Another odd childhood poem. I knew there was a name for what I experienced, googled a description of it. I explored types of rhyme schemes, went with abab, cdcd, efef, etc to gg. The rhythm is a little off, does it matter? (Remember, I said my sleeves smelled pink? That’s synethesia.) Tried to make it fun, funny. (Would a rhyme scheme of aa, bb,cc,dd, etc to gg be better?)
Epigram: “Definition - Greek words: “synth” (which means “together”) and “ethesia” (which means “perception). grapheme-color synesthesia…three to five percent of the population… often hereditary , more common if you are left-handed, and a woman…begins from birth. Synesthesia is a sort of cross-wiring of the nerves and brain synapses related to the five senses. No two synesthetes have the exact same wiring scheme.”
As a small child, my mind danced and played
matching words, numbers and colors,
synesthesia is how my brain is made
my perception has found new wonders
As a synethete, I have sensory enhancement
my brain connects where others pull apart.
Friends disbelieved my color attachment,
thinking me weird, but I learned it’s an art.
My senses have unique configurations
numbers and weekdays have colors assigned.
These pairings creative are my own invention,
only I, see my how my senses combine.
As a child, my lucky number was eight,
when I see eight, I think green.
A two is rust colored, number one is white,
three, bright yellow, four has a red sheen
Five is the best, paired in deep blue
Six is bright yellow; nine comes in black
10 is red, 11, white, 12 is green, I just knew
and Monday dawns yellow, in my color pack
Wednesday is gray, I just don’t know why,
Thursday is painted a blue-green streak
leaning to the shade of bright green dye.
Friday, yellow; and Sunday-red starts the week
As a child I played for long hours,
making friends out of words and numbers
each month has a vision, its very own color
Feb blue, March, yellow; July, red in summer
January is deep cranberry, April is red
May grows in green, June, a fine pink
September yellow, October, gray, I said
November is black, December is white, I think
Being left-handed, my hands would have races
tying my shoes or stashing of toys,
left hand won the race to tie laces,
I cheered on my left, at age four, with joys.
Creative connection with words I encounter,
this unique gift is my poet superpower.