with meaning,
becoming the blessed –
stanzas and verses – to worship
the lord – claiming creation –
from angel to sword –
the violence of symbols
and words written down –
in ink or carved
into clay by the crown –
tortures the mind with illusion
and doubt – what if
what is spoken can lead
the heart out? – to exit
the prison we’ve built
in our heads – deceptive
directives from demons –
undead –
so say what you see –
shape sound into light –
and with that, perhaps
comes the gift of new sight.
–the dithyrambler
⚘
DEAR PEN
You write my soul in indigo,
sometimes crimson, bleeding
over crisp white paper
with failed relationships,
lost love, and family drama.
Fuchsia, plum, and emerald soak
through the thin layer of appearances
we all try to maintain. Memories written
in prayers and tears locked
between moleskin softened with age.
Your ink flows just below my fingers,
curving, swerving on parchment
telling stories, sharing knowledge,
sending love in postscripts.
Your life's blood veining envelopes
carried across the globe,
across time, across our hearts.
–Chris Wood
⚘
I WAKE IN SHADES OF OBSCURE CRAYONS
I wake in mustard-jade whispers
beneath ceilings smeared with broccoli citron.
My heart is a half-melted crayon,
buzzing like fluorescent static.
Chartreuse leaks into suspicion,
mauve gnaws at my elbow’s hinge.
A vermillion thought stumbles sideways,
mocking the scaffolds of reason.
Cerulean moans like warped brass,
plaid-colored truths unravel.
Logic skates on maroon paradox,
sliding into dandelion fog.
I reach for a sky tasting of saffron dust,
bite into a cobalt whisper of nonsense.
Each sense shatters into wax shards,
absurd fragments of a cosmic doodle.
I am both scribble and erased page,
a spectrum laughing at itself.
In the void where meaning collapses,
I wake—senseless, yet in color.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
DIX AND THE DANCER
otto dix
painted lady in red –
anita – found
at 29, dead –
forever younger
than i am now,
worn with the weight
of the world on her brow.
her body did burn,
consumed by the flame
feasting on beauty,
evading the blame –
cast like a shadow
to cover the eyes,
shaped by the state,
upheld by their lies.
degenerate artist
lent color to truth,
brought darkness to light,
recorded the proof
of power corrupted,
captured in time:
the monster behind
the mask and the crime.
held – honest – in hand,
the dancer stands strong –
gazing – her age
beyond all that went wrong.
–the dithyrambler, from 13 MOONS
⚘
FALL
I was nineteen
When I first experienced
Autumn
I remember, I took
A hundred photographs
An attempt to frame
And freeze
The wonder and awe
Coming to life
Inside of me.
Once a year
I anticipate
With equal measures of
Celebration and regret
My favorite week –
When the trees are at the peak
Of that ritual they do
Before they go to sleep –
The earthy hues of the
Maples, redbuds, sycamores and oaks
Beside the constant, vibrant evergreens
A living, quickly-changing
Bouquet of multicolor
That rivals the most prized roses
And wildflower fields.
I like to drive fast
Through this highway
That cuts through the National Forest
But not this week at all
Instead I feel that desperate tug
In my heart
The longing for the ticking clock
To stop
So I can dance away a little longer
In my mind
Marveling about
How nothing on earth
Can truly be said
To be
Ordinary, or
How the highest tips of those branches
Make me think of the life that
Exists underground
How the most vital of animals
Have the simplest anatomy
I wonder if their little bodies can feel
The fall
Of a million
Copper-colored leaves
Blanketing their home
As I sit here wishing, hoping
That winter won't last too long
–Frances Denise
⚘
BLUE MONDAY
Freezing rain pings the living room window.
The glass numbing the tips of my fingers,
I watch the mailman stuff envelopes in the mailbox.
The Christmas tree lays browning at the curb,
and Douglas fir needles still ramble up the vacuum cleaner.
I slide into my rubber bottom slippers, punch my cold,
dry hands into the sleeves of my sweater, drab gray and comfy.
I slip on the driveway, catch myself against the wet car
soaking the left side of my flannel leggings.
I pull several letters from the box and slide back to the house.
It’s been three weeks since the most wonderful time of year.
The treadmill already gathering dust, the car needs new tires,
and the credit card statement reminds me that today is not.
I toss bills on the kitchen table, grab a bag of chips,
and binge watch Netflix.
–Chris Wood
⚘
BOREDOM WITHOUT WANT
Driven by the purity of the gradient.
The transition from
misery to bliss.
The cycle between
agony, and ecstasy,
so much that medium,
middle
felt like pain,
but true pain
felt like potential.
–Brandon Thorpe
⚘
WHEELS THAT SPIN
Nothing is nowhere
And that's why yellow flowers
Become yesterday.
Every waking hour,
The very wise find humor
In the complications of wheels that spin
And thus the simple poetry of clowns in love.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
A JAR FULL OF MEMORY
After each harvest, after
shucking piles of cobs,
scraping them clean of kernels,
creaming the corn for canning,
and lining the shelves
with jars shaded a soft yellow,
I’m pulled back to the patch
behind my childhood home
in Kentucky, weaving toward its center –
Swaying stalks serenade
as tassels seed their silks. Grackles harmonize
with the long, rustling leaves while bees
gather pollen-grains from spikelet flowers,
blowing kisses to each strand
between husk and ear.
My hiding place
in late summer just before school bells ring,
a new year, a grade higher.
At the opening of each jar,
when I pour the sweet maize into a pot,
I am taken back to those moments
when the dogeared leaves listened
to my confessions and schoolgirl dreams
as I watch the slow bubble of heat.
–Chris Wood
⚘
PETALS
A little girl with pleading eyes
She tugged at my sleeve
She said:
“I'll show you where we died
So we can be alive"
--
You'll find white petals
In every secret place
I buried me
There was no ceremony
No candles
Only a breeze
A sigh caught in my throat
For every second
I unmet me
The most painful thing
I've ever done
Is also the bravest
I took my own hand
We walked through the cemetery
Remembering
Me
Nine months of letting go
Of all the things that
Swallowed me
How I always prayed for summer
Forgetting it was the fall that
Truly stirred me
–Frances Denise
⚘
TRANQUIL CASCADES
High up in the mountains
I see clusters of green berets,
Liquid orange without rinds,
Flaming red with cold fire,
Golden yellow without peel,
Scarlet without fever,
And soft brown
That has been caressed
By the warmth of the sun.
All falling in tranquil cascades
As earth welcomes them
With outstretched arms.
–Angelia Ross, from Shadows of the Heart
⚘
TIMELESS EYES AND THE MECHANICS OF FATE
Yesterday's waste of timeless eyes shall so
Be the origin of sleepless knowledge of
The fate of love's bliss under white daylight.
A kindness thoughtfully returned for gas money
And the grievances of disenchanted saints
Who bark and growl at the bloodied roses.
Yes, Destruction's pale hands will touch with flames
The virgin sky and spawn the sweet plague from
The curse that electric imagination allows.
In my heart, the Phoenix arises from the black earth
And Mister God promises no more bombs after
Tomorrow's homage. The timeless eyes will
Shine and the day of radiation shall pass
With the silence of meek prayer.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
ALMOST MAGICAL
The sun slowly departs
At the end of the day,
Washing the forests
And countryside,
In shades of rose, sepia and gold,
Making them feel peaceful –
Almost magical.
–Angelia Ross, from Shadows of the Heart
⚘
MAGIC EYE
This May looks like a Magic Eye.
The hillside is a verdant jumble
of patterns I can’t decrypt.
Mallow melts into pin cherry saplings,
the long leaves of a short pawpaw rest
on a thicket of adolescent ironweed.
There are ten thousand breeds
of green here, and when I pause,
I spy in their tessellations
ten thousand cicadas too,
calling from under glassine coats
and rich amber architectures.
–Flossie Hedges
⚘
GREEN, UNBENT
Green chose him first:
not the balloon, but the spell inside it,
a straight reed of breath summoned from rubber and air,
a wand disguised as play.
He refused the menagerie,
as toddlers do, sure in his wanting.
No twisting into butterflies or swords, no clever shapes,
only a single stem of sky—green, unbent,
as if he already knew magic needs no ornament.
We laughed, but acquiesced,
his mother glancing over in her mirth,
wrapped in her cloak of mentor, of friend,
vines of ivy tying us together.
He lifted it high,
and the market bent, stalls dissolving into meadow.
“Miss Micktoria!” he cried,
chasing me through bushels of bread and basil,
his joy striking like lightning made gentle.
Green is no single shade:
it is the pulse beneath bark, the river’s secret murmur,
the halo around seeds that dare the dark to split.
It is the certainty of knowing that
I have been chosen for the geography of me.
It is his mother’s patience,
a language older than stone,
teaching me to grow toward myself,
that it is never too late to bloom.
And when he pressed that balloon
against my ribs,
I swear I felt the world root deeper,
the cosmos tilt toward wholeness.
Green:
not color
but covenant.
–Victoria Sexton
⚘
DUSTY BLUE
Picked out an ocean dress at the edge of a desert town
To prove a smile comes after every frown
Then snuck into the dressing room
Where subtle beauty’s known to bloom.
It clung gently to her fragile shoulders
Like snow on Rocky Mountain boulders
And met the edge of her curly hair
Alongside her window seat stare.
Dusty Blue, you’re just too true
For this artificial city
Where people pass their pity
From one vague cause to another.
Hung her ocean dress back on the rack from which it came
To show she made decisions frame by frame
Then ran out to the springtime air
Where sunlight kissed her curly hair.
Dusty Blue, you’re just too new
For this ancient has-been city
Where people think they’re witty
For saying no one’s special.
But Dusty Blue, stay you
‘Cause you’re true and new and special,
And if I may affirm your first best guess,
You look perfect in that ocean dress.
–Sam Hendrian
⚘
ET IN ARCADIA EGO
If we were presented two options,
in the void before existence
between a safe painless life
where nothing bad will happen,
where we don't miss anything
since we never experienced it in
the first place, a life with no
context, or the Full Experience.
You will love deeply and
suffer greatly. You'll experience
every form of joy, boredom, insanity
sorrow, but also the extremes
of love and friendship.
I think all of us would pick
option B.
“I'm sure I'll regret it at
times, but I want a real life"
You'll be floored when you see the
shocking plot resolutions,
smiling compulsively, lashes
caked together with drying tears
from only moments before,
breathlessly watching the finale
and you realize
the flowers you picked as a child
look like they have little faces
and the clouds
look like animals again.
–Brandon Thorpe
⚘
UNRAVELING
i prayed for a softer love,
one that glowed
greener
held the emerald world
within oceans of light –
reflected – refracted –
bathing every being
in the beauty
of the sky.
*
again i dreamt of a shopkeeper –
a young man with a thin face
who survived the war.
he sold me a robe, red
and gold, and two sizes
too big – though his presence
didn’t make any sense
because
as far as i could tell there
was no way for him
to get here, to get out
of the death trap that
had been set for him and yet
somehow he did.
*
she spoke of love letters –
cursive in the clouds
carved out like castles
made to house the mystery,
interpret the memory
as shifting shapes of thirteen
ever-changing moons
speak for gravity –
keep track of the clock and
a close watch
upon the rising
of the tide.
*
he has appeared a few
times before, but
in other forms.
i can’t recall them all;
however, in one way
or another, he
has always been a guide.
*
my purpose is to witness
through the portal
of the monolith
and eventually conclude
that the only way to see
the truth is to look behind
your own eyes and view
the stars –
piercing pinholes – from afar –
in the shrinking shroud,
unraveling
the dark.
–the dithyrambler, from THE STRANGERS
⚘
LOVE THY NEIGHBOR
Love thy neighbor as thyself.
It's not just to love thy neighbor
next door or immediate family,
but everyone.
To love isn't to see the wealthy
as more important than the homeless,
it’s to see them equal. To love is to give
to those who need it; if you have
nothing to give, give prayer
and give that even when
you have so much to give.
Love is to care for animals
and care for their feelings as you would
a dear friend. Love is to not judge but
to understand we all have our battles
and pray for strength for them
as you would yourself. Love is
to respect the trees, the waters
and all the earth.
As we do this journey through life,
share love as Christ showed us love.
For that I'm forever grateful.
–Trinity Smith
⚘
FOR WE ARE A SYMPHONY
i don’t know how to narrate my life
in a way that makes sense –
i rely on verse
rhythm
metaphor
to create a mood, an image, a feeling –
a flicker in the mind that holds some sense
of the familiar.
after all isn’t everything
simple speculation? for the
things i know are too nebulous
to touch.
once again i’ve
lost the plot but the point is i’m
still here, trying. here
are words – i am
writing
and i live for the hope
that they will mean something
to someone.
anyone.
i have ceased to be possessive
of creation – for none of it
is mine alone. i am the sum
of all experience and circumstance.
spirit held my hand, led me through
the never-ending maze and made
me into everything i am.
the right words come when i am quiet
and listening
(rather than thinking)
to the small voice that lives
in the lamplight of the soul.
the wisdom that resounds
from dead center, the heart
of the matter. the future sunrise
felt from the present moment.
from now on i don’t ask how to write well,
according to any professor or blasphemous
book of rules.
language is stifled when kept rigid
because language is life, fluid
like water, and all voices
are meant to resonate
together –
for we are a symphony.
–the dithyrambler
⚘
*THE HARMONY OF THE RAINBOW*
I am color, I am light, a spectrum unfurled,
A tapestry of emotions, painting the world.
From the deepest shadows to the brightest ray,
I am the language of feelings, come what may.
Scarlet, the rage of a heart ablaze,
A battle cry, in passion's maze.
*Crimson*, a deeper, burning desire,
Fueling ambitions, setting souls afire.
Burgundy, the ache of unspoken desire,
A yearning touch, setting souls afire.
*Oxblood*, a memory of past love's sting,
A bittersweet echo, the heart remembers to sing.
Amber, the nostalgia of golden years,
Whispers of love, drying unshed tears.
*Gold*, the promise of a future so bright,
A beacon of hope, guiding through the night.
Tangerine, the zest for life's sweet game,
Adventure's call, igniting the flame.
*Coral*, a playful spirit, light and free,
Dancing through life with glee.
Saffron, the bliss of a sunlit morn,
Gratitude's warmth, a spirit reborn.
*Mustard*, a subtle joy, cozy and warm,
A gentle reminder to weather life's storm.
Lemon, the wit that dances on the tongue,
Playful banter, where laughter is flung.
*Chartreuse*, a quirky humor, sharp and keen,
A spark of mischief, rarely seen.
Emerald, the envy that festers deep,
A hidden torment, secrets to keep.
*Forest*, the grounding of nature's embrace,
A sense of peace, finding its place.
Teal, the calm of a tranquil sea,
Reflection's solace, setting spirits free.
*Turquoise*, a refreshing splash, serene and clear,
Washing away worries, calming all fear.
Azure, the freedom of endless skies,
Hope's gentle promise, in our tear-filled eyes.
*Sky blue*, the innocence of a new day,
A clean slate, inviting us to play.
Sapphire, the loyalty that stands the test,
A bond unbreakable, truly blessed.
*Indigo*, a deep devotion, strong and true,
A steadfast commitment, shining anew.
Amethyst, the intuition that guides our way,
Mystical insights, come what may.
*Lilac*, a gentle wisdom, soft and kind,
A guiding light, for heart and mind.
Lavender, the sorrow of fading dreams,
A gentle melancholy, like moonlit streams.
*Periwinkle*, a dreamy escape, ethereal and light,
Whispering secrets in the still of the night.
Like notes in a chord, each hue plays its part,
Creating a symphony within the heart.
Scarlet's passion blends with azure's hope,
In sunsets grand, their vibrant colors elope.
Emerald's envy finds balance with saffron's light,
In complex characters, both dark and bright.
When crimson meets oxblood, a love story ignites,
Passion and memory dancing through nights.
Gold intertwined with coral's zest,
Creating a future that's truly blessed.
I am the prism through which life is seen,
A kaleidoscope of moments, serene.
In every shade, a story untold,
A spectrum of feelings, brave and bold.
Like colors merging, our hearts entwine,
In empathy's embrace, our spirits combine.
For in the harmony of light's grand design,
We find our true selves in the color wheel of life, forever entwined.
–Guiliana Noto
⚘
LETTERS OF THE RAINBOW
R is for the color red,
which not only represents love,
but also rage and heartache
when that love has been betrayed.
A is for the color amber,
which is the color of honey,
maple syrup and pine resin.
I is for the color of indigo,
which is a dark shade of blue
and the color of a Bunting bird,
whose song is a joy to hear.
N is for the color neon fuchsia,
which is a pinkish reddish hue
that points the way to eateries,
pubs or entertainment
in the big cities.
B is for the color black,
which is the color of an abyss
that one is pulled into
when fear, anxiety and hopelessness invades their life.
O is for the color orange,
a color which comes into existence
when red and yellow form
a permanent partnership.
It is also the color
of the yummy outer shell
of a creamsicle.
W is for the wild orchid,
one of which is the beautiful
and dainty lady's slipper.
Once the yellow, pink and white
blossoms were easily found
in the woods,
but because of their medicinal
purposes,
they were harvested to
near extinction,
now to see one is a rare treat.
R-A-I-N-B-O-W spells rainbow,
which is a beautiful arch of color
that can be seen across the sky
after a rain shower,
but only if the sun hits
the water droplets just right.
–Angelia Ross
⚘
A LETTER FROM THE END OF THE WORLD
after Toyofumi Ogura
well, my love – it’s the end
of the world and all i can say
for sure is that you’re still
beautiful – while
i never stop
grinding my teeth never stop
wrinkling my forehead
never stop noticing
dark circles under my eyes.
do you understand what’s
been stolen from us?
do you see the real healers –
the realized humans out
there in the sunlight?
look through the bars
on the window. gaze upon
the last remaining sliver
of truth – that proves
we were not crazy to believe
we are more than what we’ve
been reduced to –
you – fellow prisoner
must learn to recognize:
the walls you were instructed
to build
exist within
your own mind –
the place where you’ve
been colonized
and your reality
contrived
by machines that run
on genocide –
let go of your pride!
you’ve been trained to feed
your ego at the expense
of your soul. pavlov’s dog –
you are borrowed light
cloaked in shadow.
yet you hold the key.
find it in your mind.
take it. turn it.
set yourself
free –
–the dithyrambler, from a trick of the light
With endless love & gratitude,
