Colored Words

Poetry is a fluid movement; 

Paint on a fresh canvas 

With tongues as the brush.

Purple trees and

Yellow bees

A garden for just

You to see

With words like birds

Flying high right by

Our heads.

Leaving the lone

Whistle stop station.

Stages welcome poets 

With open arms, 

Open mics 

Open minds

And allow their wood

To sag with the weight

Of the words,

Be torn apart by

Their roots digging deep

Into the earth; 

Making it known that

This is their home.

Poets can show more

Than anger and blackness,

They can paint

With words and letters

Pictures and smells

They can make you feel

The autumn breeze against your skin

Standing under trees 

With falling leaves 

And birds chattering

In the background

Artists can make you happy

Sad, suffocate and breathe

All with the way their

Brush moves across the

Canvas.

Painting clouds and rain

Flowers and spring

Tying emotions to the picture

We are poets whose words 

Travel to their destination

Arriving and planting 

Roots in brains

We indulge on the taste

Of our paint. Spreading and 

Brushing wondrous words

Together one by one

Red wine with ragged

Paint stained clothes

Sunshine yellow specks

Shimmer in my hair

Blues smoking as strings

Softly cry against a 

Billowing Caribbean bay

We poise the position

Of words to match our flow

Like a rapper with his rhymes

Hooking them in with his verses

Bobbing heads to the tune

Wrapping their minds around

The way our tongues

Spit the syllables of truth

The way our tongues paint

Heavens and hells

The way our tongues sing

hymns, humming

Harmoniously to the heavens.