Poetic Discourse 2- Color Blind



A series of older poems inspired by William Butler Yeats

The poet sat picking dandelions 

in a halo of the yellow sun; she could

feel the words growing beneath her fingers.

"I think heaven is in the brightness of color,

in the contrast, in the afternoon shadows."

She stands up, palms stained green. 


Sometimes, I believe I am a poet too

and can pluck from inside of myself

oceans of songs, resurrect cemetery memories.

But I have not the life of it.

Too much black, too much white,

falling like snow in August.


Forgetting herself,

the day climbs and falls in an arc

of a pendulum, "Call me Titana.

I'll lure away your serving boys." She laughs,

placing a flower crown on my head.

with eyes clouded by rainbows. 



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