I, tiny triangle, live in the shades of
A brown monotonous world
A splash of blue
In a desert of browns and beige.

I don’t belong here, a small triangle living beside
Big squares and rectangles
An outsider
Am I just a decoration?

I am trapped behind this thick wall
I long to see what’s on the other side.
Then a voice whispered
Look up!

I looked up and saw the bluest of blue
It looks like me!
I belong there!
A fallen triangle am I.

Let me fly up to that blue heaven
Away from these brown shadows
Let me blend with the sky realm
Where I fit in.

Not so fast, little one! You have a purpose
You are a teacher of geometry
You teach by contrast
You must stand out.

And so the little triangle stood for aeons on that wall
Knowing he was connected to
The sky and earth realms
He no longer felt alone.

Ione Grover

Essence is essence
and flat as I might feel
shadow reveals otherwise;
such is the mystery of life

Orange is my essence ~
the promise of sunshine
and creativity, and I envy
blue its expansiveness

Constrained as I am
by conformity ~
this silver-framed
existence a settling

But shadows don’t settle
they stretch and bend
and exclaim rebellion
savagely defending essence.

V.J. Knutson

Each of us was only one
of so many green, eager minds
lined up in rigid rows –
identical desks – and told
to sit still.

So young, either we conformed
or were beaten (that was legal then)
or else gazed quietly
through classroom windows into dreamland –

the tangled branches, labyrinths,
secret paths no one else could see
just outside the frame –
and there, while the teacher droned,
something wild and fresh and eternally green
cut through the smell of chalk dust,
unwashed hair and damp socks, that stale air
we could barely breathe –

it opened the box we were in and whispered –
like shadow, like a circle in a plane of lines,
lines, those straight, uniform lines
that trapped us, then –

whispered, Sovereignty!
Now is not forever;
There will be release;
Your mind is your own;
Your heart is free!

Joanne Stryker

In the shadows of the eaves
the minutiae of a light
exhibit an order

ascending lines

Shadows lurk reminiscent of dark times passed
Brighter.

Deeper recesses hint at significant pleasures
the endings of which are not

disclosed

And up

far

~ away ~

The cornices of time layered
Sedimentary stone embracing

A L L

wrapped in the icing of traditions

A blank canvas

the future

awaits.

M. Maika

Blue willows may balk at sterile domains,
Shut windows, the austerity of panes
Of flat glass divided by dark seams. Inside,
Kitchen cabinets with modular panels hide
Crisp linen tea-towels, neatly folded,
And stacks of pretty blue and white plates. Old

Willow-arboured pagodas,
                                           Taoist scholars ascending
Ephemeral mountains
                                             Disappearing in clouds. . .

(Deft paintings on Song porcelain, those

Pathways to Enlightenment. . .)

Blue Willow and Delft china are clever
Imitations of Chinese underglaze pottery
Techniques - some spoils from forgotten trade-wars,
Espionage and alchemy.

Do ornate Dutch florals or English chinoiserie
Oppose tidy compartments of unadorned, ordinary
Plainness? And why do we compare?
Do we indulge in hairline cracks in antique patterned table-ware?
This is not controversy:

Cobalt may strike an angular argument
Against ultramarine. . . a cold sky ~
An uncluttered sky - never shuns the beauty
Of white, will always let the light in.

Sylvia Bosgra

three
          rigid
                   soldiers
standards to attention, saluting a
crisp
          frigid
                    idealism

an anti-Holy Triune of alienating
clean non-guests jutting to spotlight
a dull-brown frayed warning
forecasting a clinical future: isolated, without
dictating One World order; slamming a bright blue sky
predicting dire circumstances of unpeaceful hunger and lack.
A frank, frozen landscape featuring a stark
                                                   nuclear
                                                              holocaust

splashed against the painted Red of Communism
a clear hypocrisy of heat and warmth.
Yet, that Iron Curtain that meets is solid, impenetrable
briskly mimicking the Party
and heartily laughable - for the cold, grey irony
of innocence inferred all clad in bleak manipulative
                                                uniform-white
                                                                           lies
each one like a blushing Virgin bride
too eager to promise her destiny
to her vision of perfection                  safety
                                                                  dependability
                                                                               security
even as her traitorous reporter-husband
stands disguised in a cloak of purity and light
he remains her delusion of robust sanctity.
the naivety of this freedom-less dream
leaves their guilty, gutless Officiant,
about as sickened as can be.

R.L.Read

In the stark sunlight
the only movement on the yellow wall
is the shadow slowly rotating
               lengthening
                        widening
                                  shrinking
Lives can mimic the yellow wall
stalled in the passage of time
If we illuminate existence
our shadow will show us and others
where we have been and where we are going
Within the comfort of the shadow
we can share our
                        trepidation
                                     wisdom
                                                dreams

Paul Richardson

As a child I  imagined  a  colour  for  every name
Me I was  orange  but  couldn’t  love our teatime
tinned  mandarins  in  orange  jelly  My  tiny feet
walking in Mummy’s  high-heeled  orange shoes
on  the  landing  flooded with sunlight Small girl
running naked  flees  fire  dropped  burning from
the  sky  peeled orange  skin   is  clinging  to   her
Now an orange ribbon wrenches the memory of
a  buried  child  so   many  hidden  in  the ground
without a  mark  a  name  A cube  of  soil dug out
and  filled  with small  wrapped  bodies replacing
the  dark   brown  earth    Now  I  feel  the rage  of
orange   a   colour   around   which  no-one   ever
wants to  stay  long  I  should  love   orange Press
the  pimpled  skin   and   release  a  fragrance   so
kind that you can take it  to  bed  pips and  all like
Nell the  King’s  orange  girl  and  wake  up feeling
orange  dancing  the  true  essence  of  Me . . . . . .

Alizon Sharun

Gold Guardian! You did not see An eclipse, stealing, shadowing love light,

Endearment’s magic colours, hidden now.
Your enamelled painted sunshine
Might have illuminated, healed
Burnt fragments of a disenchanted life.

Illness comes in sly disguise ~
Weakness in an artery; imploding hearts;
Sadness sometimes slows the breath.

Hands bestowing fragrant oil,
Night’s blackest hours beckoning,
Permit our souls to fly, seek dazzling joy,
Heart’s ease in great Apollo’s sun…

A Yellow Eave, though radiant
Cannot defeat Death’s darkened will.
Surrendered, dimmed, our holiness,
Our anguished hearts at peace, now still.

Rosemary Radcliffe

Behold the modern jungle,
still green, but not wilderness.
Is this a symbol of nature and harmony?
Or the colour of money,
a sign of greed and ambition,
in a stark environment?

With precise, neat squares,
the modern jungle becomes
the epitome of organization.
Gone is nature’s diversity and renewal.
A favourable impression from the colour green,
creates tranquility in the modern jungle.

The modern jungle appears empty.
Where are the trees and animals?
But yet under blue skies
a sense of well-being still prevails.
While a long shadow, slanted by the afternoon sun,
adds mystery to the modern jungle wall.

Alone you walk in the modern jungle.
No one knows what you do.
But are you alone?
The shadow signals a presence.
Is someone watching?
In the modern jungle, you are never alone.

J. Paul Stevens

Angled RedAngled Red
A precise corner of a red triangle
With defining white and black borders,
An accenting slender black line
Beneath it all.

Closeups showcase
The finest details of
Angle and Line.

Clear, sharp and bold,
The architect’s gift of
Order and balance
provide
Security in predictability.

There is more beyond the builder’s plan.

Slowly emerges an ever changing blue
Throwing off the perfect balance
With a touch of disorder.

The sun’s rays mock the linear peace,
Creating a breath of uncertainty,
A glimpse of creative power,

Waiting for us
To let go
And trust our shadows.

Susan Snelling

The eclipse, when it happened, didn’t seem real.
It was a cartoon eclipse:
The sun seemed a thick bright yellow disc,
But not actually a sphere—
It was flat on the top and the bottom.
And the event itself was reversed,
Adding to the comic sense of it all.
We stood, smoked glass before our eyes,
And watched as this giant lemony hockey puck
Began to slide, obliquely, over the Earth’s shadow,
And the cowboy-blue sky never varied.

Instead of causing animals to scatter,
Or evoking awestruck wonder;
Instead of playing havoc with the light,
Making the shadowy leaves seem inverted—
This eclipse caused gales of raucous laughter.
A Buster Keaton slapstick short,
Lasting barely ten minutes.
When it ended, we went back inside
And finished our drinks.

Dan Welcher

Bright clean Orange
“Every Child Matters”
LOL - not the usual emoji —
The Loyal Orange Lodge
Straight clean lines
Squares, Rectangles – predictable –
but, also a shadowy darkened corner.

No rhyme to Orange, perhaps Reason
No Rhyme nor Reason to Agent Orange
Happy Sunset and Happy Sunrise
Rise and Shine
OJ – No! refreshing OJ

Interstices (lovely word)
Beyond the shadow, the secure corner
“and I in mine” — “Be still my heart”
like a chainsaw through a pumpkin
an unfortunate dye job
supposed to be henna Oops!

An orange facade, cladding the unknown
the striking storefront, the brown shadow
lurks with the sunlight.
All is shadow later
but brightness to-morrow, perhaps.
Don’t ignore the blue.

John A. Cull

When you stick your neck out

This is what happens.  It used to be knee-jerk-easy knowing which side of the tank you stood on. 
Not us and them.
But I and thou.

Who sticks his/her/their neck out anymore? Not me.
Myself and I keep silent. Third eye blind to ovens Reichs pyres pogroms
       crimes that came before and may again. Too timid now. Totalitarian tiptoe
got my tongue.

The unexpected tanks arrive on schedule. Left right left right surefooted
                armed on the outskirts of every silent town.
They pause to gauge resistance.
And hearing nothing - go we we we we all the way home. ‘Cause freedom
                isn’t speechless. And silence speaks volumes. 

I remember the last man standing 
In his button-down shirt like a white flag waving. Hands full of groceries
in Tiananmen Square. He said not in my town you don’t. Not on my watch. 
Without even moving his lips. 

They don’t make 
necks like that anymore. 

Tamara Moro

George Allan Tucker

                              Outside,
arid architecture,
desert artifact
a static sky.

She sits
dead centre in her shadowed room
wishes it blacker still,
prays for the aperture
to spiral shut,
for darkness
to suck the angry light
from her veins.

She lies down,
waits for the ceiling to drop,
the walls to fold in on her,
to become one
with the room’s geometry,
to finally fit.

She drifts
outside the building,
watches vines creep up its walls,
their green stenciling
blurring lines,
softening edges,
palliating her earthly ward.

Mark Hertzberger

Yellow and blue make green
And green is one of our needs.
Perhaps just out of sight
Are newly planted trees. 

Katy Gray

Red asserts confidence,
towers with pride, as if
such a thing is attributable
to the inanimate.

But shadows encroach —
life is movement
and change alters
even the certainty
of masonry — cracks
the assumptions
of architects lacking
long-term vision

Humanity’s needs
extend far beyond
the boldness of red —
stone and mortar
no replacement
for heart.

V.J. Knutson

Beverly Blair