More than colours

-to the select few who are privy to both my ‘colour’ed stance and the provenance of this phrase


Is one justified in calling gray a colour, pray?
Wouldn’t deep purple beat it night or day?
There’s more than enough sky-blue up there
Why use it ad nauseum in your walls and your wear?
What role do cream, beige and brown fulfill
That butter-yellow or maroon couldn’t do better still?


When someone proclaims “I’m in the pink”,
Cogitate, evaluate, consider, think,
Is that really any reason to rejoice?
Who would look like candy floss by choice?
Why condemn practically every little miss
At an impressionable age to swathes of this?


I am woefully devoid of a clue
Why so many clamour after dark blue.
It’s supposed to be cool, and I’ll grant that it is.
But the fuss over “cool” is something I dismiss.
The only blue that has any claim to appeal
In my exalted opinion is teal.


If there’s a colour that’s grossly overrated,
Overused, overexhibited and leaves me sated,
That colour, or lack thereof, is black;
Ebony, jet, sable – I’d give them all the sack.
Black is a necessary evil I will attest -
Needed to form shades and there it should rest.


When the discussion swings to the colour green,
One that prompts showy peacocks to preen;
The colours of parrots, lush grasses and pine -
All hues that gladden this heart of mine,
I can fully understand the enthusiast’s zest
For the colours of deep seas and a healthy meal’s best.


Anybody who fancies yellow
Is – at least in that respect – my fellow.
I’ve a fondness for oranges from melon to coral,
And reds - carmine, rust, scarlet and cardinal.
The dyes of fire from ember to flame -
To applaud them all you’ll find I am game.


A shade that the right-minded should teach
The populace to utilise is peach.
Other pastels can’t harm in small doses, I guess.
And white can be grand – let us all confess.
But in spite of my gripes and the grudges I nurse
I’ve got to say that life is more-than-colours!

Whose fault?

- on objectivity and self-realisation –

If you think only ‘anal’ people do things on time,

That preparation has neither reason nor rhyme;

If your favourite sports are putting things off,

And finding more targets at which to scoff;

If your circle of acquaintance is comprised

Of psychos, snobs, despisers and despised;

If your criticism is particularly acute,

And regarding compliments you’re more than less mute;

If your organizing prowess is going south;

If you take your foot out of your mouth

Only to insinuate it in the closing door;

If your chaotic ways have passed into lore;

When scraps of paper give you the slip;

When rivals’ successes make your ego flip;

When you can’t find a key in a hillock of junk;

When your shelves and your guts are groaning with gunk;

If when the rainy day, that you didn’t save for, arrives,

Your sense of justice, if any, nosedives,

It’s easy to blame the weather, a colleague, your genes,

The government, the media, the end or the means.

Is it always the malefic agent, system or destiny’s game

That for your distress must claim the blame?

To this other possibility some thought is due -

Can the words “Mea culpa” ever escape you?

(Declaration: This poem is my own doing. Mea culpa!)