black and white

[Dave]

In absence of new poetry I am recycling

black and white

rolling hills become pellucid,
true,

fudged greens no longer merge
into hazy browns,
slurred voweled  forests and earth,

trees emerge as facts,
their branches
brittle against a canvas
of pale grasses
that soften and deepen,
flow in waves among themselves
like women dancing in a market.

My eye rests on cloud
pillowed around a gossip
of houses
whose roofs remember red
dimpled cheeks

pursed and pleased. 

 

[AlienFlower]

Hi Dave, 

I do like being in your landscape but I still stumble at the idea of women dancing in a market. I'm not keen on re-writing people's poems, but maybe you'd consider a tad fewer words at the end:

...
like women dancing around a gossip
of houses
whose roofs remember red
dimpled cheeks. 

Jackie

[Dave]

Thanks AJ
You make a good point about the dancing women as you ahve done before. I will take it to heart. Thanks
 

[Eric Ashford]

Not too fond of that fancy-pants 'pellucid Dave.

"Their branches
brittle against a canvas
of pale grasses
that soften and deepen, "

Reads a bit clumsy to me, it needs to be more clear to
make the following lines believable.

It's got potential!

[Gyppo]

Dave,

I love the 'gossip of houses'.  It's a wonderful use of an unlikely but vivid collective noun.  I've seen village cottages huddled together as if sharing a secret.

Gyppo

[Mark]

I also liked your inspired collective noun and also disliked the dancing market girls, so I'm a conformist. I'd be intrigued to know what goes on between the residents of those houses.

 

[indar]

Hi Dave,

So much vivid imagery. Strangely, the feel of it is of a community turned in on itself (probably just me) and I, a stranger in these parts, am shut out. Maybe it's the state of affairs in the world just now but it creates a feeling of loneliness for me.