I start a yellow poem:
A bee trails yellow
pollen from bloom
Sunflowers trace arcs
east to west blazing yellow
back at their commander….
A yellow villain beats
cowardly retreat although his
gunfight’s just begun….
In an ancient urn
their dry scroll of yellowed
Scraps of a letter yellowed
by scorch in last night’s burn
litter her cold fireplace.…
Each yellow thread begins to weave
its story, unravels its poem.
I paint signals in a still life:
Glass of lemonade, fireflies,
Yellow leaves and gourds.
A yellow cat sleeps:
Yellow lamps glow, yellow
mugs steam, yellowed books askew:
Daffodils in cut glass
vases on yellow linens:
Each brushstroke catches shape, conveys
light, as it was, not before, not after, caught
on a flat plane, spring, summer, winter or fall
Signals hover, in a landscape:
Sun blazes: sunflowers blast yellow
back in row after row after row:
Under blaring blue sky, Ohio’s cornfields:
row follows row of dry yellow stalks:
Pale yellow sun hangs low,
bare trees cast long purple shadows:
At Giverny, field of yellow irises,
distant morning haze of blue:
Each vista emerges from brush and paint,
coaxed by hand, guided by eyes
as they saw it, or wanted to see it, right then.
©2014 Marguerite Beck-Rex