The Color Quartet


My Orange Life ~
Round and juicy on the highest branch
unattainable must be more desirable
so bending branches and skinning knuckles I clamber
grasp the orange
peel back the skin
throw the fruit away
and sit
chewing on the bitter pith

*artwork by LK Smith*

Blue.Triangleerik wrenholt (1)

Blues ~

Blue blood, blue ink
blue jeans ripped at the knee
I’ve got the blues just don’t know which ones
blue sky watching
a thousand images in the clouds
and still I want to cry
because I don’t see the one I’m looking for
blue whale song thrums along the deep
answered, echoed in the longing
running through my veins
like a rising river
until the ink pours out
of this blue poet

*artwork by erik wrenholt*


Red ~

Crimson as noonday glare through your eyelids
red as blood
as wine
ruby red like a cursed gemstone in the eye of a god
red as fire
as a robe of silk
glimmering hotly in the suns setting rays
before it vanishes hissing
into the sea

*artwork by zweezwyy*


Black ~
In the rock
in an unnatural chamber
the obsidian box sits
stored carefully
in an age beyond age
its black mirror smoothed by times rough hands
jewel sheen with slicing edges
Apache tears glitter in a dusty trickle of light
as the chamber walls grow thinner
one day soon the tap tapping will break through
the box will emerge from of its prison of rock
will absorb the sunshine
and wake…


About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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