Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion

Here’s the formula Kat posted:


Line 1 - Your color
Lines 2, 3, 4 - things your color looks like
Lines 5, 6, 7 - things your color sounds like
Lines 8, 9, 10 - things your color tastes like
Lines 11, 12, 13 - things your color feels like
Line 14 - sum it all up.

Naturally, I couldn’t resist the temptation.


The gray
of weathered barn boards
in the colorless daylight
of old movies
knows the rusty drawl of a shutter’s hinge
when wind brings the leaves’ applause,
the unearthly moan of a vine-covered bell.
Taste the wine. It has no hue,
no orange-yellow the pale sliced cheese,
for with the flavor of Susan’s lips
comes the glide of her silk blouse,
the insistence of her fingers,
her nails slick with a lovely shade of
something now a medium gray.

O the color blue
sometimes invisible when light shines through it
but cool and calming, a comfort to the eyes
yet it has such power. A beautiful, adoring hue
I hear it shine and it feeds deeply the soul
To know it draws quenchable satisfaction
It leaves a long-lasting quieting residue.
To drink it gives life
the invisible kind is water and kind
some use it to flush themselves of rue.
There is no clear way to touch such
a wonderful thing. Such tremendous hope to touch it
-- but can it be grasped?
I had to give this color love where it was due
My color blue.

Very nice, CJ. And it rhymes!

Thank you M! I felt I had to cover my favorite color before it was done by someone else.

Oh yeah. I didn't mention after I read it. I liked yours a lot M! I liked how you attributed the color to "weathered barn boards" and "old movies." And the rest of the poem was great too!

Thanks, CJ!

Hey, guys, good job :D M, yours sounds rustic, almost noir-ish.

Cj, the rhyming was awesome :D Really tied the poem together.



Here's one that I'm going to turn into a longer series, but haven't worked out the other stanza's yet:

Crimson
lip stains like spilled blood
pepper the walls,
smeared by a woman
with a high-pitched
voice, grating at the ears of
any who dared listen.
It took decades to cure
the wine on her breath, but only
seconds for her to drink it
and collapse onto down feather
pillows, swollen with hopes
that will never see the
light of day.

Thanks :D

This is very interesting and stimulating! :) I hope I could come up with something :)

Good luck :D

Very nice, Kat.

Thanks M ;D

Here is my try, hope I got it right.

Yellow
Like the sun shining down
Like the nose of a clown
As a belly of a worm
Roasting marshmallows
Or floating in a boat
And sharing with a fellow
Squash it is bitter
Banana's are even worse
With ice cream being best
Happily dancing outside
A cheerful attitude
A smile in the dark night
Yellow is clear light

Very vivid writing, Christa! It’s made me hungry for ice cream.


Almond,
I think, a creamy off-white,
flows among the varnished teak
and gleaming stainless hardware
as the wind, that old bass player,
plucks the rigging in a regular time
and gives a rippling voice to pennants.
Her fingers taste of roasted almonds,
rim salt of a margarita,
her mouth of something that eludes me
as she drapes me with her hair
and slowly climbs on top of me,
pushing me down on the hot deck
in diffuse almond light.

Sorry in advance. :)

Pink
The color that rushes
Up to my cheeks
And causes blushes
The sudden feeling
Makes me giggle with glee
And even snort a bit
My bright koolaid drink
Provides refreshment
Greatly needed
Then my boyfriend
Brigs the heat back
With his light touch
Pink is the color of cute.

Aww that is so sweet :d

Thanks Christa! I was wondering what the reception would be cause its pink, but I'm glad you like it!

Nice poems guys :D

I suck at poems I am more of a novelist but I wrote one.

Blue
Summer's sky
gleaming big and bright,
all throughout day and night.
With birds chirping,
kids laughing
and water splashing.
Soft ice cream wetting my tongue,
cool water dripping to my tum
while red cherry Popsicle's bit my taste buds.
Warm glistening
soft breezes
and happiness flying,
Blue is the color of summer.

That is good. I like it, Christina. I usually find it too intimidating to try out the "poem" sections besides periodically doing the haiku thread. My 2nd crack at this one.

Red, the color
Alarm! Senses awaken!
It makes me aware of all things
like jagged, firing, frightening lines
It would be like a horror scream
Also people use it to say "look at me!"
Roars like a sports car or dress
It could taste like cherry
or be a salty, wrongful taste like blood
I can tell it can be innocence or danger
A silk of temptation
One in a person's grasp
Hand draws over it, wow. Is it wrong
to love the color red?

Nice choices of colors, guys :D

Excellent idea, Kat! Loved all the entries! Inspired me to write one just when my idea pool was beginning to dry up. Thanks Guys!

Black

The pitch black silken
mane of an untamed stallion
is a tad darker than the wild
berries and sneaky leeches.
Astral caricatures slow dance
to this silent hymn, a meditative
implosion of soundscape: Aum.
Melting hot syrup softens
the dark cake crumbs and
blesses the craving taste buds.
Smoke stains can clog up one's
lungs, clawing up into the flesh
and pulverizing the spirit.
Unassuming.Sublime.True.

Very nice, Ajay!

I like it ;D

hmm.. all of your pieces are beautiful.. Alex is right, color poems are quite hard.. still, i shall try to create one as beautiful as all of yours.. :)

Periwinkle..
the sky just before dawn
as the light of a distant star
fade slowly with the rising sun..
the calm of the sea
before the passing of the storm
so still, so silent..
the water from a spring
quenching the thirst
of a lonely lost soul..
the softest of silk
spun from morning dews
a blanket of comfort..
Teardrops..

Okay, you guys are all writing really good poems :D

Al, you don't have to follow the form exactly. As long as it fits, it's good. Here's one that someone else I know wrote:

Payne Grey
storm clouds roll in on ashy winds
that slide through dull iron gates,
opening with a gaping creak like the sigh of moth wings.
The rasping whisper of ragged newspaper clippings
writhing among the smoke dissipates
as the tempest thunders over the estate,
dousing the blaze of heat in pockmarked raindrops
that never reached the decadent parlor
where the Lady suffocated.

~Lauren Pifer

Can I get your guys' opinions on this next poem? I'm going to be entering it into a color specific poem contest:




Goldenrod
fireflies erratically sign their names
inside a jar that once held pickled beets .
On a Georgian night,
katydids screech chamber music
Mozart forgot to write
on his five staffed bars.
The music reminds me of the tart
taste of grapefruit seeping slowly into
my mouth, and I swallow it with delight.
But the world becomes a jar
into which I scribble my name,
as if writing it will somehow
make me free.

Thanks, M and Kat!

Beautiful writing, Kat! I loved it. The only stumble I had was when I read these lines:

On a Georgian night,
katydids screech chamber music
Mozart forgot to write
on his five staffed bars.

Is there a word missing between music and Mozart?

When Mozart was five, he practiced on an old spinster up in the attic.

I’m just sitting here laughing.

That was fun, Alex!

The woman had posed for Bach when he had written “Air on a G String,” and Mozart had an old recording of it.

I was up till almost nine o’clock last night. I need to go eat some of those magic coffee beans.

Violet
Beautiful violet, a beauty to see
The wonder that shines in the dark sky
a canvas with lights contained so brightly
A woman's name, so wonderful to hear
like precious rarity
that ones must receive.
The taste of fruit that touches one's lips
such sweetness pours through
grapes all must grip
To touch anything with this name
it seems so divine so rich
such darkness and uniqueness, strange yet which
one must we decide? A different wonder is it
or beauty with darkness set is violet?

Purple, The Magnificent
When the sun dips, you engulf
When the sky lights, you repulse
You're throbbing in the grapes, the pulse
You're the softest utterance
The mild tone, with the mild radiance
The whisper of the royal hue
Bound between red and blue
Not hot, nor cold, just plain sweet
Of berries, leaves and the root-beet
The passion, you represent
The obsession, you smile crescent
You're found in one true fashion
You're the constrictor, like the serpent!


~Numey

(hope you like it, I'm open to reviews here ;)

Numey, this is probably my favorite so far. I love the flow of words and the rhyming scheme. The picture really helped to set the mood. I think everything was very eloquently done and cannot see anything that need improvement.

Christa - Ron Paul 2016 wrote: "Numey, this is probably my favorite so far. I love the flow of words and the rhyming scheme. The picture really helped to set the mood. I think everything was very eloquently done and cannot see an..."

OMG!!! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!! Seeing so many awesome talents here...wow, I never thought it was "perfect" :D Just so you know, I love rhyming words, so I guess there's my house :)

@Alex, I love the line "chillingly tempting" =)

Your welcome!

The White
deer's tongue, dog's
tooth violet, serpent's tongue, yellow raindrop,
Trout lily. (FACTS)
Sounds like a holiday,
Sounds isoochrous (deer's tongue)
White sounds like Yisrael, an angel I wrestle with.
White tastes like a soft sleeve.
White tastes like an essay.
A fiancees wrist.
White feels like a shroud.
Feels like a the space between the sky and a cheek.
A nebula and a planoconcave.
White is a mercy, and the beast of enlightenment.

White
caged dove at Regency nursing home, Holy Ghost,
where my mom lived for 8 months after a stroke. she lived with Magical agents, ladies with white skin & hair, and was in consultive health for awhile.
White - the fetal psychic brimming
with Good news
the apparition of Life from pockets of health.
White the sounds of dew bells,
the sounds of snowy days
morsels of clouds
A honey crust of Morning Stars
promote the mind of fork & knife or
soft unblemished fingers. Timeless truths moving
like Yisrael, and the name of Jacob.
Feels like genuflection in a field, near the wet leaves of ruga roses.
White is beauty, mystery. Resilience, Life.

The White
caged dove at Regency nursing home, Holy Ghost,
where my mom lived 8 months after a stroke with Ladies
whose white skin & throats told of a strained approach consistent with vulnerable systems.
White - the white sky - above a drought.
The white air
a transformational component.
White sounds of white bees
a white buzzing fuzz, the static clinging
to unmarked correlations.
White. A gravy of hope; the words of procedural discourse.
White meiosis and understatements. The
white canvas - not white ere long.
Kris's white sweatshirts: a reconnaisent trickery.
Dad's white moustache, and my bound rhetoric.
The cafe's snowy woods
and development, expansion.
The mansion of health, and the obligatory duties of the form and substance of wentletrap recoveries. The tip-top; a recoverer's delicacy.

-THE MARCHER-
The Green
Of her eyes, her jacket,
The field stained half-brown with mud,
And, pulsing with pride, her blood—
The green of staccato notes
Shoved through a trumpet, emerging in a green coat
Of sheet metal (and sheet music and time left on the sidelines)—
Green shouting and cheering, and then
Green silence, just as loud
From the all-green, cheering-teen crowd.
Later, they'll forget the sharp, metallic hues
Of the mouthpiece, but when they play the blues,
It always tastes greener than the field or the jackets.
The grass is too wet, too cold,
Slick with green-tinged sweat, dripped
From green jerseys, as stoic lips
Play on, and cheers and blood and sweat and tears, all blend to green.

I know that I did that incorrectly, but I accidentally wrote about the sound twice, and it felt wrong to delete it after I'd written it.
Green is my favorite color, and also happens to be my school's color (We're "The Irish."), which makes me love it even more! Anyway, I thought I'd write about Marching Band, because we had our Band Banquet today, and it reminded me how much I love marching in (and on) green!
I don't know why I explained that to all of you. It's one AM. Perhaps that is why...

Orange by Catherine Niedzwiecki ©2014

Miles of Emory's Globemallow - Somewhere in Arizona.
Marron suo loco.
Pelage of South Devon Cattle.

tingaling aequivocus -
Phatry & Ankh.
Harvest home songs.

Summer with .
Harvest moons at the heels or on the shoulder.
a monarch on a corn snake's neon tongue in Iberia Parish, La.

Primitive reference; o, currents of Pakistan. .
Io moth caterpillars.
Hahn cruciform master keys.

Orange is a crump of Mickiewicz. The idea of poems.

Carly wrote: "I know that I did that incorrectly, but I accidentally wrote about the sound twice, and it felt wrong to delete it after I'd written it.
Green is my favorite color, and also happens to be my schoo..."

I like "the Marcher," Carly!~ I found the word Mickey after I read your poem; perfect for your Irish theme. * "Irishman" - and Brit. Slang: spirit; pride; brag. :)

Yellow
Yellow is a roof, supported by means of roots.
Yellow - sunlight through gauzy wings, or circus lemon peel rings infront of an ocean .
Yellow - the chinaman friend drinking water by a revolution.
Yellow sounds like the stone fruit painted and dropped on the sidewalk for childrens games.

Yellow sounds like the main drag on your birthday.
Yellow sounds like teigitur.

Yellow tastes like catch penny poetry; poetry nonetheless.
Yellow tastes like tupelo honey.

Yellow feels like a flotilla.
Yellow feels like Persephones hair before she goes under;
Yellow feels like the sun - sticking to burs of shadows.
Yellow is a nap when I was five. The narcotic of happiness, of youth; of sand in an alley where old deer was killed.

Roseeate
Rose is the roseola around your friends arm.
Rose is the rose (rosay) on Janet's kitchen table. A burgandy I am afraid to reach for.
Rose is the rosary around my neck you told me not to wear to school.

Rose sounds like the traffic in Rosemead L.A.
Rose sounds like children's voices above the rose slug threatened by salt on the sidewalk.
Rose sounds like rope - tearing.

Rose tastes like a kiss from Rosalind.
Rose tastes like my tongue on rose quartz.
Rose tastes like Rosamond's wrist.

Feels like the rose geranium of Rosita's hair.
Feels like the rose oil of Tony's "no."
Feels like sculptured ornaments.

Rose is the rooster of my fingers in the morning. The footprints of a word: Pointing. Pointing toward the contours of petals and thorns.