This was written for two reasons: first for Read Write Prompt #83 (a Wordle prompt), and secondly, this is a modification of a piece I wrote for a creative writing class I am currently taking. We were asked to write with synethesia in mind. I hope you enjoy.


The cardinal outside my window sings in
tones of honey – pure gold, translucent
butterscotch, and dark amber. He
is perched

on a limb somewhere in a
pre-dawn cotton fog that has
stopped being Kali but has not quite yet
turned into Lakshmi – and it
declares her insolence

by wrapping rose quartz around her body
just to remind me that
only a few hours ago, she was still wearing
the death of grapes
tinted with midnight upon her skin. Furthermore,
she has the nerve

to punctuate her brazen bravura with
a sardonic postscript:

had you bothered to stay up
to watch the time-lapse slaughter,
you would still be able to taste its
sweet, acrid afterglow
upon my tongue.

roll over, look at the clock,
and groan at the prospect of six A.M.
smacking me over the head with
its asphalt-and-hum demands. But

this bird won’t leave me alone –
his sugar melody

lulls me awake. It
cajoles me, waving its rose
in front of my nose – woos me
with a lithe serpent finger that
undulates back and forth in time to
some unheard charmer’s flute and
come-on eyes written in
poetry and heavy whispers:

today can be colored
in any spectrum of the rainbow,
tinted in any shade of superlative
that you wish. Today can
play smooth and creamy upon your tongue
as a backbeat to
sanguine, fleshy peaches
that spell out Georgia in
perfect shades of sunrise and gold – or it can
ignite in your mouth, flaming
fervid chile Colorado savor
upon your tongue. But
you must

unearth your feet, still
half-plunged in nighttime winter slumber,
from beneath your comforter of black snow
and pound life
into the floor
step by step. You must

awake into acuity: let it slap you
in slow motion and then
decant its rice wine sting slowly
from your cheeks into your brain. You
then must

color each pound of your feet
with enough chili fire to
make the floor beg for an endless sky of water
to drown away the taste
of your capsaicin sadism. And finally,
you must

regret absolutely nothing,
shrink back from absolutely nothing,
and deny absolutely nothing. You must

wear the pre-firecracker whistle,
the blooming pop, and
the red explosion sparkle of any wounds
that alight on your skin.
You must

hold your hand inside the fire
if your heart demands it of you,
grit your teeth, and let the
cacophony of your hubris perish
in the flames. And you must

live inside an unbroken séance with Truth,
never refusing to hear the bite
of its antiseptic speech – though
for the moment, it may inflate your pain
into a red, throbbing scream.
And I

cannot help myself. I want it all:

the terror, colored in black and
wearing suspended heart beats and
climbing vine dread all at once;

the joy, boasting its pure azure taste
in every sip; and even

the ordinary, wrapped in whispered,
stolid almond tones. I
open my eyes, sit up, and
swing myself around, letting my feet
land gently upon the hushed, faded
wooden floor. I am now ready

to pound sanctity,
and hellfire
into this earth.

Written 7/14/09 and 7/15/09
© 2009 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

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About ravenswingpoetry

I am a 38 year old writer from Columbus, OH and the creator of Raven's Wing Poetry. I am a poet, seeker, fellow traveler, and autistic.
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6 Responses to Alive

  1. Raven this is tremendous writing. The ending a freeing of the heart. Well done. Hope all is well.

  2. Mark says:

    Fascinating work you do…

  3. Erin says:

    Absolutely gorgeous and compelling.

  4. My favorite word combination:

    “to punctuate her brazen bravura with
    a sardonic postscript”:

  5. Irene says:

    I am struck by the lilting bravado in your lines. What a delicious roll out of bed.

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