and the poetry of paint color
I write a lot of poetry about my relationship with color. I love colors. (Imagine me saying that like the “I like turtles” kid).
Specifically, I love wall paint colors. You painted a room in your house recently? I’m locked in, queen. Tell me everything. What did you go with? How did you choose, and how does the color make you feel? Most importantly, what is the name of the color?
I would absolutely eat up the job of naming paint colors. It feels like the next logical step in my haiku practice: condensing an entire mood into a word or two.
When I moved into my current home three years ago, I was thrilled to learn that my landlord didn’t care if I painted the walls. One color I cannot abide is Sad Rental Beige. The house is a sweet little 1922 bungalow with far too much character to be smothered in that particular flavor of beige, which once covered every wall.
I’d never lived on my own before. I was desperately in need of solitude, and my memories of those first few months are stitched together like this: staring at blank beige walls and seeing nothing but potential; getting on a first-name basis with the paint counter guy at the hardware store; working out my anger with every sweaty pass of the roller; making drunk paint-chip angels on the empty floor.
I love all the colors this house has collected over the years. We’ve got Hosta Teal, Milk Pail Green, Andromeda Pink and Nectarina.
But my favorite of all is Pickled Peppers.
It graces a two-wall accent corner in the dining side of my kitchen, the rest of which is a crisp Chantilly White. The kitchen is also my favorite room. Facing southeast, it receives the perfect amount of warm morning light through its big windows.
I met Pickled Peppers at a time when I was learning to love myself, savor my own company, and for the first time in my life, ask myself—without anyone else’s opinions creeping in—
What am I hungry for?
Pickled Peppers
This, here, is the color
I see when I eat my toast.
When I reheat my coffee.
This is the color of
forgiving myself for
always overthinking.
For always feeling so
excited but also so pissy.
Of wanting to be patient
though time is so fleeting.
It’s the color of trying to
be a better listener by
having conversations
with ghosts in the morning.
This, here, color I painted
while I practiced yodeling.
It’s the color of singing
pretty and singing ugly.
This, here, is the color
of hunger and satiety
© Abigail Taylor, 2026. Abigial writes as haikupunk on Substack.
Appalachian Chronicle 