Gloom
The world has been so dark for as long I could remember. I had heard stories that told of brightly colored flowers, grass with a vibrant color called green, the sky was a beautiful color called blue, and the sun emanating this pretty color called yellow and sometimes gold.
Of course these were just stories. Though Grandmother seemed to know exactly what she was talking about. I can remember how happy I was to hear these stories. They always bring a certain happiness that was unexplainable.
"You might never see this world in such a light, my dear." She would say after every story.
"But why?" I would always question. She never gave an answer. Instead just she'd look at me with a small smile and turn back to her knitting.
I looked outside. Smoke covered the skies, grass shriveled and gray, trees dead and lifeless. It never was a nice sight. I wished for a world with color.
"You want to see something?" Grandmother asked, not looking up from her knitting.
"Yes!" I said hopping off of my seat next to the window.
Grandmother got up and walked over to a bookshelf. She reached to a high shelf that I was forbidden to touch. Grabbing a box off the shelf, she waved me over and sat down in a rocking chair.
"What is it, Grandmother?" I asked, weary to walk over.
She took a photo out of the box and flipped it around. Showing a picture of a beautiful sunset. The sky was not only blue but it had many different colors, the sun had a golden glow, trees had leaves on them and were a dark green, the grass looked alive.
I stared at the photo in wonder. It was so beautiful I almost cried. I grabbed the photo from Grandmother's hands and held it up to my face, taking in the colors. Hoping that I would get to see this for myself.
The One-eyed King
The young boy should have shown fear
At the frightful sight of the ancient Collier
With one eye. But the old man – Hen ddyn –
No lie, was a friend. Edwin his name: ‘Rich friend.’
The kind to bend a knee to, perhaps. A King.
Truth, of course, he was the one who was
Bent, warped, shrivelled, maimed –
By long years toiling under the green,
Tapping the black, the reluctant vein
Giving up its yield to the deep delvers
’Neath the slate-grey hills of Cambria.
Edwin George was his name. ‘Kingy’ George.
A vigorous young man, of unassuming nobility,
two hands, two feet, two ears, two eyes (at first)
labouring honestly through the reign,
of two English monarchs – his Namesakes.
(Let’s draw a Veil o’er the one in between
Who came to the Valleys and proclaimed:
‘Something must be Done’
Before he himself was Undone,
For the sake – so he said – of Love).
No such easy choice for Kingy;
The pit the only palace, the dray his only throne.
The hacking cough, the demon-black spittle,
The creaking knee and crumbling bone
The only legacy, the final reward
For a life spent fuelling the life-blood of Empire.
Gnarled hands, barely capable of unscrewing the bottle
Of dandelion and burdock that the boy so loved;
Or dealing from the deck of cards
As he taught him the intricacies of crib.
Small comfort in such simple joys,
Before the final pegging out.
The boy never learnt how Kingy lost that eye,
How the weregild for wisdom was paid by this Welsh Odin –
No ravens to guide his Thoughts and Memories,
But, rather, racing pigeons. Cooing from their cots,
Flying free, escaping the confines of cloddish earth.
No dank mines for these graceful expressions
Of an old Collier’s desire to be free.
Long did the boy ponder the meaning
Of that name. Till at last he remembered
That ’In the land of the blind,
The one-eyed man is king’.
In Memory of Kingy George - old collier, neighbour, and friend.
Commentary: Edwin' Kingy' George lived across the road from me throughout my childhood. Edwin is an Anglo-Saxon name, meaning 'rich friend'; which is somewhat ironic, because Kingy certainly didn't possess any wealth to speak of. But then again, he WAS rich in friendship. The British monarchs alluded to in the poem are George V and VI - and the king who controversially reigned for less than twelve months between them, in 1936 - Edward VIII. The ravens are the constant companions of the one-eyed Norse God Odin - Huginn and Muninn - 'Thought' and 'Memory'.
For Color that Cannot be Seen
My grandmother once told me that the world used to be full of color, the sky a rich blue, the grass a rich green. Buildings and people of every color, a world of magic and dreams. She also told me that a year after the birth of my mother, the government created a medicine to take away the color in the world, from the eyes of the people.
The medicine is mandatory, to be taken twice every month, paid for by raised taxes. The goal was to make the people more willing to listen, so says my grandmother, but it makes me long for days that I never got to see.
I look out the window, but all I can see is people starting to judge others for one of the two colors their skin took on. No one can see their eye colors, or the color of their hair. I don't think anyone wants to, or knows how to live in a world where color doesn't matter in the first place.
The government has made a terrible mistake and only their failures are noticed. Is this even a world any of us can be proud of anymore?
What if?
What if our world was depleted of
Colour?
Shades of black and white everywhere you looked.
A void of white representing a blue sky.
The brightness of a yellow sun gone replaced by a glowing white ball of gas.
Rainbows would look dull.
The changing of a trees leaves would come and go.
The reveal of a males peacock feathers wouldn’t be impressive.
Without colour everything would exist in shades of grey, each shade representing a colour.
A world void of colour would look rather bleak.
but then
a world that knows nothing of colour wouldn’t miss it.
But a world
that lost its colour…
A Dying World
Color. There used to be color. However....
I now see grey, where the sky was once blue.
I see black, instead of vibrant, bright hues.
I see white, filling in the blanks.
I am dulling, slowly moving.
The world is dying, crying out for help.
So many people. Yet...it seems to only get worse.
Animals are dying, crisis is skyrocketing.
Sickness, isolation, losing all hope.
I sit here...I wonder...would it all be better if I was not here.
If I did not have to live in a world full of others who do not care.
I wonder, if brightness, color, and life exist in another world beyond ours.
I wonder...does this all end here...
Liz
she had bipolar I disorder, bought a parrot during a manic period. i got a tattoo in her honor, it hasn’t faded. sometimes in love we are jaded, her many romances failing to keep her grounded. I wish she had called me beforehand. it all seems black and white, mania or depressed, but it trickles down slowly, like economic instability. biploar is rated at 15% mortality. I hope she’s happy, wherever she landed. I don’t believe in god, but somewhere she is stable, her truest person.