Monday, July 28, 2014

The blue doors of Paris..

Doors are a portal to our dreams.
If only knew what was on the other side...we think.

But this blue I’m compelled to glorify—
it’s not robin’s egg, navy, or indigo;
it’s a shade that should be named “devastation blue,”
the excruciating, lacerative blue of today’s sky
whose incandescence suggests
that its nearest blood kin is neither
violet nor emerald,
but gold—this blue must be
gold’s daughter,
the flame inside the flood,
the flood inside the wind,
the wind inside the flame.

Open wide the blue door in front of me
That portal to the sea and to the mountains beyond
On terraces carved from the salt kissed air
Where I will sit until the sun gives birth to the stars
I gather up my papers
Tussled by the evening breeze
The ink dries quickly
And my songs rest quietly upon the page
My friends and I we chat until it is a bit to cold for comfort

Maybe they are a source
   of creativity.


    But how will
    we ever know

    unless we have
    the courage to
    open them? 

References "Another Poem on Blue" Weekly Hubris and
"The Blue Door (A Poem)

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