I’ve mentioned in one of my posts how you never really know what could come out of a picture. I keep getting surprised about how one image can make you connect the dots with a totally different issue. So when I saw this picture on Indigo Spiders Sunday Picture Press….
I was thinking of writing an ode to something…though I wasn’t really sure to what. So I sat in front of my com for maybe forty five minutes( yes I have been told that writing poetry is nothing but staring at the com for a good half hour and doing nothing, which is actually true if you are honest about the exterior aspect of writing, quite the opposite of the internal hum of connect the dots). And then this came up…a conversation between two people who obviously did not like each other for various reasons- age, race, attitude….
Text fingered Android you,
Then we were adapting ourselves to technicolour, shades of grey acclimatized to
The grey in our heads.
I’ve been down colour alley.
Colour is something we take for granted.
Rods and cones. Skies are not that blue, little black dots of salt and pepper
Like astigmatism- everything contaminated with holes.
Even the seeing are blind- holes in the head, in the weather they spread.
See how you walk the other way on an empty street with boards that remind
Of a time. Gizmos lie, don’t they? The colours are fading like the money drains
Down bills, down mortgages, down taxes, down education for the better life, down hospital fees.
Splat! Crack! Predictions dire. How come I’m walking toward rainbows?
How come you say the world is coming to an end when things couldn’t have been better
for the have nots? knotted no longer in their painful silences, awful doubt. I’m walking away alright
on a quiet road where
the sign boards say out of business; and I hear fix! Not the fix you’re in. So fade
fade away cynic, forecaster of doom. The picture is coloured, always was
You chose to see winter,
always did, even when colour discovered you on some leafy continent.
© neelthemuse, 2012