The Color 9

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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!

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Reflections of spring

Early spring melt reveals

spiderwebs from the floating in fall

sunshine encourages buds

warm air dances

and chilly rain falls

it is still early spring.

Spring sunshine shows

how the earth tilts

sun further away now

but the rays more direct.

Raindrops run down backs

shivers run down necks

Better than snow

they say.

It is true.

Early spring aches of hope.

Shivers in the sunshine.

Dances in the rain.

Bursts forth with birds and song.

Copyright 2012 Shanyn Silinski.

Linking up at dVerse Poetics.  Check for more great poems and poets!

Their Gate

 

Grandpa never made a gate that wasn’t painted.

Red or white, brown or that awful blue he loved.

If it had a cross bar, a horseshoe crowned it.

Latches were never the same twice, hand made.

 

Grandma loved her gates, hated climbing fences.

She thought they all should be closed and straight.

Gates to the garage, the garden and to the lawn.

She planted flowers and stones to frame them.

 

I don’t remember seeing them hug or kiss much.

Theirs wasn’t the era and they were too private.

I do know there was love though, deep and true.

Because it shone through when I saw their gates.

 

He held it open, she glided through like a dancer.

He checked the latch was closed, and clicked,

and she smiled at the sound knowing he cared.

They leaned over them sometimes and talked.

 

I can’t see a painted gate, or an old metal frame,

without thinking of them and their gates.

The gates that frame my memories of them,

frame the memories of their live and their love.

 

I don’t know if it is a farmer thing but even my husband adores gates and loves to have them painted and latched in unique ways.  I think gates are a part of our love too…we spend a lot of time leaning over, opening or closing gates.  

For the With Real Toads Sunday Challenge.