red is splashy

isn’t it

the color of

anger,

hunger,

passion,

and

some Mike & Ike’s. . .

Red is primary to Christmas,

but ask yourself:

would Christmas be as

Christmas(ee)

without green?

Survey says no

–as do poinsettias,

naturally–

when they’re feelin’ chatty.

ask Alice.

Yellow is red’s

close second.

Bright enough to blind,

it represents.

word

and that word might describe

sun,

intellect,

at work

warnings,

and

brick roads…

(a bitch to keep tidy)

Easter, too,

Easter would be less eggy altogether

beaters

wouldn’t it,

without yellow, but ask yourself:

where would Easter be without purple to complement

all that brilliant yellow?

I can’t say…

or see

–on account of the blackout shades worn to mitigate

all

-that

–brilliant

––yellow…

Blue.

Blue must be mentioned

passive-aggressively

but mentioned

…

missing celebration,

it nevertheless

calls images to mind

“hey images!!”

images like

sky

okay: sky.

bells,

books,

bluebirds,

happy twits

and

moons…

okay: moon

and ubiquitous as blue might be

ask yourself:

I insist

where would blue be without orange?

Van Gogh insists, too, and quite possibly first.

The primary point being:

what comes next

second

is every bit as vital as that which

preceded it.

rainbow.

draw a picture of

thoughts

emotions

changes

life

prolly the first time,

just remember, you can never really erase

make sure there is a

strip of blue up top

–tempura blue–

and a greening, yellow sun on top of that

(shades of Van No)

and maybe a temporally questionable moon opposite

(and a patch of stars if you’re lucky)

and leave a big white space

between blue & bottom

a bottom spiked w grass

(spikes that are to scale monocots the size of palms)

–since it’s in the white space

life is written

in big looping careful script

–sans emoji–

script that runs slanted, and gets

cramped when you

realize

life is shown

(not told)

and you’ve run out of

space-time realizing this

–and have yet so much to say–

unexpressed

undepicted

(stick figures looking for a bumper)

that the too big ladybug atop the spikes below, and now so dangerously near

will block out of you

September

~reaps~

October’s

dead

November

e< a< t< s

December’s

red

January

→ starts anew →

February’s

♥ love ♥

for you…

then lions

March

–as April jests!

from

May

/ pole /

moves

that

June

mOOns best.

July

unleashes~~

August’s

dogs

that guard the yard

September

.crops.

My life is skinny,

and I want it to be phat.

Luscious overloads

of hugs, and

seam-splitting amounts

of acceptance, and

big rolls of silly, and

spare tires of shared desires!

um…what else?

and gut busting giggles, too,

to burst top buttons

>instead of pushing them<

muffin tops of understanding

overflowing genes….

So much so, double chinned “chin ups”

would hardly ever come into play

>but available<

to whip moues

into smiles so fluffy

–I’d need an extra face.

the absence

of sound

varies

It vibrates. Seething with the residue of the last insult thrown after an argument, it bubbles up in trapped rooms, ferments and explodes like cheap champers. . .coating everything.

It pales. Empties. The ineptness of language stills in the presence of the awe-striking, Grand Canyon wide, Everest tall and Northern Lights encompassing.

It bows. Dips. In aftermath of a serious question, all that is as yet unanswered weights the air with the spectrum of possibility—and all outcomes to which each possibility leads. Parallel universes quiver in the pause.

It quakes. It disappears–and dominates–in grief. When all with which you express yourself–and to whom–is broken. Most especially your soul.

It comforts. Silken weave in swaying wavelength, separate strands spun from the same skein cradle good friends.

It nurtures. Womb-like silence in the woods, the chirping of crickets, rustle of leaves and branches, and birdsong accent it.

It soothes. Wee silence late at night, as rhythmic as absent slumbering breath, it shelters.

It relieves. Borrowed quiet among books, library silence is a tacit handshake with all who mill.

It pulls. Tightens. The quiet in a funeral home struts and frets its final moments posthumously.

It separates. Stonewall in the face of pleading, its obdurate nothingness wounds.

the absence

of sound

–varies.

a Muse with Life

began her tale,

intentions true

and accent gael,

pure of heart

and vigor hale,

certain kindness

would prevail.

a Muse brought Joy

to tales told,

before and after

young and old,

improving that

which did unfold,

gilding stories

mining droll.

a Muse found Love

when Sun was high,

the vast unmet

now met inside,

> electric pull <

and undenied,

a light that burned

into a Night.

a Muse felt Fear

and losing faith,

she lost what’s dear

to save her face,

a fool’s course

since pride is fake,

—and crippled Muse

—and altered Fate.

a Muse knew Grief,

as days grew long,

lost all Belief

that good was strong,

Reaper thief

and loved ones gone,

Turning leaf—

—remixing Song.

a Muse & Death

then trod the path,

matching step

without a map,

and though she feared

the hooded chap,

aMusing was–

the final laugh.

©Karen Robiscoe

the Muse

Un-a-Mused

magic is unique,

if you want to hocus-pocus

sometimes you have to look at the big picture

–not found in TV stores–

and dig yourself a new hole

. . .

a gofer it hole that may lead to Wonderland

prest*O, change*O

or may damage pipes

–you can’t know until you wave that magic shovel

. . .

(bring duct tape along, just in case)

Of course, you might try

bypassing the wardrobe,

and go in through the bathroom window, instead.

Wielding just enough Windex to provide clarity

(to see the neighboring yard)

the greener grass of which is downright Narnian–

–still.

(pack pocket with binocKs, just in case)

and if it’s kite-free weather,

and houses are grounded

no woRRies!

(be happy)

There are yet options

–a wind machine dba portable fan works

>in a pinch<

a droptop drive in the country

does the trick in time, too,

–just not a DeLaurean–

(stow a go-bag, when you do, just in case)

but the best second-best

by far

is howling at the moon

since any-where-girl worth her hide knows

you can shortcut it to Oz

~along the rainbow bridge~

skipping black & white altogether

to travel in

Technicolor style

. . .

Keep in mind the trees you can’t see

for the forest

have a helluva reach, though,

and if Kansas is your starting point,

bring apple ammo along, also

. . .

you know

. . .

(just in case)