The Color of Wings
Poetry by: Pamela R. Cone
When Love Wears White If we were both brown, we would know what to do. We would know what to say. If we were both white, we would know what to do. We would know what to say. When he looks at her skin, so white, no maybe pink, I wouldn't know how to feel. Would he miss that which he has always touched? When I see him, his skin so bronzed, sometimes black, would he know how to feel? Would I miss that which I have always touched? Will it matter? Will our skin get in the way? Will I make my father and brother angry or my mother sad? I only see him past the skin. The person behind the blue eyes. I can see love--even when it wears white.
When Love Wears White 2 It's just skin with different lives. The soul breathed within the same. My eyes see what others look over. The brilliance of his mind. The boy in his smile. The freedom in his eyes. I saw him one day--uncovered. He wore no skin. Standing in light.
Stench of Sin It was stuck in my throat. Once the staunch stench entered my nostrils, I knew it would shortly reach my palette. And once again I would have to swallow this bile. It always makes me want to vomit, weep and spit all at the same time. Or at least some bodily action to cause me to extract this evil. If not it will like a snakes venom innermingle within until it suffocates all the signs of life. Smothered out like any bright flame, it will take a greater emotion to recapture. It will take the cleansing odor to purify once more.
Close Enough Too distant to touch My fingers smelled The odor of freedom The water wouldn't be muddy The stars not so out of reach The glow of re-birth The dew of dawn Securing the fresh manna Delivering a new hope The hell hounds howl Even at a glorious moon Hiding me now at home
Standing The morning star stands in the middle of Zion's sanctuary. The light of his mercy prevents him from seeing me covered in sickness. The blindness permits my cries to fall on his ear. They don't rest there, they touch him. With one hand he holds me and with the other gathers my tears for the bottle bearing my name. I can only imagine how I appear standing at his gate too afraid to enter too tired to leave. Some time has passed now I see the heaviness leave out the door. I whisper, "close", it obeys. I turn and walk away asking to be able to return again. I can see my tomorrow. I can feel strength while standing.
The Color of Wings If I had wings, how far would I fly? If my feet could ascend to higher ground, how far would I leap? If I could sing another song, would it be a melody sweet? If my timbrel were made of brass, would it praise with a new beat? I believe my thoughts would be tinted, I would smile not weep. If I had wings I would no longer be standing incomplete. I would escape at dusk as purple claimed the evening sky. I would finally taste what it means to fly. My pain would cease. The morning light would run through me deep.
Pamela R. Cone is an Interior Designer and Writer residing in Dayton, Ohio. She writes poetry and her work has been published in The Clarion Review. Her blog, Sometimes I Talk to Myself, can be found at pamelaconespoetry.blogspot.com.