Don’t speak to me of sorghum
Red fields, pressed up toward a sky
Whatever called to me there
Too wild, attempting a face
Old verses for my father
Dignify the cooling page
Black earth is the word it makes
Tilts forward, consequential
— Wendy Xu
Like liquid shadows. The ice is thin
Whose mirror smears them as it intercepts
withdrawing colours; and where the crust,
as if a skin livid with tautening scars…
— by Charles Tomlinson
It has been solemn traveling
A night and a day
This road running straightly northwards;
None went my way.
— Rosamund Dargan Thomson
The morning may be brilliant; the season
is one of brilliances—sunlight through
the fountained willow behind us, its splayed
shadow spreading westward, our shadows westward,
irregular across damp grass, the close-set stones.
— Michael Anania
… nothing can
stop the truth of it art is all we
can say to reverse
the chain of events and make a pileup
of passion to match the stars
No choice but between
a certain variation
hard to perceive in a shade of blue
— by William Carlos Williams
Green was the forest drenched
with shadows
the roads were serpentine
A redwood tree stood
alone
with its lean and lit body
unable to follow the
cars that went by with
frenzy
a tree is always an immutable
traveller.
— by Etel Annan
Color is new upon each sunlit surface;
lifting lines are reimbursed with flight;
cool and level lie the planes of morning
covered with light.
— by Edith Henrich
虚斋寂寂茶烟细，
小瓶斜插数枝梅。
An empty study, silent – tea vapor softly curls;
Plum sprigs tilt in a slender vase.
— Hallucinated by Deepseek
* I use “hallucinated” because I didn’t ask Deepseek to write a poem for me, but search for something. It made this up along the way and attributed it to a poet in Ming dynasty (1368-1644). Not a bad couplet though.
The air is like a butterfly
With frail blue wings.
The happy earth looks at the sky.
And sings.
—Joyce Kilmer
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, Verne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is, and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
— W.B. Yeats
Unusual Colors - Digital and AI art 