Palette or Palate

Grace is always within you

it is said...Hmmm...

I think grace is pink

which is why its hard to find

when all you see is red.

Love is not all crimson cupcakes

still, there is gratitude, 

warm and orange. 

Citrus can be sweet or sour,

it depends on more than taste.

Every word

a jagged cube of ice

to crush or to melt,

linger into nothing...

Yet nourishing

by experience,

like white or wisdom-

or the sun.

What do I know

of divinity-

But hell

and evil, is black 

Absence or All...

Diluting color

of meaning, when

Time is demanded.

Faith is ordered.

I taste metal,

or my own

blood

while

sensing my fragile

green mortality

All over.

Painting by Vincenzo Irolli (1860-1949), in Public domain, 'Young boy eating a watermelon' via Wikimedia Commons.

The flavor of feelings

That horrid taste
is due to
the guts rotting,
turning sour
was like love
mistaken for instinct,
untraceable poison,
it seeps,
she weeps
and feels like the weak one
shaking under
the world.

But no.

That which once
quenched-
now toxifies
from inside out,
freely flowing in veins,
through valley's
lies in ruts
and where kisses
once planted
themselves,
now choking on weeds
telling herself
these
hold
the mud away

like selfish deeds

never survive
too long
now
tallest
in the forgotten fields
she chokes
on the view
and knew
this place
inside
was putrid.


Painting by Pierre Bonnard, 'Dining Room in the Country' c. 1913 in [Public domain].

Hunger in the sculpture garden

Tempting as it sounds
to taste literature with my tongue
there is a limit to what we can know
about authors intentions
the recipe is always
made to personal taste.
And once again I was lured to lick-
almost taunted
to be truthful-
with its smooth lines
melting in the sun
to tactfully taste the Rodin.
My palm salivating
I took a tiny sip
with just my salted fingertip
and noted the same
famished touch as Auguste,
kneaded under me. So I proceeded
to touch each one,
with my limb and flesh, swallowing the
sculptures and devouring their
stoic expressions.
A feast for the eyes,
an appetizer of art, bodies of work
for my insatiable appetite craving more

elements in my metallic spit.


Photo credit: Me, myself and I, 2/11/16.