Colors Of The Day Poem by martin elbin

the water colored dull slate gray reflects a slate gray sky
and lends the day a slate gray feel and slate gray makes me cry.
no pure blue glass to mirror a perfect pure blue sky
or treat the day with pure blue joy with which to amble by.

the leaves are brown and dying in the browning of the fall
and day turns brown with sunrising, the trees, and grass and all.
not healthy browns of soil, or growing browns of bark
nor beaten trails of brown footpaths through yellowstone's vast park.

the dark black evening sky, no stars for black clouds bleak
and cast black nothing on the earth from black vale to black peak.
no coal crisp blackend sheen on rock or oily, seepy leak
for black, dark black was not looked for, not something that i seek.

the wavery waxing moon, washed out by cloudy squalls
and barely lights the sodden earth, in alleys, barns and stalls.
not sharp or crispy moonlight's edge, revealing through the dark
nor beast upon the shadowed fields, or solitary lark.

the day has sorely tested me, and worn me down to kneel
and tortures scratchy retched breath-and everything i feel.
not sweet cool airs, or dusting snows or grass of blue or teal
nor laughter pealing on the winds from playgrounds far afield.

the listless life i lead, in strange ways prods and calls
and tests one path and then the next down varied twisted halls.
not roads of even cobblestones, or brick-red edges hard and stark
nor soothing words to rest the soul, but cruel and harsh remark.