Haha, well, I was trying to catch up with the rest of the 30 poems in 30 days folks, but it looks like I’m still lagging behind.
This poem was inspired by the Read Write Poem prompt today which said to “write about the thing you didn’t choose” and, well, orange has never been my favourite colour.
never orange
I’ve never picked you orange
as a favour as a phase my youth
spent through pinks and purples
stringing the edges of my bedroom
with the white curliness
of imagination
orange was never curly it was
twang an offense
a softball team jersey hoisted upon
the losingest team on the playground
where only once for a moment
I thought I might find comfort in you
orange, the poppies, sprung about the hill
and me picking a bouquet only to be told
those are California poppies,
you can’t pick them it’s illegal
orange, you betrayer, you opium den
you prison sentence
you were never the greens of my wardrobe
of my fern forest nor were you
my brief affair with red
when it offered a chance
a sports car
a negligee
a swiss army knife
orange, I’ve never loved you
never let you under my skin
even in your soft sunrise I’ve taken you
for granted even in your flames
You have managed to make orange a kind of unhallowed hero in this fine poem of autobiographical color.
Very fine job!!
I’ve felt as you about poor overlooked orange – until just lately, when I find myself longing for tangerine and terra cotta washes on textured walls… Orange’s time has come.
and I confess . . . we painted our kitchen cantaloupe and our bedroom is a fabulous deep pumpkiny colour . . . from the natural (eco) paint store. LOL.
but those softball uniforms, ugh, I still shiver.
This was an entertaining poem Danika. Hope the NaPoWrimo is coming along well.
Best,
Suma.
Hi Suma – – well, most of it has gotten away from me. I’ve given up trying to catch up!
Now this might be my favorite April poem you’ve posted yet!
Yes, you’ve made Orange the anti-hero! Orange only looks good on prisoners and traffic cones. I have flashbacks of the time my mom dressed me as a pumpkin when I was a little boy. Sigh.
I also have flashbacks of the time when I first started school and could never spell that damn word, so I allowed the girl who sat next to me to kiss me on the head in exchange for her allowing me to copy off of her paper.
Then there was the eighth-grade incident involving me and some fake tanning substance.
My orange poem would simply read:
Oh, Orange.
You bitch.
Brian! I think this is my favourite comment for April’s poetry month.
yeah, i forgot to mention an incident with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide when I was in high school . . .