This poem is quite special to me. I’ve really enjoyed writing and editing it, as well as reading it at poetry clubs and open mic establishments, where it’s been warmly received. It’s also the first poem I’ve ever written that contains a preface. I thought it needed an introduction to set it apart from the poem proper.
Preface
Fresh graffiti
on a blank canvas
called Life.
We’re all artists,
seeking to survive,
trading in guns and knives
for tongues of spray paint,
battling sharp tongues
for space to sign our names,
buying us some time
for colors to dry.
PART I
The most possessive
of all creatures.
Red, yellow and blue,
and everything in-between,
infused the Garden
with everything
that could be seen;
ravenous eyes
that drank in
the celestial light
of sun by day
and moon by night.
Red,
the most passionate of all,
started the first brush fire
with the spark of an apple
that stained Adam and Eve’s
fingertips.
With one small bite
the curtain of purity
was pulled back,
postponing the engagement
and exposing cracked lips.
A darker hue,
spawning passion and sin,
slithered into Abel’s tent,
leaving a crimson trail;
the beginning of the end,
the snake eating its own tail.
Cane’s forked tongue
hardened over the years
as the history of violence ensued,
culminating into spikes
and a long spear
that pierced the heart of Innocence,
crucifying heaven’s Brood,
and drained Israel and Palestine
of a bitter blood feud.
The end of the beginning,
no longer a curse
but a Celebration of Life,
covered in pink amniotic fluid.
How much sweeter
the breath of everlasting life
that emanated
from this red-colored fluid?
PART II
Yellow,
the most promiscuous of all,
paints a prolific picture
of bees, butterflies and birds,
attracting flamboyant friends
on the grass
by the schoolyard,
a posse of pollinators
and preachers of reproduction
(plants and flowers),
ecosystem guardians
with miracles
for wings
that dance and sing
a playful tune.
The delicate balance of nature
and the fate of our children’s future
at stake,
nostalgic games
like hide-and-seek
that make great memories gold
and gold memories great.
Amber, sap and honey
enchant us with their
holistic healing powers
like dandelions
harvested in full bloom—
valedictorians of biodiversity—
sewn into the multidimensional fiber
of every poet’s soul,
wizards of nature
plucked from the Shire.
It’s also the most paradoxical of all
like a gay guitar without strings
or a caged canary
that belches instead of sings
or the tale of a cowardly lion,
looking for a brave heart,
or a broken sundial
that brags about telling time
but fails a simple eye chart.
Yellow reminds us
to stay in our lanes
and like a cold beverage
at the end of a long day,
it’s always glad we came.
It’s the crown and currency
of a monarch
and the bitter taste
of an authoritarian empire.
It’s the penultimate stage
of a contusion
and the pungent smell
of a soaked diaper.
It’s “highlights” at the end
of an endless summer
and the burgeoning light
of Rome,
awakening the statue
of Saint Peter.
It’s the middle
of every reggae song
and the divine spark,
handsome and tall,
from the beginning
of creation
that started it all.
It’s the trumpet
that heralded the Savior
and the straw
laid in the manger.
It’s the dichotomy between
the caution tape
around a boarded-up room
of painful memories
and children playing,
carelessly,
in piles of raked leaves.
It saturates the Egyptian pyramids,
terrestrial monuments
of yellow sweat and stone.
The Great Giza Triangle below
hungers for the heavenly
monument above
like a dog licking a bone,
the other half
of the hourglass puzzle,
a lemon sun strung up
by a cloud in the sky;
a divine sunset
to bid the day goodbye.
PART III
Blue,
the bravest of all,
irons the uniforms
of the ones
we come to call
to “protect and serve”
single working mothers
in the ghetto
with bars on her windows
terrorized by the “bang-bang” sound
of notorious gangs
that take what they think
they deserve.
Open your eyes.
See the bioluminescence,
ascending rhythmically
up,
up
from the abyss
or God’s firework show
descending hazily
down,
down
in dancing waves
of lingering light,
the Holy Grail
of sky watching,
the aurora borealis,
the northern lights.
Now close your eyes.
Listen to the sound
of cerulean,
the soft echo
that guides the path
of the free bird.
It’s all the courage you need
to inspire you to glory
and push the boundaries
that hold you back.
It’s the space
between you and the ground
when you’ve ollied a “ten-stair.”
Scoffers beware
of the oracle:
“Excuses are another name
for self-made bruises
that leave you colorblind
to see the warn lyrics
to your own broken record.”
Listen again if you didn’t hear
the voice of God
the first time.
Put down the blue screen
and consult the chlorophyll
within creation;
read one or two lines
of natural theology
written for skeptics
like you and me.
Distractions
are irrational numbers
that steer you
in the opposite direction
of your destination,
mesmerizing you
with a kaleidoscope
of unpredictable colors
and sensations.
In the Himalayas,
it’s widely rumored
and habitually said,
“The color
of love frozen
is an irreverent shade
of icy blue.
“It’s a pulse seduced
by the darkness of indigo;
a heart holding on by a thread.
“Still there’s so much
more this pigment can do.
“Come see for yourself
the statues of lovers
spurned and burned
by the kiss of frostbite.
“Where not even
the rarity of a blue moon
escapes the howl
of a wolf by night.
“Icicles of rejection
are shrapnel in the heart.
“A cold shoulder in a blizzard
is a good place to start.
“The only way to dethaw
our frozen friends
is to go back
to the beginning
and add
a touch of red.”