Royalty (Color Poem 7)

Royalty

     Purple

When the others whisper about the past,

they remind me I am nothing but a weed.

From where we’ve spread,

I can almost see the old garden

filled with flowers

and the most ethereal are

     the purple tulips

     toad lilies

     meadow rue

     lilac and

     violets.

                     I am younger than the other weeds

                     and I do not understand

                     why we are chopped down

                         stepped on

                     not treated with the care the flowers receive.

                     We are the same color,

                     why can’t we be treated with the same care?

                               They say we are pushed out because we wanted to spread,

                               that we thought if there were more of us,

                               one day we might also be treated with love.

                               But our roots spread too far,

                               and now none of us reach even the edges of the garden.

                               Every year, the roots are all that remain,

                               chopped down to return again the next year.

     We prepare for the day

     that the roaring

          and chopping

          and cutting

          and chattering

     of the weed eater

     tears us apart again.

                                                                                        But this time, the roaring doesn’t come.

                                                                                        All we see is a shadow,

                                                                                        a tall, human shadow,

                                                                                        and then a pale hand and a kind face.

“You’re pretty,”

she says.

Her voice is light,

tinkling like a small bell,

and in her bright smile we know

that finally someone sees us

as more than a mass of

weeds.

Falling Together (Color Poem 6)

Falling Together

     Green

There is a tickle in my vein

and a pulling in my stem.

I cling

     to my tree,

          my home,

the strong, moss-covered branch

where I have grown.

Below, I see a girl

   her legs bouncing,

   wringing her hands,

   staring at a white rectangle

   beside her.

Again, I feel the pulling,

the gentle but assertive caress

of the wind, like the fingers of a small child,

plucking me from the tree as they would

a berry from beside me.

I hold on still

and I watch

and she pulls out something silver

   shining

from her pocket.

     Opening it,

     closing it,

     glancing down

     as if to open it again,

     shoving it back into the pocket.

The wind pulls once more

and I can’t hold on.

So I

     fall

            down,

         drifting,

    further,

and land on top of the white rectangle,

covered in black scribbles.

The girl’s small hands

lift me and she stares, before

looking up with wide eyes

at the sound of footsteps.

Her legs are no longer bouncing and

I see someone else

in her line of sight

and the last thing I see is her smile

like a light from a star in the darkness

closing in before

I am gone.

Pink (Color Poem 5)

Pink

     Pink

he is supposed to be here
     i think
the random words
     what am i even talking about
words pouring out of my mouth
to my friends don't register
because my stomach is spinning
like the wheels of a truck stuck in mud
because

he is supposed to be here
     i know
i am wearing a new dress because today
is his birthday and i know
he is supposed to be here
     but he isn't
and my arms wrap around my middle

as my friends’ conversation

     like the murmurs of talking while asleep

rolls along with the rolling of my stomach

     but my stomach stops rolling
     the tires halt
     and reverse
     slowly rolling in the opposite direction
     back down a hill
     then faster
     picking up speed
     because

he is here now
     i see
and my friends move on to talk to other friends
and i move on to talk to other friends
as the room jumbles like schools of fish swimming through each other
and i try to ignore the yanking urge i feel
to look around the room
     just for a second
and see what he is doing
     and i don't ignore it
     and i look
and

he is looking at me
     i feel
the area under each of my pores
     from my hairline
     to my earlobes
     to my collarbone
     to my shoulders
warms like a marshmallow over an open flame
as his deep
     chocolatey
eyes meet mine.

And I stop.

Taking in a deep breath of air,

I look away,

back to the friends in front of me.

Then, with a sigh,

I start a new conversation,

refusing to look around again,

because

I don’t want him to know

     why I’m pink.

Lemons (Color Poem 4)

Lemons
     Yellow

My hands shake as

I nervously flip the notepad.

“Lemonade,”

the blonde murmurs.

“Just a glass of lemonade.”

She doesn’t meet my eyes,

only stares

at the glinting glass table in front of her.

I wonder if it is normal

to order lemonade so early.

Do we even sell lemonade

this early?

I carefully bring out her drink,

the first order I’ve taken,

noticing the shining sunrise

beaming through the window

causing the white daffodils to appear tinted yellow

- similar to the yellow of the lemon

wedged on the glass in my hands.

“Anything else?”

I ask.

I place the lemonade in front of her.

She shakes her head and still stares as

the sun continues to rise

and the object of her attention

that I hadn’t noticed before

reflects enough light to draw my eye:

a small, diamond-clad band,

lying alone on the table.

Music and Morality (Color Poem 3)

Music and Morality

     Black and White

My fingers slip along the keys

in front of me.

Smooth, and yet

my hands

trail salty, sticky sweat

on each key I trace.

People are looking at me –

people I know

and people I don’t.

          Anxiety;

I imagine the black pupils

and whites of their eyes

like the keys of the piano,

ebony and ivory.

     No.

          Focus;

I have to focus.

The keys under my skin are separate

like angels dressed in white robes

lying parallel to devils

smothered in black feathers.

I see them bicker as I hear

the tinkling chords hammered down,

painting the world

          in black and white,

          up and down,

          right and wrong.

Every breath I take in

is like a shudder from my core.

I feel my body reverberate

with the same vibration

emanating from each of the strings.

           Wrong.

               Not disconnected.

     Yes,

the music is made with the blend

of obsidian and cream.

Everything around me blurs,

from the stage to the rafters overhead,

and I am finally pulled

into the melody my fingers are conducting.

Even the lines between the keys

blur and I can no longer feel

the eyes trained on me

or the white, stage light on my back.

Black and white becomes grey –

          grey like the sky after it rains,

          grey like the old, silent movies in the 20’s

          before technology could handle the world in full color.

And the greyer the keys become,

the more clearly my music resonates

     within me.

Worth (Color Poem 2)

Worth

     Gold

My eyes scan the room

as I step onto the scale

that will decide

my worth and my home.

The flashing numbers on the scale

blur together as the man,

the auctioneer,

beside me

stares at them increasing.

And they stop.

One-hundred-ten

the numbers displayed.

A pound of gold is two-thousand dollars,

so one-hundred-ten two-thousands

is two-hundred-twenty-thousand.

It isn’t much.

The golden numbers are projected

on a screen behind me

for the men and women watching

to see my worth.

I take a deep breath.

This is completely necessary,

     mother had told me.

We need the money to keep living,

     father had explained.

One-hundred-ten.

With barely anything to feed

me, my weight is low.

Most of the others on scales

were at least two-hundred.

But it fits.

My family only sees me as a means

to an end.

The faces come into focus,

some with shining, golden teeth

in their smiles,

   their smirks,

      their sneers,

and they seem satisfied with the low price.

And I know that,

to them and my family,

I am worth my weight in gold.

Alone (Color Poem 1)

Alone

     Red

The edges of the grass prickle

my skin through the crimson, plaid

blanket. I pry open the small basket

mother gave me to pull out a

     single

plump strawberry.

I am too young to understand

the pitied expressions dancing

across the faces of the family

sitting to my left

and the plump couple

crouched in front of me.

I smile and shoo them away,

happy with my treat,

and I take my first bite.

The juice splashes and squirts,

a drop dripping free,

staining my white skirt

     red,

the spot like a tear of blood

   by itself

in a field of snow.

Color Poem Series

Over the next week, I will be posting the first seven poems, out of eight, in the portfolio I made for my poetry class. Each poem is based on a color, and whatever I decided to associate with the color at that point in time. The original draft of one, "Black and White" (now "Music and Morality") is already on here. Each day, I will post the next one. These poems can stand on their own, but there is a - very out-there, slightly dystopian - story-line that you can follow through the poems if you try.

I will not be posting the eighth, and final, poem "Prism." It is extremely personal. And directly pulled from my life. And if certain people were to find this blog, my only secret would then be exposed to the few people that don't already know it. And I will not have that. Plus, even if the people already know, it is embarrassing. I only wrote it because it was on my mind and I couldn't distract myself from... the situation at hand.

So I wrote a poem about it.

And I will never share it. Legit.

Thank you for your time!

C. E. Taylor

Bad Poetry

So I was about to post my second poem for my creative writing class this semester, and then I realized that people I know read this, and it's embarrassing. Like, most of my poems are embarrassing because they are bad, but this one is bad AND really personal. And recent. And a glimpse inside my soul that people who know about the situation just can't see yet. Or I may hyperventilate and die. So maybe, one day, I'll be able to post it. One day.

I'll tell you the title. It is called "Pink." Yeah. Life.

Have a nice day.

Black and White

Black and White


    My fingers slip along the keys
of the piano in front of me. Smooth;
they are smooth, and yet
the perspiration on my hands
creates a trail of sticky, sweet sweat
on each and every key my fingers trace.
People are looking at me -
people I know and people I don’t.
         Anxiety;
the black pupils
and whites of their eyes
distract me with their contrast -
the same as that of the keys in front of me.
    No.
         Focus;
I have to focus.
As my fingers slide
from black to white,
I can feel the strings under the ebony surface
get plucked, one by one.
I have to ignore the eyes,
their colors like a white angel
against a black one on my shoulders,
painting the entire world around me
         in black and white,
         right and wrong,
         up and down.
Every breath I take
is like a shudder from my core, and
I feel my body reverberate
with the same ‘pluck’
that causes each string of the piano to create music.
But a single pluck alone isn’t enough
to make the song. No,
the song comes from the mix
of black and white.
The gleaming eyes around me blur
as I am finally pulled
into the melody my fingers are conducting,
and the keys do the same -
I can no longer feel
the heat of the bright, yellow light on my back.
Black and white becomes grey -
         grey like the sky after it rains,
         grey like my mother’s kind eyes,
         grey like those old movies
before technology could handle the world in full color.
And the more grey the keys become,
the more clearly my music resonates
    within me.

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Look! I posted something! Somehow, I actually like this poem. Probably because I wrote it as a paragraph and then split it up. So, while I was writing it, it was technically prose. But really. It is kind of cool. What is this? Me liking poetry I wrote? Nonsense. The world must be coming to an end. But anyway, I've been very enveloped in Yu Yu Hakusho fan fiction. You should go to my fan fiction profile and read it. I update it every Saturday.

Shameless advertisement is shameless

Little People

Little People

It was night when she heard them,

but never were they seen:

the little people, running around,

running in the ceiling.

Pittering,

   pattering,

      chittering,

         chattering.

“Mice,” her mother suggested,

but never found one mouse.

“Perhaps the wind,” was her next guess,

but the girl heard them on windless nights.

“Calm down sweetie,” her mother would say,

“It is nothing more than rain.”

But what about the nights with no storms?

Pittering,

   pattering,

      chittering,

         chattering.

Under the covers she went,

hiding herself away,

from

not mice,

not wind,

not rain.

Pittering,

   pattering,

      chittering,

         chattering.

Night after night,

once she was in bed,

she heard them return,

never peeking out her head -

and wanted nothing more than to escape.

Language of the Ocean

Language of the Ocean

The amber sun sets, radiating light

   off of the crisp waves crashing

      to the shore, disturbing

         the sand. A woman with

flowing black hair sat in those sands,

   eyes closed, wind tousling her

      clothes.

         It was going to be dark soon

and she needed to return home.

   No matter the bubbling elation she

      felt when she spotted a baby

sand crab running across the shore

   in front of her, trying to reach the ocean,

      other creatures came during the night

         on the beach as well.

Her name was Ren, and she

   was named for the ocean. Never

      had she known anyone with an affinity

         for the ocean quite like hers.

      The ocean brought Ren peace and

filled her with calm,

   with the crashing,

      pushing,

         pulling,

            swishing,

of the waves, the sweet, salty wind,

   the sting of the sand on her skin.

She was born in a hut near

   this beach to a mother with no man

      to look after her. With a father, would

she have connected so easily

   to the entity that was the ocean?

      The sun continued to sink behind

         the salty abyss and Ren knew it was

past time to head home. Rising, brushing off the

   excess sand on her legs, and turning

      towards the east, she began her venture.

          Spots on the sand reflected what was left

of the sunset and she wished nothing more than to capture

   the rainbow spectrum shining from the ground

      like an illusion one might see walking

         through a desert with no water.

            Moving on, certain she would be able

to see that spectrum of light again one day,

   she reluctantly sped up her pace.

Walking further and further, she was

   disheartened with every clear blob, like

      a slab of jelly, stuck in the sand.

        

         But then something else,

            something new, came into view.

               Ren had never seen a beached whale,

a beached shark, or any other creature of a similar nature

   in person. A small figure, not even the length of

      an adult forearm, was wriggling in the hot sand.

         Ren knelt down beside it.

            The creature was none other than

a baby shark.

   Ren had always known the ocean can

      speak to us

         with waves and

            with sand,

through the creatures she can send our way.

   She doesn’t speak our language,

      but instead uses one similar to that of human body language.

         Ren could always understand.

The tossing, turning ocean can be cruel,

   cruel to her subjects,

      cruel to her visitors.

She spits beasts left and right

   to be devoured by the crisp sand

      and dried by the burning sun.

Why would she do this?

   Ren wondered.

      Had her creatures wronged her?

Beached whales, stranded sharks,

   fishermen reeling in dinner –

      all causing the loss of her population –

         no matter their age or heritage.

            The ocean can’t discriminate.

Ren toiled away to save this baby

   shark, trying time and time again to throw it into the

      ocean, but he kept returning,

         he continued to be rejected.

She tossed him in one last time,

   throwing him as far as her scrawny arms

      could muster.

         She wanted to believe that she succeeded,

that the baby was saved. The last time

   she threw it, she hadn’t spotted it

      again, but it had been returned to the shore

   so many times that she wondered if it

      really had done something wrong,

something offensive to the rest of the critters in the waters.

   But still, as she trudged through the dark,

      through the sand,

         she was calmed again by

      the unpredictability yet

         complete

certainty of the water and its tides,

   even if that certainty is not so

      certain.