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Poems On / About PINK  6/30/2015 12:16:33 AM
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Best Poems About / On PINK
 
 
 
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  157.     

'2010/02/18 Beautiful Pink Kimono

Beneath my jet-black pullover
I wear a pink kimono beautifully
revealed as I drift daintily down
street – the watery way I mean

An exotic butterfly, a lady taking
small Japanese steps while my
favourite soprano sings Les Oiseaux
Dans La Charmille in my ears

Head demurely bent sans sunglasses
they’d have spoiled the effect, my eyes
on a sheer pink orchid petal kimono
rustling enticingly

A sun-screen between me and real
world traffic, I see only pink and feel
myself floating in a Japanese scene
of unequalled beauty…
 
Margaret Alice

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  158.     

So Many Colours

Rainbows on my windowpanes,
Each one a different scene;
Pink, purple, yellow, green sheep;
Red, orange, indigo, clouds;
Can you see?

Rainbows on my windowpanes,
Each one a different scene;
Pink, purple, yellow, green aliens
Atop red, orange, indigo trees;
Can you see?

Rainbows on my windowpanes,
Each one a different scene;
Pink, purple, yellow, green everything,
Red, orange, indigo too;

Oh mommy daddy can't you see?
Why does everything have to be blue?
 
Dream Land

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  159.     

December Sunset

The pink-blue sky
With the grey-blue buildings
And windows all in pink
With the jet-streams flying
The pink becomes blue,
Becomes grey,
While our eye forms abstract designs
In the cold.
And the charcoal streets
With their white-blue lamps
To cancel out
The god-given darkness.
And finally, to the stillness of the night
We close our eyes
And dream of other worlds.
 
Fred Babbin

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  160.     

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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