NO SUCH THING AS LUCK Part 3 GREEN, PURPLE, BLACK
by Jeffrey Murrell
Purple, green and black, her favorite colors.
Purple--sweet and bright, like her.
Green--herbal and ripe, like her garden.
Black--dark and wary, like her approach towards life.
Purple, green and gold, the colors of those little balls
of metallic confetti lace,
three gifts from her to my little cat,
my little friend whom I brought up
from my home in the Southland.
And I could only look at them for a time,
wondering how a fate of some kind
must have brought us together up here.
I was stunned--the gifts radiated with a certain warmth,
a feeling of comfort and familiarity from that purple, gold and green,
the colors of our Mardi Gras home,
me and the little cat,
where we were for so long so alone
in pain, without comfort, or consoled,
and from which we fled like refugees.
And she paints with colors such as these,
and works her art of her heart and soul,
tuning her spirit and rehearsing her lines
for poems I will never sing,
but for which she will compose rhymes
of shapes and metes of texture and light.
The black she wears, as do I,
to shroud in darkness the mystery of our minds
and to blend with the shadows of life.
The green she reaps in her garden,
that which she tends with delight,
escaping the labor of one reality
with the ersatz of blooms, stems, and seeds.
The purple she splatters throughout her life,
in pictures, on walls and in her food,
sporadically flavoring with change once in a while,
while still keeping hold of the old with the new.
And it be colors such as these that make up bruises
on the canvasses of both of our pasts.
Hers at the hands of a former lover,
as are mine at the hands of my last.
Both great weights which we carried
for far too long a time to endure;
Both kept us from breathing
until we were finally cured
by our own self-determination
and need to get on with our lives
free of those weighty burdens,
sucking out all of our life,
and causing us to lose sight of our freedom
and to be blinded by their control and desire.
And her eyes--searing feline green, mine, too steel-grey blue.
Hers is the green of distrust--mine is the hue of insecurity, the blues.
She stalks her prey--lies and broken promises;
And I just prayed and made more and more promises,
once hoping to cheat despair from robbing me
of this tigress in whose soft skin and kind heart
I was emersed as if in a warm, fragrant bath.
She caught this rabbit in her mouth
with sweet, long kisses and loving words of hope
from which there was thankfully an escape;
trapped by the jaws of love once again
which I hoped would entirely devour me
and make me part of the energy of her soul,
thereby saving mine and finally making me truly whole
with love and caring and devotion,
honesty, promise and emotion.
I could sleep at night.
I wouldn't fear the rest of my life.
Nor would she fear hers with me
making up for the lack of supportive family
from which the both of us have always suffered.
Fate is the real matrix of both our fortunes
Even though there may be such a thing as luck.
She told me she loved me in a dream,
just as God speaks to us of miracles,
up 'till then undecided for sure of that thing,
so she woke me there and then and whispered it
and made my heart quicken and fly with wings
of warmth and caring and love and rest for my angst,
able to breathe confidently that this love would last
forever and ever to outlive the fates of our past,
and to finally have comfort in loving arms,
in a love true and permanent, at last,
a mighty tree with deep, strong roots
to sip the healing waters of compassion and truth,
to live and to grow with each new day with new beginnings,
and to discover each new gift our love presents us,
because it was like no other,
unique and destined to truly be.