Poem-A-Day: Day 318

On Blues

Sapphire spires jutting at angles
not normal to natural way,
cutting cobalt wounds
in an otherwise gray-skinned animal,
bleeding blue blood,
slowly pooling in small pockets,
slowly turning azure angles acute
from obtuse concepts hanging low,
dreaming cyan concepts from the wounds,
the pooling blood on gray skin,
making cerulean concepts create color
from the small pockets of cloying angles,
spears jutting from navy notions,
jutting at all angles and dropping from the sky.
In one din go, the indigo sky shows through gray,
leaving only no din aims from image notions.

Poem-A-Day: Day 39

And I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues

A day saddened
like any none other
not unlike the next
but just as painful to watch
through rose colored shot glasses.
It’s warm,
and the scent stays
but only so long
as the olfactory shuts down
and the migrant workers return
to their pitiful homes,
tired,
washed up and dirty.
Despite their declining senses,
they know they have just lived
one thousand days longer
than anyone had imagined
in the matter of seconds
passing.

The door becomes the subtle release
to the dark and vacant.
It’s cold,
and despite calamity,
some reticent wind is wailing
sad, sad songs.