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Do you know the vibrant family of red?
Sisters Rose to Scarlet in the family of red?
When you see red do you get mad as a bull?
Wear a black dress clap stomp strum madly to red.
Who does not need a rest a change of view of place?
Surrounded, shy sisters Rose & Mauve flee from red.
A change of décor, why not purple hues instead?
To cruise towards indigo mountains, from a sea of red!
The sunset has stolen blue from the sea, gray from clouds.
By evening, a glass of pinot noir, ready for red!
Why not non-toxic color-therapy for all?
First, a blues song, then ragtime melody of red.
Some crimson for good fortune at the altar.
While multitudes mourn the sight of bloody red.
A harvest of burnished riches feed the eye.
Upon the branches a burst of juice, berry red !
The day arises hot-hued, then burns to black
With Merlot, Sue's alright with taste of ruby red.
In the fruitbowl painted orange
the brightest fruit is the orange.
As the storm moves off to the west
the sunset beauty is orange.
The new roadmap lies between us —
what is this route that's marked orange?
The successful carrot harvest —
so many roots of bright orange.
The poet finds the hardest word
to rhyme with, cutely, is orange.
forsythia lives in Brooklyn springing out in star-shaped yellow
bouncing schoolward some are really sneezing on that yellow
breakfast eggs on children's lips the taste still teasing at the ringing bell
the rich surprise of buttermilk the thick and pleasing gulp of yellow
for daffodils in early peeks I'm anxious through the sometime snow
students sighted on a hill reciting Wordsworth sipping Reisling O pale yellow
yell ow yell oh the pain the bleak the jumped-up joys transfuse the mind
those who scorn doubloons while coveting the glow are seizing fists of yellow
in December Da(r)lin(g) mourns the sun reptilian nature clear as yolk
she books a flight and lightly packs citrines her ears and taxis off Belizeing after yellow
Not much comes to mind now as I think of something yellow
Except that Beetle Song that happens to mention yellow.
I do not care to cite a certain bird I know by name
Which of all living colors has a belly gleaming yellow
And how can I forget the time that youthful Dorothy
Sauntered with her friends along that road whose bricks were yellow.
So how am I to continue and finish this poem piece
If I can't conjure more things which know the color yellow?
Let me see — are there fruits I know with that color?
Is it a lemon that's lemon colored or all yellow?
As I now recall, I can see there being in the fields
Some flowers still growing wild and proud of beaming yellow.
And last of all, I want to close with one fulfilling thought.
I wish to be the one who hears that harvest moon yell, O!
Most people say the color of silence is golden.
Perhaps because these days it is so rare.
However, silence may not always seem so golden.
Consider the silence surrounding those in prayer.
The silence when we thank God for his gifts is golden,
but a prayer of mourning may cause silence to go gray.
The silence when two lovers cuddle may be pink
as they enjoy the warmth of love and want to stay
in the rosy state of passion. Do you not think
that when that passion fades and goes away
they may find pink passion turns as blue as ink?
The mood of those in silence rules the day.
Running hot in his veins red
Lover's eye always rains red
Apocalypse took it all away, but
The warning light, that remains red
History's pages are black and white
The Pen's ink always contains red
This poet's rhymes are white lies
Guised cleverly in refrains red
Her answer to every gazing eye:
"Rose's blush always maintains red"
Darkness descends at dusk's demise
Scant hope alone that sustains red
You too can drink my tears, O Rose,
That's how the Wine attains red
Dark soot from Ahmed's forgotten pyre
Still has some sparks — and stains red