There is No Colour in Goodbye, poetry by Johnch at Spillwords.com

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There is No Colour in Goodbye

Johnch·May 19, 2025

Poetry English

·2 Comments·1 min read·54

There is No Colour in Goodbye

written by: Johnch

Tears bleach the colour from her cheeks
One sob bleaks the indigo mood
Grasping hands knuckle to white

Even the moon is wan in its despair
The Milky Way aches in white

lips wracked white holding the sobs
Blanche the indigo mood…

NOTE:

Based on the Prompt – The Color of Goodbye

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Johnch

John writes poetry as a means of capturing the roaming sentences that spring to mind at any time often a reaction to his environment at the time. His poetry blog - Underlined on WordPress.

Suman Pokhrel

Suman Pokhrel is a Nepali poet, lyricist, playwright, translator, and artist. He debuted in 1999 with a poetry collection and has since published works, including translations of Shakespeare and global poets. His poems are translated into many languages and taught across South Asia. A two-time SAARC Literary Awardee, he also received Asia’s Inspiring Poet Award and was named Author of the Month by Spillwords in June 2023. Beyond literature, he works as a freelance consultant in socio-economic research, rural development, entrepreneurial development and creative writing. He began his career in Nepal’s civil service and later worked with international NGOs. He holds degrees in Science, Law, Business Administration, and Economics.

Condoms by Seán Óg Ó Murchú

They all laughed at me. All the dinner ladies. It started with your one, I’m after forgetting her name now… Smelly Nelly’s ma. A wet little tear trickled toward her tattooed cheekbone. She was roaring red. Her harsh, wheezing laughter sounded like a black taxi tackling the Whiterock Road, her throat destroyed from all the fegs she used to be hoofing into her. She called over the other dinner ladies then, an army of them. Or maybe it was the curiosity of her horrid laughing that brought them over… I can’t remember.
“Tell the girls what you’re only after asking me there ni wee mawn.”
I looked between herself and the girls. Jesus Christ, I said in my own mind, Mental Mick is after stealing all my crayons that I’d been hoarding for myself there before the break...

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