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Red, by Britta Benson

Just a little musing about the colour red today. More of a drift than a poem.


Red, such a cliché, really.

The colour of love? Not quite.

All I could see was red,

a dream fueled by sunlight on closed eyelids.

Nice and warm, southern lights,

little flickers, like ladies dancing inside me.

I disected the colour red,

didn’t realize how opinionated I was.

Here’s what I found:

Crimson, totally overrated, the Miss Haughty of reds.

Chili, that’s more like it, she’s got fire and flames.

Raspberry, such a tart, but tangy, got to give her that.

Scarlet, I’ll think about that tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.

Rose, the fragrant one, soapy, though, if you’re not careful.

Burgundy, she’s got the competitive edge of a wine tasting.

Maroon, more than slight disappointment. I call that brown-ish.

Strawberry, the sweetie, bring out the cream, bring out summer.

Ruby, she’ll come in expensive, such a shiny, sparkly thing.

Blush, as if, it’s all make up these days.

Brick, I like, solid, sandstone, what you see is what you get.

Sangria, now we’re talking. Blood and gore.

Second thoughts. I’m not sure I’m cut out for red.

And then you wake me with a cup of weak hibiscus tea.

Well, if there’s nothing else going… I gave you the list.


2 thoughts on “Red, by Britta Benson

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