NERPHTH
When asked what is my favorite color- I will have to say: "Nerphth."
To which the person who asked me the question might think I mentioned some type of drug or just trying to pull their leg. Then to make things more peculiar after I give a response to the question, I will gaze into their eyes and begin to explain what this color is.
I ask if I can hold their hand and at the moment that our hands meet, their eyes begin to see the color of a shinin' almost blindin' color from the sun right at the break of dawn.
"Do you see what I see?"
I ask with a sparkle in my eye- my eyes are the same color, too. If you stare too long at them- you will go blind.
#NERPHTH. (c)
07/08/2021 Sat'rday.
The Color of My Thoughts
When I think, my thoughts are a certain color.
Do you know what color they are?
They aren't a color you can behold with your human eyes.
They are a color you can only feel with your soul.
Everyone knows that color.
Even you.
It's that color you see when you feel conflicted.
When you feel love and confusion and joy and sadness all at once.
When you are happy and excited with so much to say but no words come out.
It's the color of those words that don't come out; the words that swirl around in your head behind that smile on your face.
That color you sink into, curling up into a fetal position when no one is looking.
That color of your favorite song on repeat flooding your ears and brain, drowning out everything.
It's that same color that bathes you as you dance with ribbons and butterflies swirling all around you.
That color of the truth deep in your heart.
That color beckoning you to look up and keep going.
That color telling you to let all of your feelings burst out instead of hiding them.
That color of the emotional explosion of happiness, pain, anger, joy, sadness, love, thankfulness, forgiveness, salvation, and acceptance spilling out in a long, loud yell mixed with laughter and tears.
That color of freedom.
That color.
The color of compassion
I see a tiny boy digging into his tiny pocket. He pulls out a coin which he places in the paper cup of a homeless man. This same tiny boy marches on down the street where he hears a steel drum, made out of tin cans, sending beautiful music to his tiny ears. Once again, he reaches into his tiny pocket and drops a shiny nickel on the ground next to the street musician.
The tiny boy knows he has only one copper penny left in his pocket. He saves it for tomorrow. His compassion is not tiny.
The Window
the color
of the window,
not the scenery behind it.
does anyone contemplate
what a window would look like
with nothing behind it?
the color
of the window,
not the house inside it.
does anyone contemplate
what a window would look like
if there was nothing inside it?
nothing outside or inside
no sides at all
just a glass wall
between nothing and nowhere.
what would you see?
the color
of the window.
The Color of Summer
They say fireweed is Alaska’s clock and summer is almost over when its magenta blooms reach the top, winter sixty days away, a bittersweet thought. The sweet side of this is that it means we are in the best part of summer, the heart of it, long days that seem endless, days that embolden us to take an afternoon off, climb higher up the mountain, fish a little longer in the creek, or wander deeper into the forest. The sun lingers and alpine ponds become swimming pools, ridges familiar paths, and boulders transform into picnic benches. Remnants of early flowers indicate the season’s progression, while later blooms promise there’s still a little bit of fun left to be had.
The Colour in the Glass
Her.
The best possible way to describe what I saw, the only nearly-adequate way to describe the warm tone and romanic feeling of the colour that filled my vision. It was Her. Not any woman specifically, just the collective kindness of them, their compassion and the way their eyeslids slowly fell and the way they smiled in the dark evening. It was Her. It was her little gestures of romance and her own lyrics scribbled across a page and the scratched thumbnails of future art and her poems typed hastily into the note's app and her face in the glass as she watched the world rush by in a blur as she simply lived. That was it, I decided. It was Her.
#Plexiglassfruit
Living color
There it was. The unearthly
visage,
as if it were a pulsing,
flowing tide —
as if it lived and breathed.
My eyes struggled to explain
the cosmic ray of light,
A coffee-stain upon my vision,
in ways my mind could grasp.
The image burned itself
into my retinas
so I could see it still
with every tiresome blink.
I became horribly aware
of the nature of color —
Amalgams of blinding lights
Existing at different frequencies
Being absorbed and reflected
endlessly.
What power, what exhaustion
our minds must be privy to
to process it all
so seamlessly?
What strength, then,
Must the color before me hold
To defy the human brain?