I've written several times about the power that poetry has had and continues to have in my life. I've written about what I would do as poet laureate and I have written about my personal relationship with poetry. Lately, I've adopted a ritual that I call Poetry Friday. I end my work week reading, sharing, and/or writing a poem. It is my way to give poetry a honored place in a world that often doesn't make space for the poignant, the painful, the sacred, or the intimate. So today, I share a poem that was inspired by one singular word: in this case, a color. I am truly amazed how one word can unveil the truth behind the facade, and how one word can define you, or not.
radiates sticky, cloying sweetness;
a child’s fantasy that disappears as it hits my tongue
reminding me that pink was never my color.
swaddle sugary nice expectations while
ribbons for women promise a cure for some but not for all.
Choice makes pink no longer their color.
Shocking hot shade
impersonates strength and sensuality
as spring sun beats down on unprotected skin
proving that pink burns like no other color.
The hue of dawn
wraps me in its arms as the cadence of my footsteps run nowhere.
Hope stolen by the stark light of day,
leaves in its wake a new palette of black and blue
confirming that pink will never be my color.
© Kelly Tweeddale 2012