Colors Passing Through Us

Native Colors

Colors Passing Through Us

BY MARGE PIERCY
Purple as tulips in May, mauve
into lush velvet, purple
as the stain blackberries leave
on the lips, on the hands,
the purple of ripe grapes
sunlit and warm as flesh.

Every day I will give you a color,
like a new flower in a bud vase
on your desk. Every day
I will paint you, as women
color each other with henna
on hands and on feet.

Red as henna, as cinnamon,
as coals after the fire is banked,
the cardinal in the feeder,
the roses tumbling on the arbor
their weight bending the wood
the red of the syrup I make from petals.

Orange as the perfumed fruit
hanging their globes on the glossy tree,
orange as pumpkins in the field,
orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs
who come to eat it, orange as my
cat running lithe through the high grass.

Yellow as a goat’s wise and wicked eyes,
yellow as a hill of daffodils,
yellow as dandelions by the highway,
yellow as butter and egg yolks,
yellow as a school bus stopping you,
yellow as a slicker in a downpour.

Here is my bouquet, here is a sing
song of all the things you make
me think of, here is oblique
praise for the height and depth
of you and the width too.
Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.

Green as mint jelly, green
as a frog on a lily pad twanging,
the green of cos lettuce upright
about to bolt into opulent towers,
green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear
glass, green as wine bottles.

Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,
bachelors’ buttons. Blue as Roquefort,
blue as Saga. Blue as still water.
Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.
Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring
azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.

Cobalt as the midnight sky
when day has gone without a trace
and we lie in each other’s arms
eyes shut and fingers open
and all the colors of the world
pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

The Poetry of Max Meunier: The Silence of Forever

my spirit longs to be the stars that fill your sky my heart would shine reflections of its truth to lift you up into a realm where solace sings redemption that once you laid upon me by the mercy of your kiss but even vigilance has lost its vested path these broken roads no longer […]

via The Silence of Forever — Max Meunier

The Corpses of Trees


The Corpses of Trees 

by Michele Habel-Coffey

There is but smoke again. Only the embers of the McDonalds bags and the exoskeleton of a box of wine remain, glowing. The sun sets on another day.

Eveything is soaked. Wet, grey and cold are draped overarchingly, with raised white eyebrows. They watch. They remember.

I need the fire today. The scent of smoke from one of God’s creations burning. I won’t change my shirt before bed. The corpses of trees smell like home.

The smoke belches forth in a pushing plume of white and grey – but cold doesn’t claim the tattered shell of the coalminer’s hand-crafted fire box. His welded workings fence the flames. The smoke gives way and the flames rise, but do not sprawl. The forest smiles. Today I am thankful for the man’s box.

With my winter-white hand I push down on the last of the Christmas tree branches and just after I am safety distant, a fire bursts to life.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

The Christmas tree is burning. And the fragrant scent of pagans rides the wind.

Deep bow. Day One.

Sage Rising

Sage Rising

By Michele Habel-Coffey

nativeprayer

They will inherit the Homes

And The Farm

They will inherit jewels

And the wealth of generations,

Of Miners,

And Marauders,

Of Rosie’s rivets

And Cleopatra’s flight,

Of a Lion,

And a Lamb,

And the Artist’s left hand,

But dollars do not

Make a good cloth for washing

And love’s apple

Tastes better than apathy’s bible

Just so.

I am but a reflection of their light.

I am a smokey sage

carrying prayers to the Heavens

Bartering that for them,

Darkness be never more

than a canvas for the stars.