Forgotten Colors - M.Weisgerber

Another red plug
here, waiting patiently
on this crisp porcelain.
Not mocking, merely resting
spooning the dust motes
and any simple bathroom grime.

It never traveled far,
sought out Ganges dreams,
or strange glances
at the back of dank bars.
A view of the waste dump,
is the best it can hope now.

It could have waited here,
knitting strange tomes
watching shapes pass, tall
heads stuck far above nimbus,
with eons passing easily
or another hour gone by.

But still it found me
quickly without camouflage,
helped entice me to burn
merely with its shape.
A Cheshire smile;
I recognized its tale.

Immediately hated short nights
of quiet trepidation,
bathing deeply within
gentle joys of discovery.
But hating more
all the shifting walls

made merely by this color,
curling like the toes,
sturdy as the girl
who existed to make it
hold it, mold it,
yank it to my floor.

What am I to do
if...when I find another?
Char its sweet end,
or feed it to the first?
Hope that it turns blue,
dies from its own stench.

Another will serve
as a reminder of more
that once we engaged in it,
and it was good.
Felt better than good,
bordering on great.

But great is not enough,
not for the red color,
red must be fed "incredible"
red must not be made aware
of mistakes allowable,
even if red errs itself.

But I am an artist,
and this color
remains as one -
many is my palate
by which to craft,
to create something bolder.

We are meant to avoid
mixture of such dense flavors,
because orange is stronger still,
something once possible from we two;
it is trauma overcome,
and thus could never be.

Light Pursestrings

This morning I reached a hand inside
and pulled out two pens from dark fathoms,
both engraved with inch long hearts
each ebony - neither from here.

Odd, as I had not thought of crafting today,
of placing fine tips to weary paper,
watching the figures twist and grow
from nothing, catch fire then return to same.

Born: hardened warriors that steal my graphite,
start to sketch themselves unnerved,
with chain-mail coated ice cream colors,
battle axes of cotton candy repute.

Or a biker clothed in mime apparel,
face covered in acrylic dusty blues accents -
an owl, unfurling its birth coverlet
sailing skies with one wing detached.

I fondle these light wrappings,
exclaim soft cries of pleasure from such joys held -
taunt noises that emerge from the inner tappings
of pen upon glass, glass held on paper.

The crinkled noises catching in brain webbing,
mutating to larger girl sounds, of laughter
echoing off noiseless kitchen floorboards,
wall cupboards reminding me where we almost made love.

I suppose these surprises are getting easier;
every sugar-bowl lid hiding another jumpy mouse,
which neither bites too assuredly or for too long
but still rests their regardless, ready to pounce.

Me, debating if I need sweetener for this morning joe,
or if I can handle the bitter blackness, necessary
to wake me after many late night rainstorms.