Color

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The Skies burst with color. Orange, green and then yellow.
They screamed out for anyone to hear. “Come and catch us” they cried. They called, pleaded.
The children ran.
I cried out, calling them back.
But they disappeared, the children did, one by one into the empty land Beyond.
Beyond the place where Color lives. Beyond the place of Peace.
The children drifted on and on until they reached the Palace.
There they knelt on bleeding knees.
There they fell and cried.
Their wings ripped off, their smiles gone.
I called for them that day. I said “live where Color dwells. Dwell where Water runs. Stay where no one can make you sad. Stay where Joy lives.”
They turned their heads in my direction, their faces streaked with tears. They stood up slowly, their blank stares seeing through me.
“What is this Color you speak of?” They asked with gray lips.
“Where is this Water you speak of?” They asked with parched lips.
“What is this Joy you speak of?” They asked with their eyes turned upward, pleading.
I turned to the Palace Keeper and spoke with new rage.
“Your words seduce us. Your riches tempt us. Your words cut us down, beat us and break us.” I threw my words like spears of fire until the Keeper stood.
He stood with strength and might that were not shown in his eyes.
“Dare you come and speak the Truth. Dare you use your Peaceful ways. Dare you paint you retched Colors. Dare you take my children away.”
Fire lit up the Palace. It danced around the halls.
The children screamed with terror.
The Fire burned up their tears. It took away my color.
We ran for the Gate Beyond. Faster on and on.
We leaped across the boundaries.
Color sang across the fields, hills and mountains.
Peace rang out loud and clear.
The children found the Water, and drank their fill.
The children found Joy at last.
God's thunder spits fire and sends the oak trees dancing, a wild dance, whirling; the pelting rain strips their branches. We fall to our knees-we cry out, "glory".




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You need to tweak your grammer a bit, putting commas inside quote marks and all.

But apart from that, I can't give you constructive advice. I can only say that I REALLY liked this. The story of the children and the Water and the Joy was all really great, and told in such a nice way!

Fueledbyjoy wrote:“What is this Color you speak of?” They asked with gray lips.
“Where is this Water you speak of?” They asked with parched lips.
“What is this Joy you speak of?” They asked with their eyes turned upward, pleading.


I love this bit, love the repetition. No matter what anyone else says, don't change this at all. Don't even change a letter of this. It's perfect.

A spelling mistake, though:

Fueledbylove wrote:Dare you paint you retched Colors.


Retched = wretched. And "you" should be "your", I'm thinking?

Someone else can rip this to bits, but I can't see anything wrong with it. :D

-Twit
"TV makes sense. It has logic, structure, rules, and likeable leading men. In life, we have this. We have you." -Abed Nadir




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You know, I think this might actually work better recast as prose. Prose doesn't have to be straightforward--take a look at William Faulkner or Janet Fitch for good examples of poetic prose. If you want to keep this as a poem, maybe you should take a closer look at flow and rhythm, because as it is, it's basically a story already, just with line breaks instead of paragraphs.

Good luck. If you have any questions or need any help, feel free to PM me. ^_^
Bitter Charlie :: Shady Grove, CA :: FreeRice (162,000/1,000,000)




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I liked this piece. I think that you should put more commas in and punctuation.

Well good job this could be a great piece with a few touch ups...

ML,
oregongirl
OREGONGIRL




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why thank you.
God's thunder spits fire and sends the oak trees dancing, a wild dance, whirling; the pelting rain strips their branches. We fall to our knees-we cry out, "glory".




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This does seem more like a story than a poem actually...it would definitely make an awesome, intriguing story, that's for sure! Anyways, there's definitely stuff in here that could use some more explanation as to what it exactly is, because everything seemed to go by face with no true explanation and it kinda left me confused. (Then again, everything leaves me confused...) But anyways, no matter what you decide to do with it, leave it as a poem or make a story out of it (hey, or both), with a little reworking it'd definitely turn out great I think!




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Breaking this up into stanzas would make it more easily readable... But Fand had a good thought to convert this to prose. I think this woudl make a lovely story.

As is, I like. I don't see too much wrong with it, and anything I have to say, people have said here previously.

-Amelia



The poetry of the earth is never dead.
— John Keats