The Color 9


They say we can only see 32 shades of grey, and yet there are over 250 of them around.

Millions of colors and yet to some we are still primaries. Secondaries. A color wheel.

My camera, the extension of my eye, sees the world different than I do. It sees more.

My eye is influenced by sound, by smell. By motion. The camera blinks when told.

Nine points of focus, each one seeking something to hang on to. Zzzzzzzt. Zzzzzzt.

Tripod, arms, truck hood and sometimes a contortionist position is done for it.

I see the colors in the image, and the camera does not. I growl. I take more shots.

Once in editing, I move the scale. Back. Forth. Right Left. More. Less. This. That.

And I see what I didn’t see. The camera, with no discernment, catches it all. All.

The apple tree I wanted was out of focus, because the camera saw the bird fly.

A bird in flight cropped becomes the image, the colors, that I never planned.

The camera sees the lines. The wrinkles. The color 9 that smells of my life. Mmm.

It builds me a treasure box of smiles. Memories of laughter. The colors of sound.

The colors of feeling love. Joy. Excitement. Tension. Joy. Wonder. Awe. All of it.

Colors become the breath between each shot and memory. Color becomes feel.

Color immerses me in sound. Texture. Taste. Memory. More than shades of this.

More than colors of that. It is an impartial eye, preserving like a historian.

It becomes a comedienne.  Laughing at the foibles of memory catching. Caught?


Abhra Pal has us thinking about immersing in color, being inside or being colored on the outside.  Poetics is about how we get colored, and become the colors. Join us for Poetics at dVerse!

Knowledge and knowing

Finding a way between two worlds.

Heart-path and mind-way move.

Ancient ways walk-along to new.

Belted-light beckons in the sky.

Hunter walks in story-world.

Mind-way seeks the why.

Heart-path seeks the who.

A place-between is built,

where talking-stick passes.

In that place of knowledge

and knowing grows the

one thing we all need –



Bjorn has us thinking about kenning, knowing, and poetry today.

Here is my share for this amazing prompt. Why don’t you share your ken with us?

Join in with your own poetry, read some poetry and leave love. ALWAYS leave love.

Where art thou, o Spring!

Freezing Hot by Sunita Khedekar

Our spring colors are grey.

And white. And mud. There!

A flash of blue. Blue jay!


March roared in like a lion.

And stayed. Prowling. Roar!

Cold. Snow. Rain. No spring!


Colors washed, faded, to grey.

Our hearts stay warm. Inside!

Rich reds, blues. Purple. Green!


We so long for green. For color.

Sending love. Up. up. UP!

Spring, come back, we miss you!


Red tail lights under the Trickster Moon.

Coyote laughing. Winter’s last days.

Geese fly ’round in vain. No water here!


Spring, like our hearts, awaits the time.

The time to fly. To bloom. To rise!

Winter holds on tight. Too tight!


Windows stay shuttered. Blind.

I won’t watch it snow again. AGAIN!

Sleet mimics rain. So cruel a tease.


A patch of last year’s grass, dead green.

We stare at it. Does it get bigger? Yet?

Even the horses lust for it. Ache.


I’d trade this piled high white and grey.

Trade it for warm brown. Dusty hues.

Colored pencils become a bouquet.


Red hearts rising from chimneys dark.

Windows closed against the cold.

Spring, we are waiting. Come! Come!


Grace has us working with the lovely, and inspiring art of Sunita, and she did have us talking about spring and colors. Well. WELL! Our spring so far has been 50 shades of grey, and we are lusting for something more. Something green. Something muddy. Something NOT snow. NOT white. NOT grey. Drifts shrink too slowly and the warmth is more a tease than something deeper. I’m sure my poetic counterparts have brighter spring words for you, why don’t you head over and check them out?

Flying Blind


Laying in bed, awoken to a sudden silence.

Darkness thick like a blanket. I can’t see.

My eyelashes brush against the pillow.

They sound loud. Grating. Brittle.

My fingers reach from under the blankets.

Groping slowly, tips flared back from palms.

A cool corded neck brushes my wrist.

The lamp, as cold and dead as a cod.

Down my hand travels. Confident now.

BANG! I forgot what I left there that fell.

Hands pull back and I push myself up.

Feet drop down through cooling air.

The floor comes too soon. OuCh!

The stillness is thick. Breath loud.

The electric hum of our life dead.

There is no silence like it, that

takes our sight on a dark night.



I stand, face to the early spring sun.

So bright I close my eyes to it.

Let my senses tell me about things.

CrEaK! That broken branch rubs

crying a death song in the wind.


Rustle. Thwwwwwwop. Two!

Woodpeckers start the ritual.

Clouds make the air chill,

and my eyelids flutter against

the shadows they throw down.

CrUnCh! cRuNcH! The snow

breaks under dog feet running.

Thssssssssssssssip. Thssssssssssip.

Tires on asphalt covered in melt.

I can almost feel their passing me.



I close my eyes. My fingers seek them.

Two nubs. F and J. The ‘home keys’.

I can type blind, and fast, if they I find.

A new keyboard is slower though.

Why can’t they all be the same?

Waiting for inspiration, eyes closed.

I rub the keys, worn smooth from touch.

Fingers brushing F and J. F and J. Home.

If only I could find a place that felt

that good to the touch. That made sure

my words, and world, made sense.

I can type blind with my homekeys found.

Without them I am flying blind. Making

no sense. No words that matter. A cat

chasing shadows on a keyboard left

unattended, or by a muse gone quiet.



Close your eyes. Don’t make eye contact.

Keep still. Very still. Feel the seeds in your hand.

Listen for them. Twittering. Flying. You can HEAR.

Did you know that? Wings sound so LOUD when you

aren’t looking for them, or counting their beating flight.

I wait, still. Listening. FEELING their approach. Cautious.

The bold chickadee challenges me, but wants the seeds too.

She lands, sharp feet holding tight to my skin. I don’t flinch.

Suddenly a rush of air, hard feathers dust my skin and she’s gone.

A fly by, a feeding bomb done by a woodpecker. I stand, alone. Again.


Brian has us thinking about being blind, or being without sight as we compose poetry for dVerse. So often we use our sight, even in our comments, “I can see that!” but there are other senses that can also convey the story when we lose, close or bind our eyes.  I will try later to do a blind contour drawing to add here. Until then, visit the other amazing poets taking on this challenge!


MicroMacro World


Her body tense, tail twitches softly.
Eyes focus. Not one blink.
Bird watching from
this side of the
window is
for the



Little cat, what do you see?
Birds you don’t catch?
They don’t tempt you
but they do intrigue.
Birdwatcher more than
huntress. Little Po.

I am hosting at dVerse, and for the past two days we have been playing with macro photography, and with micropoetry. I had a hard time choosing from my photos and finding inspiration. Then Po decided to sit next to my computer and bird watch. The light was perfect and she was so still. So here you have a macro of our cat, Po, and micro about her.  

Manifesto: Riding my own broncs

Saddle your own broncs


Riding my own Broncs

I will write. My poetry. My own way. For me. Sometimes, for an audience of one, or maybe none. Sometimes for more. And to them who come to read, to share, I say, “Thank you”

I have written in the dark of the night. Through the tears. Laughing with utter joy. And those times of the greatest hurt awaken my muse to words.

I will keep alive the story telling legacy of the cowboy poets, the romantics. T.S. Eliot the cats. All those who stood at the cross roads and took the road less trod. And those who took the well worn road and made it their own. And those who stood at the cross roads, grabbed a machete, a pack of matches or a strawberry roan bronc and blazed a new trail.

I will respect the muse, and I will also lure, bait, promise and chase her down when the words are shying away. I will ride my own broncs, and ask only that those who also ride to come along on the wide roads, and the narrow mountain trails. We need to write, it is to our spirits the breath of life. I need to write, the words speak to my soul as my eyes see poetry everywhere. My hands feel it. My heart beats for it. I dream it, and will never forsake it.  Like the breath of my beloved, the heartbeat of our child – it is part of me.

I will not succumb to the threats of busy-ness, boredom, harsh critics, lazy readers and those who won’t try to see the poetry that breathes right in front of them.

I am a poet. I will write. I am a poet. I will breathe, bleed and sweat poetry. I am a poet.

Gay has us writing our Manifesto for dVerse. This is mine. Trying to keep it within the criteria given, and yet taking it on my own ride. Come on over!

Recipe to make a poet

Recipe to make a poet:

  • 1 part love of language
  • 2 parts observational skills
  • Equal parts clown, philosopher and quester
  • heaping scoops of curiosity
  • pinch of pain
  • dash of stuff that leaves scars
  • an ounce or ten of the stuff that ‘builds character’
  • level serving of courage

mix in tears and sweat until a soft dough forms

put dough under pressure until it is compact

roll out until thin enough to see the words through

Allow dough to rest and reform to an organic shape

Bake in real life, with variations of hot to warm, and

periodically freeze, thaw and toss around.

Leave it to rest and pull apart to reveal poetry.

And what is left is the poet. Put this in a warm place.

Let it rise again and create more poetry.


Poets are like grandma’s mystery dough.

Lots of cool stuff with no real measure

except to do it until it looks or feels

just about right. Then add a pinch for

luck. Good luck, bad luck or no luck.


Each scar says, “I survived”. Each tear

says, “the wound is washed clean” and

each word born into a poem is alive

and stays alive as long as the poetry

is read, even after the poet has gone

and returned to dust, their pages

brittle and their hard drives dated.


I remember typing on my mother’s old typewriter.

I remember typing in the dark, each word so formed.

Click, click, click, space, space – hard return. Space.

I remember hand written pages, bound with a red

ribbon. I remember a first professionally printed book.

Each book mark a hand placed ribbon. Each poem

a pedigree. A footnote. A place in my heart that never

seemed to get crowded with them, but grew and grew.

Now the poems come faster than I can catch them.

And some days they don’t come at all. Those days

are the most frightening – have I lost my senses?

Have I lost my words? Then I rub an aching scar.

Then I see an old photo. Or touch a page. Read a

blog of someone’s poetry. And the muse is back.


A photographer takes the photos, catches the moments.

A poet is the one who writes the story on the back of

those moments in time. For one to see, for many or

sometimes none. Each blink a snapshot, a 1000 words.

Each 1000 words boils down, breaks down into what?

Poetry! The words that fill the spaces between each

photo in the stack. The words that fill the spaces.


Anthony has us talking about evolving as poets, our process or what makes us the poets we are today.  I don’t remember a time when I didn’t think in poetry or wish to capture the words in a certain order or frame to make the images in my mind visible in word form. In photo, and in word, it is a part of the fabric of me.  My husband used to say, and still does, if you want to know who I am read my poetry. I’m pretty open about things in poetic form!  Enjoy, and stop by dVerse to see what the other amazing poets have shared. And share your own. And leave some love. Be a part of our community in an interactive way. 


It might be hard to believe.

The person you know here

has the power of invisibility!

I can fade away in front of

your eyes. Not seen or heard.

Sometimes I am loud I know.

Bright colors. Big ideas.

Opinions and passions.

Too often though I choose

to fade away from those 

who don’t understand me.

I’m weird. I know. Stranger.

My faith, my ideas, my love.

It doesn’t make sense to you.

But it it perfectly sane to me.

This wild ride I choose to live.

From you so much is invisible.

You should do this. That. ?

Why would I settle for the

safe route, paved and marked?

The unmarked trail. The road

pioneers dare to break in the

wilderness. That’s for me!

Settle down they say. Grow up.

Stay alive! Grow older. Wiser.

Dance to music only we can hear.

You sing the song to my heart.

Our path invisible to those

who only know marked roads.

The rat race would have us

die in the starting blocks.

Living on old safe cheese.

I go. I smile. I fade away.

Taking my colors with me.

The riot of sounds too.

I’ll happily leave you

with your safe palettes.

Me, I’m painting as I go.

No paint by numbers.

Don’t stay in the lines!

Life a living art, alive.

I might be invisible.

And that is safe for you.

I like being invisible.

You should try it. Yes.

It is so freeing to be

outside of the frame.

Out in the freedom.

Free to think. To feel.

No need to explain.

Being invisible isn’t

all bad, especially now

that you can see me!

Mary has us considering invisibility today for Poetics at dVerse!  If you have gotten this far, then I suggest you ‘select all‘ to read the rest of the poem. You know, the INVISIBLE part! 🙂  Join us! Come on by. Share some poetry. Read some poetry. Leave love. Always leave love.