Of the Wall

The brick
The concrete
The plaster
and the paint.

The flaking paint.

I see the green beneath
the once beautiful blue.
And some of the white
beneath all that was new.

The white which gets on my shirt
and my pants
and my skin.
The white-wash refuses to leave.
Blemishing the brown beneath.

I scraped some blue off
to make some jello cream.
I looked it up fair
but wasn't sure which
flavors to pair.

How to make jello:
1 and 1/2 cup "chosen" juice
1/4 cup cool water
1/4 cup almost boiling water
1 tbsp gelatin powder
1-2 cups of "chosen" fruit.

Mix gelatin in cool water.
Stir briskly.
Add really hot water. 
Stir briskly.
Combine with "chosen" juice.
Stir briskly.
Add "chosen" fruit.
Stir lightly.
Pour in a setting dish.
Refrigerate for good.

I decided against the blue.
I added a grape fruit
as my "chosen" juice.
I now had a beautiful green.
I decided against any cream.
For the fruit I "chose" aubergine.
The flesh appealed to me.

And I looked for the perfect tray
in which to slowly slide
to take that ominous shape
to beautifully support and hide.

I chose against a dish,
instead I poured my wish.
I filled some old eggshells
with the now jello dream.

Knowing, the next morning,
I could have a certain meal.

The Sinking Ship

The ship sank.
"Why do I call it a ship?"
you ask.
Why not a boat,
               a canoe,
           or a raft?

"For a ship it surely is."
a ship with a large hold
a small stern
and the hull, the size of a whale.

Someone ran a spear
straight into the rear of the ship.
"What will a spear do to a ship?"
you ask again.

I smirk.
"A lot!"
The ship is soft and beautiful
and was afloat.

Water refuses to leave it now.
The outlet is way above,
on the deck
too proud to function
the main mast takes too much space
the sails unfurl and the rest all hides.

The mizzen is still to be found.
as tall as the main I want it to be
with interlocking shrouds.
"Such a ship could never exist."
you say finally.

This I think about
look at the sinking ship
drop an anchor far from the crowd.
Sneak into the crow's nest
afloat in my doubts.

Pile On

One brick over the next
One brick over halves of two
One brick at nighty to two
One brick over the next.
The strong base
A brick added on top of it
One brick over the next.
One brick over quarters of two
Two bricks at nighty to one
One brick overt the next.
The wall now high enough
One last brick over the last
Wait, one more brick over it.

Love is Blue

When blue is not blue anymore
When blue does not know itself
When blue dissipates into red.
When red wears the mask of blue.
When blue seems to stab
Blue knows those spots
Does the mask of blue,
keep the knowledge intact?
Does blue last?
Does red live on?
Will each survive in unison?
Will violet be my song?
Or will I be abandoned in blue?

The language of art uses blue in many forms.
When blue is a Cobalt.
Or when blue is Prussian.
Or when blue is Cerulean.
Maybe the first is easier to get into and more difficult to get out of.
If you were a Cobalt, you could still be a Prussian or a Cerulean.
But what do you do with either of those blues then?
When you are only a Cobalt
Are you 'only' a Cobalt?
When it starts raining and blue is lost.
Hiding under the bed, scared of lightning.
Will blue ever be found?
Can it be found?
Is it alive in the greys and the browns and the yellows?
Does it have to be found?

The boat wabbled on

The boat wabbled on
The oar double drawn.
The boat wabbled on.

The water just at the brim
Full of men and women.
The boat wabbled on.

He sneezed, she budged
There was a mighty rock.
The boat wabbled on.

The boatman looked ahead
Paying passengers no stead.
The boat wabbled on.

She threw out a hand
Dipped feet in water sand.
The boat wabbled on.

The shore was near
We saw the crowd in fear.
The boat wabbled on.

The was no more room
For even the lady's broom.
The boat wabbled on.

Anxious to get home
You tried to board, but
the boat wabbled on.

In a fit of rage
You hurled a twig, but
the boat wabbled on.

This time around
You aimed a stone.
The boat hesitated
and it slowly drowned.

You walked away
brimming in misery, hoping
the boat had wabbled on.

The bubble walked into a cage,
the corner opened its jaw in rage.
Leaning into the crevice,
the lining felt safe.
Curled up into a ball,
shielded from the fall,
the bubble lives through.
No spike
No nail
No tooth
It floated around.
And then there was a sound!
The door clanked open,
freedom handed as a token.
Others soon congratulate,
the bubble couldn't relate.

the blue of the sky
to the rusty spike.
the red of the blossom
to the thick hard bottom.

from sorted to mangled,
from floating to entangled.

As many slowly rose,
this bubble finally chose.
It slowly moves to the ground,
did you even hear the sound?
The green of the grass,
was now a blade in glass.

Finally in peace let it settle -
The bubble is truly on it's mettle.