AwA Writers Corner

Conversation on the Word Color

by Ken Proper

IT’S COLOUR, LASS, with a “U”. You see the dreary palette of gray in the clouds, the pellucid foaming blue sea crashing on the rocky shore and the decorated treasures of the tide pool. D’ya mourn for the drab earthy tones of brown? Think of the brown trout with yellow to golden hues and circles dotted with black and red. Or the smell of chocolate-coloured soil after a rain. We can run and chase the end of the rainbow and find our pot o’ gold.

We are Americans now and need to assimilate, mate. Remember, we reveled with joy in the bright colors and observed the vivid flowers of brilliant red, blue, yellow and purple in an English

garden all floating in an ocean of emerald green. Our pot of gold resides with us here in the majestic mountains and the fields of waving grain. Alpenglow greets us at teatime, as does the fresh clear air when we wake in the morning. Peek out the window and see the wildflowers blooming as far as the eye can see. The painter must change the palette every week. Proclivity creates penchant.

Colour is our first perception and the last observation one sees.

Indeed, the newborn realizes the tone of mother’s skin and the breast to suckle. The child sees joy in the kaleidoscope of life and learns the name of each shade. The youth find the hues subdued and views the entire scene. Soon to discover, they are part of the image, just like us.

This man loves his woman’s red lips, her hazel eyes, and the flow of her blond hair cascading over supple shoulders.

This woman adores the tilt of her man’s hat, the broad shoulders and tickle of his golden moustache during a kiss. The joy of color will endure until our last breath.

Photo courtesy of Robert Katzki

WRITER’S CORNER My Cousin’s Anecdote

by Ken Proper

FRITZ LEANED AGAINST the outside wall of the barbershop and leisurely viewed the cars driving on Main Street. Hans pulled up to the curb in a new cherry red Mustang convertible with white leather interior and the top down. He parked and waved at his cousin.

“Beautiful car, Hans. How did you get it?”

“Well, that’s a good story,” he snickered. “You want to hear it?”

“You bet!”

“Gretel saw me walking down the road last evening and asked me if I wanted a ride. I said, ‘Sure,’ and I got in the passenger seat. She drove toward the woods and lake. The full moon was high in the sky and it sure was beautiful. After a while she asked if I wanted to drive. I grinned, ‘You bet,’ and we switched places. This baby handles really well, and I could hardly feel the bumps on the dirt road. There was a green grassy opening in the pine trees, and we could see the moon’s reflection on the dark blue lake. She said, ‘Stop here for a bit.’ So, I swerved to park. She got out saying, ‘It sure is lovely tonight.’ I had to agree. Then she gave me an interesting look, started taking her clothes off and dropped them on the

passenger seat. I thought she was going skinny dipping, but she turned to me and said, ‘You can have anything you want.’ I told her I didn’t know what she meant. And she cooed again, ‘You can have anything you want.’ So, I took the car.”

Fritz gazed at the swirled red, white and blue barber pole, rubbed the stubble on his chin, then wisely spoke with a chuckle. “You’re a smart man, Hans. You would have never fit in them clothes.”

Gretel ran home naked and laughing. The moonbeams highlighting her bare skin alternated with the shadows of the trees. She felt free and alive while pondering, each one of us was like a prisoner in a solitary tower and we communicated with the other prisoners in their towers. This was mankind and we were like actors alone on our stages. Would she try again to seduce her second cousin, once removed, who was her same age? Of course! He was handsome, strong and had a cute behind. Hans’s trick wasn’t rude, but an opportunity for revenge. She would get her car and clothes back with an anecdote to tell her friends. KP

Photo courtesy of Theodor Vasile

Soul

by John Cargille

They say a soul is black when it’s done wrong. But tell that to the black swan song, its melancholic blues like those in the rain’s dews–or maybe it’s more of a longing stretched too long, to long gone hues of infrared and ultraviolet, ultramarine in the pond where that tired bird has mused on its worries

For an eon.

Who can see the soul? Who can use their eyes to peer through someone else’s, make disguise drop with the raindrops, blues washing something away… Gaze rendering lies transparent, incoherent, reducing the maze

To a single line.

Were we supposed to color outside of those? Traveling to the core just gives me more questions about the object, the subject, gah! Color me confused with a yellow or chartreuse. You would rather use purple? Now that’s a bit odd. Suppose it’ll do–but dumbfounded should pop, should it not?

A soul made of notes, written in black ink. But it’s no black like pitch, one would think the pitches would keep to themselves, not link melody with mellow shades, throw a wink to the crowd as they change how loud to play the blues, the black, the swan, Come on!

says the groom to the bride, they step and stride and their souls leap inside, technicolor, omnicolor, write another poem of cheeks flushed red and bodies intertwined, eyes locked With rose-tones overtaking natural dye.

Is love just knowing the tint of the soul through the glint of the eye? How must it seem to the colorblind’s heart, then … and if a man knows fewer shades than a woman, does that speak to the lack of depth in his own? Old worries of true colors, and all the same to me. Swan could be grey, for all I know, but I empathize with it anyway.

Sing on, dear swan; let Grey skies get silver linings. Blues becomes our Soul.

Photo courtesy of David Clode