Times When the Colors Were All I Knew

I could taste the blue, the chilly sweet crispness, like a fall morning fresh off of summer.

I gasped for breath as the purple enveloped me; I could feel it from my toes to my middle to my neck, then over my head and into my mouth and covering my eyes until the only thing I could feel or taste or see or be...was violet.

With the flavor of the red sky still upon my tongue, I closed my eyes and dreamed of warnings.

If I Could

If I had a way of studying your mind
just as you study your textbooks,
I would study your every move
until I could ace the test in my sleep.
If I had a way of helping myself
just as fully as you help others,
I would help myself to you.
If I had a way of making you laugh
just as you make me laugh,
you would gasp for want of breath.
If I had a way of letting you know
just exactly how much you mean to me,
I would do exactly that.
If I had a way of gliding the airwaves
just as you glide the pavement when you run,
I would glide to your ears so that
you could hear me whisper,
"I love you."

Writing on Napkins

We write life meanings on napkins.
And then we wipe our faces on them.

We make a living by what we do.
But we don't always love what we live.

We watch what we say and say what we mean.
Then we question what we think.

The corner is torn, there's a stain on the top;
Still, we cradle our broken parts.

The end gets lost, we don't even look.
Nevertheless, something is there.

While sitting in Philosophy class...

Talk, talk, talk, all the day long.

This dead guy said this, this dead guy said that, and none of it truly affects us anymore. Once upon a time it shook people up, and "happily ever after" has yet to show, but it never will as long as we keep repeating these same ideas. So we lucky students sit here at our desks and listen to the 3-hour drone of voices that are buried in the ground. "Hakuna Matata" will remain my problem-free philosophy, but it's hard to follow when philosophy itself is my biggest problem.

Talk, talk, talk, and the minutes try their hardest to tick by. Once upon a time, I tried my hardest to listen, not just hear but listen, and now my ears refuse even to do the hearing. Comprehension quit me long, long ago, and now my only chance of "happily ever after" is the big hand at the 2 and the little hand at the 4, and the class will be dismissed!

To be finished later

Tick of the clock, 

tock of the clock,

eight o' th' clock,

and off I walk -

to class I go,

to class I go

to learn some 

from the talk -

the talk,

the endless talk

of teachers droning on

Back to Blue

The hottest part of a flame is blue.

The red tip turns into an ombre of orange and yellow, with white at the bottom, hugging the match head. The red runs the rim as the coldest part of the heat, and the white as the hottest.

But truly, "white hot" doesn't cover it as well as it could. Hotter than white hot is blue hot. Past the white, in the center of the match head, there is blue.

Somehow, this holds true for the cold as well.

"Snow white". "Cold as snow". By the transitive property..."Cold as white"?

But truly, the whitest snow is not just white. It glistens and gleams with the clear tint of icy blue.

Blue is whiter than white.

Beyond white is blue.

Somehow, this is true for black, too.

The blackest hair is not just black.

It always has a sheen of blue.

The strands shine bright in the light, reflecting off the blue.

Hot, cold, black, white - it all comes back to blue.

And what is blue?

Peace.

"She is a gatherer"

I.

"She is a gatherer: moonlight, found wishes, moments of gratitude." - Monique Duval

I gather moonlight
at the tip of my toes;
it tingles as it
slides toward my center.
It lights me up
amidst the darkness
and sends waves of coolness
rippling through my body;
I am a deep mere
and the galaxies
reflect in me.
The sheen of the moon
illuminates my pathways
so that I am gently led
into the unknown, and the
instinctual fear of the dark
is lifted.
With the majesty of the moon
at my feet,
and inside,
my gathered llight
can shine beyond my dreams.

II.

"She is a gatherer: moonlight, found wishes, moments of gratitude." - Monique Duval

I gather found wishes

in the space between my breasts,

right beside my heart,

where the beating of my pulse

keeps desire alive.

I store those lost wishes

in the hopes that I 

can give them back

in reality;

a keeper of heart and

a bringer of dreams

I shall be.

I hope that it's known

that wishes only become truth

when released,

and then found,

and they can be increased

sevenfold.

III.

"She is a gatherer: moonlight, found wishes, moments of gratitude." - Monique Duval

I gather moments of gratitude

truly in my heart,

where it fuels my lifeblood

to pump through my body

and circulate through my veins;

it encourages me to carry on,

pass it on,

pass it on.

All individual moments

equal more than 

the sum of their parts,

and the summation of all moments

is beyond measure.

A dream beyond measure,

a hope beyond all hope;

to give all that I have been given

and to feel any more feelings of thanks.

I gather;

I store;

I share;

I am.

She gathers, she stores, she shares, she is.

She is a gatherer;

moonlight, found wishes,

moments of gratitude.