Ph: Stanford: Softly Off-Colored Poem #2 Poem by Brian Johnston

Poet's Pre-Notes: A poem from my 8th week in a Stanford continuing education class offered on the internet, a study of free verse and structure. The poem writing technique is to write as unconsciously as you can for 5 minutes, then after an hour or so to attempt to pull material of interest from what you have written to compose a free verse poem. What follows immediately is my source material for the poem that follows below it. I hope you will enjoy both.

Source Material:

A harvest moon like a pumpkin with a somewhat lewd, lascivious grin, an orange life jacket floating in perfectly clear inescapably blue water (even in this orange colored poem) , a buoyant orange bikinied girl floating free in orange flowered blue cap, hair of in-determinant color, unencumbered by life jacket or much else, colored coral with traces of yellow and red (orange in the making) , firmly fixed and shining not so far beneath her, framed by the bleached canvas of ancestral remains, with the almost invisible fish that like to hide in their branches, anti-green coral leaves that mock photosynthesis, sway in their oceanic groves like wind-tickled wheat, softly glowing with the light of a sinking sun.
Orange you glad you are here with me, fruit scented suntan lotion blocking harmful rays as we sip our still bubbling mimosas and taste each other’s colored kisses, orange between our toes as we dangle feet from our floating sanctuary in the tropical water, nibbled on by tiny fish hoping perhaps to steal our genetic code for a future lifetime, blinded by the incredible orange flash of a light drizzle’s rainbow as we orange our way as softly as marmalade jellyfish toward an approaching quilt of dusk-colored fog, orange as the meteor that sparks star ash one last time against the nearly empty sky above as night finally falls as well, leaving only the harvest moon to watch the emotional tides rise and fall within us.


Softly Off-Colored Poem - 2

Orange-Aid for Nepalese earthquake survivors, America rocks
Homeless people around the globe.

Orange rafts with paddles pop open loaded with victims of a forced water landing,
Like bags of hot spice seasoned potato chips.
Half-naked islanders wearing orange lays
Weave their canoes through schools of rainbow colored fish
To welcome tourists to island hot tubs
Chockfull of tubers, carrots and onions
Sure to soften skin.
No American in island colored shirt will be rejected.
Orange ancient customs so interesting?

Orange papaya orchards mark more populated, less primitive isles,
Close to where a stand of beach grown resorts flourishes..
A buoyant, orange bikinied girl floats free of care,
Unencumbered by life jacket or much else
In perfectly clear inescapable blue waters
(Even in this orange colored poem) .
Wearing blue cap with orange flowers, hair color indeterminate,
She is a visual feast to some, to others simply delicious,
What some islanders would call snack food, ready to eat,
Almost no peeling necessary.

Orange colored coral glows from not so far beneath her,
Yellow and red (orange in the making) firmly fixed,
Framed by the bleached canvas of ancestral remains.
Camouflaged fish blend perfectly with the
Anti-green coral leaves that mock photosynthesis,
Leaves that sway in their oceanic groves like wind-tickled wheat
Passively reflecting the light of a sinking sun.

Orange you glad that you are here with me?
Citrus scented suntan oil blocks harmful rays
As we sip our still bubbling mimosas
And taste each other’s intoxicating kisses
Reflected orange shines between our toes too as feet dangle
From our floating sanctuary in warmly tropical water,
Nibbled on by tiny fish cannibalizing
Our genetic code for some future lifetime.
Now we are blinded by the incredible orange flash
Of a light drizzle’s rainbow….
We orange our way as softly as marmalade jellyfish
Toward an approaching quilt
Of dusk-colored fog.

Orange as the twilight meteor that sparks star ash one last time,
A colored contrail against the nearly empty sky above
As night too falls,
Leaving only a pumpkin faced harvest moon
With a lewd, lascivious grin and tea stained teeth
To watch phosphorescent tides come and go
In our passionate cove.


Brian Johnston
May 9,2015