Color-full Brenda

I am a color-full woman in every sense of the word.
Akimbo and smiling I face the world.
I am a sunrise-
Not that flat crayola yellow and orange
But robust ochre and rouge
Clementine and golden-rod
Rose sweetly lining the tiniest folds of my face
A spectrum in its own right.
I can paint you images of my pastel pensive mind
Display endless landscapes
Or a bowl of fruit ripe with temptation
But it means nothing
If you persist in black and white.

This Mortal Coil or Of the Flesh

The tattooed man would tell you that flesh is a canvas.
The scientist, that flesh is encasement for organs and bones.
The preacher, that it covers the soul and houses sin.
The boy tells me that my flesh is soft and inviting
By painting my body with his eyes
Delineating what is perceived
With an artistic suggestion.
I tell him not many people
Can say “screw art”
And literally mean it.

Chew on This Awhile

We are full of questions when we are young
Like a bursting gumball machine, experiences are plunked in our minds
Twisted with a shine
And out comes a polished pearl of perspective
Something for others to ruminate
And perhaps discard-
But a voice to color the world nonetheless.

Yet just as those machines often run down
Neglected and unused
With stagnant candy littering the floor
Of the empty glass globe
Like spent confetti-
We often forget the things
That once filled us.

Personified Pronoun

I
The lone letter
So slender
Yet demonstrative
No, not a demonstrative pronoun
But a personal pronoun.

I
Am an
I

It’s almost a cross to bear
Had I the crossbar to make me a T

Or maybe had I a friend
With outstretched arms
We would be an H instead.


I
Am an
I

Not very large or imposing
Yet defiant.
I claim meaning
I start sentences
I speak
I signify greater things than my frame can handle.

I
Am an
I

20 Credits

Twenty credits taunts me
With his self-importance and
Arrogant amount of paperwork.
He sneers when I consider my weekend
And snickers when my face
Attempts osmosis study at odd hours.

I try to tell him I have a life
That he is a business arrangement,
But he insists on being my lover
And shows up as Shakespeare
Between the covers of my bed
Fingers marking my place
As I stare at his awful face
And fight sleep.

Twenty credits- you are the date
I said yes to and regretted immediately.

You'd Think We'd Have Learned

I sit in class and stare out the window
When the sky is an enticing blue.
I see the trees, fingers stretched upward
Swaying slightly in the wind
Crying for the heaven they cannot have.

Humans are trees too,
Grown from the dust
Thinking tall thoughts
Yet sighing and bending
When we cannot reach what we ache for.

I think I can understand the frustration
Of the tower of Babel
And then I catch sight of Ross Hall-
I see the flurry of contractors and architects
Pencils scurrying faster than final midterm minutes,
All the people planning and building
Yet their work ending more stunted
Than a bonsai tree, yet also changed by a will
And some hefty pruning shears.