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Some paint the world in red, but give me blue:
show me those ice-cold depths of ocean blue.
How can I trace the moon and shooting stars
if I ignore the sky of midnight blue?
By day, the sea-salt water shines like glass:
my bottled ships sail out beyond the blue.
An angry wave of sunset floods the scene:
I swirl my curlicues in inky lines of blue.
A wall of fire descends; but dolphins leap
and dive, and what remains is blue.
When we moved away from your skies of blue,
I began to wonder about the blue.
How do I tell our child what you have done
when I can not stop playing Kind of Blue?
For you never could make career and child work —
for her, everything changed out of the blue.
While I remember the smallest details:
straight lashes, afternoon eyes a doll blue,
I forget black strapless dress beneath pearls,
and there on top is his cummerbund blue.
How can I shake those sounds from memory?
I play the old "Dream (When You're Feeling Blue)."
I could try to forgive, maybe forget.
I could say how yellow complements blue.
I know, Matt, I know — no matter the note
the sky you play in should be true blue.
This morning the sun spattered the world with blue
Skies and from their resting places the winds blew
In reply. Now around us we see blue jays,
Blue grass, blue bells, blue ribbons, all sea blue.
The birds scatter from here and everywhere
And we're in awe of what comes out of the blue.
What do we detect above the mountain tops?
Could there be aliens beyond outer blue?
Happy those who tan themselves on sea shore sand
Having salt-water waves washing them with blue.
Sometimes I wonder about this color too.
How can some ever be saying, "I feel blue"?
I want to take the sky, wrap it around you
And me. We could be enrobed in peaceful blue.
Someone told me, a bedroom needs a splash of blue.
I lie awake at night, where is that something blue?
A white horse swimming, swept down the current,
stumbles to shore, shakes off showers of cold blue.
End of season, we came back down the mountain
with our treasure, hands stained elderberry-blue.
Who is she, running toward me, arms wide open
offering in her hands a heart that pulses vibrant blue?
They were singing on the corner as the waters rose,
singing as the waters washed their music bluesy blue.
In the paint store, rainbows of bright color squares,
she stuffs her pockets with so many shades of blue.
I've watched the sky for clouds and planes, birds,
angels, messages and signs. The sky is spotless blue.
The small acts of love nurture my love for you,
and I am warmed by the cool breezes your silk fan blew.
Sometimes the small and light questions do
cast a light on what makes a man blue.
Was there a time when time was new
when this ancient muddy river ran blue?
Is it a sign of some sorrow in Nature's hue
that oxygen makes the sky scan blue?
The truth of colours is fleeting as a faint morning dew,
is this green light more a yellow light than blue?
Beyond the cobwebs and the grill flits a shade of blue
My city-eyes spy the sky; it's a shade of blue
Every memory buried with him except for this
One forgotten item — baby mitts — a shade of blue
No sheltering brown no shadow of green for me
Heaven reserves its choicest bits — a shade of blue
The shrink offers no quick clinical solace
A term he poses, if it fits, a shade of blue
Cornflower, cobalt, Iris, geranium,
Love's eyes are, one never admits, a shade of blue
So many mornings, Zoya, squandered in choice
A shade of blue is, you ditz, a shade of blue