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Poems On / About PINK  4/18/2015 10:01:22 PM
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  157.     

A Thread Shed To Many

Extends through my body, contained within, blown without,
controlled by a vibrant hued, pink livid hand.
To dangle, on this her spigot, brings her joy, on this for her, for
her only, do i, must i, will i swing..while she sings....
of other things, it is forgotten.
On this, hers, this thin thread, she holds it..a look unproved, is
only but by the fire, in the hole that Venus, Mons does spew.
Telescopic, is to raze, the heavens as her thin veil, never cries.
This fire makes the oil, you bottle, to spray within us, is allowed.
Birds around the world, wonder as forever, spins thus..in dance.
While my thread of pinkness, in which it is trapped is passed
from one pink hand, to another, freshly spun...from her, pink spigot.
 
Is It Poetry

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  158.     

Pink Eared Duck

Not classified as rare birds though let me hereby say
That on your lakeside walks pink eared ducks you don't see every day
With barred unders and fleshy lobe under front of bill and mostly brown to gray
Quite distinctive from other ducks in their colouring and their way
With a pink patch around either ear which gives rise to their name
Yet in the World of birds it does seem that they are strangers to fame
In log cavities they lay their eggs their nests are hard to find
But then again such can be said of most waterbird kind
I was talking to an old birdwatcher a couple of days ago
Pink eared duck are his favourite birds and of them much he does know
He said after heavy rains in remote shallow lakes they congregate
He has studied them for many years and he has even seen them mate
Birds that are not seen often though not classified as rare
And many with little interest in waterbirds of their existence unaware.
 
Francis Duggan

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  159.     

Skin

My skin, the jacket of my spirit, is a patchwork quilt to be worn for warmth.

The rough redness of my dry hands shows the signs of premature aging from all the writing I do while my hands are cold.

The pale, transparent English skin on my legs my never brown except in scaly patches where the sun hits the bulging calf muscles I have developed from walking everywhere I go in flat shoes.

My breasts shine pale and pink, the soft pillows for children's napping heads.

My neck goes red when I am angry and white when I am sick.

On my feet, the quilt has its flaws. The tough and wrinkled soles of yellow-white spots clash with the peach toes and ankles.

But my face, oh my face, oh my poor, mismatched face, it is the part of the quilt sewn by a blind woman.

My perfect forehead of unwavering peach and matching temples fade into ruddy cheeks with brown polka dots for freckles.

Where my cheeks sink so deeply thanks to Anorexia's hold on me, they turn almost green with shadow and veins.

On my shin and nose are little patches of bright pink surrounded by olivey-white peachness, where a child spilled her watercolors on the quilt (which she wasn't supposed to be using as a dropcloth anyway) .

My face is a mesh of a dozen countries and a hundred generations.

My face reflects my mother's pink, peach, white, soft European tones.

My face reflects my father's rich olive, tan, sun-fed complexion.

My skin, the jacket of my spirit, is a patchwork quilt to be worn for warmth.
 
Laura Kiernan

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  160.     

This Peach Is Pink With Such A Pink

This peach is pink with such a pink
As suits the peach divinely;
The cunning colour rarely spread
Fades to the yellow finely;
But where to spy the truest pink
Is in my Love's soft cheek, I think.

The snowdrop, child of windy March,
Doth glory in her whiteness;
Her golden neighbours, crocuses,
Unenvious praise her brightness!
But I do know where, out of sight,
My sweetheart keeps a warmer white.
 
Norman Rowland Gale

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