Yellow Poems

introducing our new poetry reader, ZenChristian Mott

Yellow: 6ft Under the Sun

At sunrise, 

I bathe my bones 

in the yellow hue of the sun’s light. Can feel the particles 

penetrate the center of my existence as skin

starts to shed. I bury my bones in the sunflower bed,   

6ft underneath the sun. Sink into rich soil

and trade eyesight for small pockets of light 

piercing through. My soul knows this space as home.

Knows these sunflowers like she knows her own spirit. 

Amongst the tall stalks in the field,

the wind bends against them and they do not break

or dare to turn away from the sun. Sunflowers 

can hold over 1,000 seeds. 1,000 opportunities to feed a soul

or grow a new one from scratch. The same way 

I hold 1,000 seeds of light. 1,000 ways to help heal a soul

or make darkness just another ghost story 

with no meaning. The seedlings fade

sometimes, quietly and without a goodbye 

when they sit for too long 

before being planted inside of another’s soul or the dim spaces 

of myself. Other times, I plant them faster than I can grow

them. The demand for light becomes greater 

than my will to make more, let alone give it away. But, 

on the days when I’m all heavy with seeds, I let the world 

pick off each one until I’m empty. And every seed picked

is replaced with a prayer for more light soon. Because everyone

just wants to exist in a well-lit space and to not heal alone,

well me too.

I grow light underground, 

because what is the light you create worth

if it can’t penetrate your own darkness?  I never know

how long it’ll be until new seeds sprout. So I plant myself

as often as life will allow 

because I’ve learned that resting the body and recharging the soul

are two different acts. I burrow my bones into soil,

wear it like skin and just let my soul be but the world

can only be without light for so long before

everyone starts to miss it. 

Yellow: Coffee and Sunlight

Every Sunday, we sit.

He drinks his coffee and I drink the sun 

swirling around in a cup.

Right now, I'm empty in some ways

but others I am not

because when he's here, parts of me are full 

and the home feels whole. But I drink

only a sip of sunlight

and now I can't bear to take

another because all of me is full. As if some days,

I only have enough energy, enough space

to only hold a little bit of light,

a little bit of joy, a little bit of    yellow.

The rest of me all stuffed 

with the prayers of others all blue

and cold pressed against my bones. 

We look up from our cups,

lock eyes and I can see the blue

spreading like a cataract. Can already hear

the prayer with a coffee ring stained 

on it being written:

God, please let me take away her pain.

I want to tell him that there's a reason 

why lilacs have the shortest bloom

why the willow tree weeps 

why some flowers have learned with always being in the cold. 

That I sometimes feel like I was built 

to hold the world's pain all while accepting

my own with love

that even if he could take it all away, 

I would never ask the sun 

to put out a ray for me or to burn

a little less bright. But still I know he would.

On days when I'm all stuffed with blue, 

hands like icicles against his face. My soul

fading into indigo, he still finds yellow

somewhere in me. Still has extra light

to add to it and always manages to find

a space inside of me for it. Even when I can't.