In a city faraway made sightless long ago

A boy asks, “What is blue?”

A man, remembering fondly, answers,


“Blue is the color of the sea, and with the sea

God paints the world.

It is the color of its soul, and all souls,

If souls had color.

Blue is in the belly of the rainbow,

And the river that mimics the open sky.”


The confounded boy, never having witnessed the

Sea, souls, God, rainbows, or the open sky, asks

“But what does blue sound like?”


“It is the sound of a flute song,

And the flutter of wings midflight

And the sway of leaves

When you wake to dawn.

And at dusk, it is the horn of the lighthouse,

The call of the land to the sea bound,

A one-note song hanging in the night air.


I hear blue in the crashing star-yearned swells

Of tumbling waves.

It beckons for the speechless to speak

And the loveless to love,

To break tide, reach, fall,

And reach again.


“And does blue have a smell?”


“The scent of blue lingers in the breath of the evening wind, a whiff of Lilac

Or was it Jasmine?

It traverses the mountain, past the meadow and

Blows out the candle on your bedroom window.”


“And of what does blue taste? What is its texture?”


“The widow tastes blue

In the bitter salt of tears

That trickle down, a stinging blaze

And pour into her heart’s open wound.

And blue is the shrill and shiver

Of her involuntary cry, and the

Burn in her breast.


And Blue is tender lips kissing rain

That fall from weeping clouds.

And it is when you close your eyes

And drown the empty space

With brisk silence

And sit, thinking, sinking, unafraid.”


“Blue is the slow wink of nightfall,

The draped velvet veil that blankets

Soft poetry made between sheets.

It is the warmth of a body in bed

And the cool of the August air

That brushes the bare arch of her back.


Blue is waiting for the noise to cease

And for the tide to wash away the sand

Between your toes.

It is the wolf’s howl,

And the hair caught in the wind,

And the frost forming on your lashes.


Blue is the ink in your veins,

That bleeds onto the page

And smears.

And blue is the afterthought of an idle fantasy

Lost in the haze, the graveyard of

Yesternight’s dreams."

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed