White Color Motif

A polar bear in a snowstorm. Drawn by me
The easy thing to do would be to use red. I’ve done it before. Hot and fiery. The color of blood, bleeding on the page. Red in its many hues pink as a blush or the dark burgundy of spilled wine.

But no. How about blue? Such a poet’s color. Blues beat down from the avenue, weaving their melancholy melody over the street. Looking down from the sky, reflections of an ocean on teardrops from the atmosphere. Blue bells, blue balls, blue suede shoes dancing to a slow song alone.

But no. None of those will do. I need something new.

So white. White sounds right. Ooops, that might not sound too right. Colored in controversy especially in today’s light. White is all the colors, tightly contained in a single line, a point on the spectrum, of the visible and invisible, light, matter and energy, wave, say hello, oh I see you, white light. Bright is white. The color of my flashlight on my phone, flash bulb, say hello to the selfie, oh but that ain’t white. Still bright though … right?

White is a winter’s day, with a polar bear, with the snow blowing, eyes closed so the black pupils can’t be seen, ruining our blank paper masterpiece. White is the beginning of every written story ever told. In the beginning was not the word but the blank page. Oh God does spoken word performances, didn’t you know? Only writes on stone tablets. In lists of ten. No wonder He only works six days of the week.

White is absence. Pigment gone, albino trace without the pink eyes. White lilies don't tan in the sun. Frosted tips of grass, but just the tip. The cause of the crunch under your feet. Bleached tissue, no longer brown, now suitable for wiping tears or blowing your nose.

White I might write as the color tonight. A flight of fancy, lightbulb bright. White no longer is my screen or my page as it seems; that white is no longer a beginning but the end after the period.

This is for a dVerse prompt: poetry with a colour motif:

  • take one or more literal colours (not a fancy colour name)
  • repeat the colour word(s) throughout the poem (e.g. refrain; anaphora, epistrophe)
  • use colour synonyms
  • employ colour with its specific meaning to the poem’s theme
  • let your colour motif(s) also become symbolic

I obviously chose white. I hope you enjoy the poem! 😊


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Monet’s Boat On A River

Claude Monet, The Studio Boat, 1876, Oil on canvas
Stiff lines and harsh brush strokes
The impression of a summer’s day
Green for trees upswept by the breeze
Along the river blue and white
Reflections in the water show bare branches
Winter's chill beneath the surface
Behind the green of a summer day

Alone on a boat
Sits a man in a coat
Hat on his head
With doors open

Does he see the summer trees above
Or the winter branches reflected below
Or are his eyes instead focused inside
Reflecting

This is a poem for the dVerse prompt:
So, for my prompt today you have two options.

You may write an ekphrastic poem inspired by Claude Monet’s “The Studio Boat.” Your poem does not need to include anything about reflecting or reflections, but it can. AND/OR

You may write a poem on reflection, whatever that means to you—self-reflection, reflection on time’s passing, a reflection in a pool of water, etc.

I chose to do a bit of both. Hope you enjoy! 😊

Hip, Hop & Bounce

NYC in 1983. Unnamed photographer. Not 5th and 51st.

New York City. 1983. The city that never sleeps, though she may spit on your lapel if you piss her off. The air was thick and humid in the summer, the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes was either the pollution or a bum reliving himself, either way you woke up wanting to wash your mouth out before your morning coffee.

This was my city, my mistress. She sucked every ounce of strength from my bones and every cent from my wallet. One day she was gonna pay me back. Little did I know. I was going to get paid back, in spades. 

The corner of 5th and 51st street, down the block some kids were breakdancing on a flat cardboard box, up the street some hustler was taking money from a tourist, on the corner, I was creating poetic lyrics.


This is for a dVerse prompt: To write a contribution you will have to incorporate the given line into a piece of prose of no longer than 144 words (including the given line but excluding the title). You may punctuate and divide the line as you want, but you cannot insert any words into the line. The line: ‘The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes’ from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Elliot.

Hope you enjoy!


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It’s not much

Photo by Soroush Karimi on Unsplash

He wasn’t much

Neither was he little

Rather he was just there

Being as such

Their bond was brittle

Neither seemed to really care

Much ado about nothing

An apt description

Of a tepid love affair

But it was something

Not conniption

Nor care


This was for a dVerse prompt: Pen us a smallish poem of just 44 words, including some semblance of the word MUCH. Hope you enjoy!

Embers

mage by Pexels from Pixabay
Once there was a fire
Slowly the flames die cooling
Now embers remain


Open
Hearts, doors, your legs
Burning. Longing. Desire
Then doors, hearts, your legs, close. Fire dies
Embers

This was for a BattleBorn – Twitter: https://x.com/The_PoetryArena; Bluesky – https://bsky.app/profile/thepoetryarena.bsky.social prompt. Use the word Ember in a poem. Hope you enjoy!


A pot of stew with the title A Taste of Stew written over it.

A Taste of Stew

Want to know what kind of poetry I write? Find out in the palm of your hands.

A collection of poems from seductive and spicy to thoughtful and observant. Poems from the AuthorStew blog and from across the Internet are gathered in this collection. There’s something just for you. Get a taste of AuthorStew’s poetry!

Weekend Cinquain

Photo by elizabeth lies on Unsplash
Two four
Six Eight Let’s go!
Celebrate! Party right!
Gonna have fun all the night!
Weekend!

Goodnight
Time for sleeping
Pull down the sheets slip in
Resting now no longer awake
Weekend

This was for a dVerse poetry prompt: to create a Cinquain poem. “It is a short poem based on syllable count and is a five-line poem with a syllable count of 2-4-6-8-2, but there are plenty of variations.” Hope you enjoy!

Setbacks

Setbacks? What are these?
Just steps towards the future unseen
Good or bad?
Not for me to judge
I just continue to step on the stone in front of me
Life hands you lemons
I thank her and move on
No time to make lemonade or meringue a pie
I’ll put them in my pocket perhaps to trade
For a cup of sugar and water on a hot day
Fallen and can’t get up
I’ll crawl to my destination
Or perhaps it’s time for a nap
Just because I’ve fallen
Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy where I’m at
Life has you down?
Then time to rise up!
I’ll go under thank you
But good luck
Poor me,
Unfortunately so
But richer am I than the other fellow.

This is for a dVerse prompt: I would love to know how you deal with setbacks in life. Share with us in the form of a poem, of course, are you the kind to bounce back, do you curse and rant when things go wrong or do you wallow in self pity. As always you are free to interpret the prompt in any which way. I hope you enjoy!

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Money Where Their Mouth Is

A red bag with white trim with 100 dollar bills fanned sticking out of it
Money out my hand
Where it goes I don’t answer
Into your pocket

“You should just donate money to the campaign. You’d get this cleared up in a jiffy.”

“Isn’t that bribery? That’s illegal. Isn’t it?” asked Mr. Green.

“Yes. Absolutely. And I’m saying that as your lawyer. Bribery is illegal,” said Mr. Johnson, “Political donations are not. And I’m not saying that not as your lawyer.”

“Donations as part of a bribe?” asked Mr. Green his arms crossed.

“Who’s doing that? No, nobody here is doing that. Or any suggestion of that sort. We are merely saying that if you were to make known that hefty donations were made to such candidates in support of their ongoing good work; they may look upon this case more favorably, well actually unfavorably, therefore more likely to dismiss.”

“So if I give money to some politician then he’ll talk to the judge and tell him to dismiss the case?”

READ THE REST here: https://theauthorstew.ca/blog/money-where-their-mouth-is/


This is part of the Trumped Up Views stories. Trumped Up Views – a series of micro-stories set in a parallel universe with events eerily similar to our own that mirror the politics of the time.

Screams Most Unpleasant

Photo by Olena Bohovyk on Unsplash
   Sound hits my ear hard
Inside my brain it burrows
Noise most unpleasant

NOTHING IS WITHOUT 

                                      ONLY THE DAY BEGINS

                   INSIDE MY HEAD

                              SHE SCREAMS AGAIN

                                               ETERNAL EVENING DISTURBS MY SLUMBER

Nobody knew her name

             I saw her On the street corner alone

     An Invitation extended

                                One She should have declined

   Everyone knows you don’t talk to strangers

                                NEVER AGAIN WILL SHE BOTHER

    ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE GRASS

                                               INSIDE ALL OF US

                         SOMEONE OR SOMETHING IS ALWAYS SCREAMING

            ETERNAL TORMENTS

  She didn’t make the News

                                             Girls like her never dO

                         She had some fIght 

Screams and scratches, tears and blood                  

                                            Doesn’t matter in the End.


This is from a dVerse prompt: Write a poem about noise. “Fill your poem with noise to paint us a picture of an event. Use noise metaphorically to express turmoil or unease, whether internal or external. You can play with onomatopoeia in your poem if you’d like but it is not required.”

I took a kind of horror play on it with a nod to Poe. The noise obviously being the screams but they’re in his head, the echoes of the screams he created. And the letters of noise scattered through the poem giving it a noisy look and aesthetic as well. Hope you enjoyed.

Why can’t I come?

Image by Hugo Leonardo De Souza Lopes from Pixabay

You have gone before me
I tried to keep up
Following like a lost pup
To be or not to be
Still couldn’t see
The question never came up
You left me with the bill, like Jesus’ last sup
One last wood ride from a branch tree

I’m wearing all black
Tears fall like rain
All gathered round to say goodbye
There’s no coming back
No losing this pain
No matter how hard I try

Why can’t I come?

cover of After All is Said ... A couple walking away from each other the guy looking towards the woman

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