Rainbows Within Us


Color's not a substance, it's a process:
the way our brains identify the light.
Light consists of energy that travels...
our neurons scan and label it on sight.

Each flower, rock and person is reflecting
varied lengths of radiating threads;
the shorter rays are violet (not purple),
longer ones are brighter shades of red.

Black retains its total saturation,
absorbing all the light that it receives;
white returns the colors of the spectrum,
but individual hues are not perceived.

Light enters through the keyhole of our pupil
and splats against the retina wall behind,
where tiny rods and cones define the message,
then send it zipping onward to our mind.

And that's where rainbows form -- they're right inside us;
our brain outlines their arch of pulsing hues.
So ponder now... does color have existence?
Or is it merely someone's point of view?




Celebrating Patterns


Patterns congregate around us,
sleep within us and astound us -
large as life or insignificantly small.

Patterns darting through the heavens,
moleculing through the oceans,
painting pitter-patter flecks upon our wall.

Patterns boldly over-rated,
others deftly understated,
patterns twisted into convoluted lines.

Patterns patented and stolen,
some disguised and never known,
patterns rolling off the edges of our minds...!





The Cable Song


Cables stretching out and crawling
over ditches, roads and fences;
hanging, monkey-swinging fashion,
on to knotted arms of tangle-footed poles.

Cables delving into tunnels
where the fossils sleep in layers
unaware they're being ravaged
by the hunger for the harvest of their souls.

Cables hiking over mountains
leaving mutilating gouges
and protruding entrails splattered
on the purity of softly patterned greens.

Cables bulging with the fullness
of a billion flowing memos;
drinking pictures out of orbits,
spitting finely sequenced pellets onto screens.

Cables spliced in all directions,
joining continents and bedrooms,
climbing elevated towers,
keeping tiny heaves of respiration strong.

Cables fusing subtle sensors
down each thoroughfare and crevice
spreading oscillating fibers
in the ever-growing rhythm of their song.



© Laryalee Fraser


Next

Poem Index