A big thank you to Dee Hindin for sharing her wonderful, inspiring poem about a red world! I started to see life differently after hearing Dee recite this piece!

A Red World!


Red, Red, Red are the buses that stretch end to end

On the street known as Oxford, in London’s West End

Red are the apples, ‘tho different in tone

As are the grapes and the big red plums

That are sold on the barrows, at this and that turn.


Red is the jacket the girl wears with aplomb,

And red are the shoes upon which she dashes along.

Mail boxes are red, some large and some small

And another for franked mail, standing quite tall.


Red are the stop lites that never stop blinking

Before crossing the street, is it safe? You are thinking’


Red are the small flashing lites, standing like sentinels

Round unfinished buildings, and red are the stands

That warn of holes in the road, down which you look

And wonder. What is it they’re doing, if anything at all!


Red are the flowers on the lampposts tall,

Making pretty the road, along which you stroll.


Red are the sweaters swaying in the breeze on the stall

In the market, where one is a bargain, buy two, get one free!

The rest twist sensuously as if asking

Buy me, buy me, please, please


Everywhere the red cross flag fluttering in the breeze,

Stuck on cars, on doors and in windows, to.

St George for England, once that’s what was said

Now it’s for a ball into net by fair means or foul!


Flowers nodding and dipping on a stall

Peonies, poppies. Geraniums bright,

Red ones in pots, they catch the eye.

Sold! Wrapped in gay paper, red spots on white.


The Red sign that says “zollo”, what was that

Over a store? It had red windows as well.

Is it a sale? If so, what’s for sale?

The customers appear to be predominately male!


A red telephone box! My! That now is rare,

Once you could see one from miles away.

Red was the carpet covering the hotel floor

Trampled by feet rushing out the swing door.


The red of the sun as it sets in the sky,

Turning different shades as it sinks lower and lower,

Reflected in windows and everything shiny.

It’s a red, red world in which we are so tiny.


The red of the overheads just before they flare,

The red of her mouth, in the doorway over there.

The red of her nails, blood red are her toes.

The color of my world, as the daylite goes.

© Dee Hindin