Doom and Bloom

And we wake up 

to a new day,

the world crumbling around us.

We try to put the pieces together,

nothing makes sense-

or fits-

and yet everything

is, in a word-

Beautiful.

In such a way

the dappled sunlight,

a certain bird

lands,

a note to self

Becomes a warm smile. 

It has been a while.

Painting by Annie Pressland c. early 20th century Still life with red flowers and bowl' in Public domain.Annie Louisa Pressland (1862-1933), was a painter who studied at the Slade School of Fine Art, and exhibited between 1892 and 1923 at the Society of Women Artists, the Royal Institute of Painters in Water Colours, the Baillie Gallery and London Salon, Birmingham, The Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool, and Manchester City Art Gallery. A theme of her work, under commissions, was private gardens. She designed posters for the Underground Group in 1913, which are held in the collection of the London Transport Museum. Professionally she was referred to as 'Miss Pressland'. Born on 2 July 1862 at Brighton, she died on 23 March 1933 at East Grinstead. via Wikimedia Commons.

Casus belli

It tasted yellow.

Woke up with it . Had to put it together.

Same as artificial light, that blaring first horn,

TAPS and organs now must stand up

to gravity, though the deaftone stomach resists this

verticality nestled in leaden refusal to churn over.

When focus comes on strong, this tangible sting,

bite of blink and swallow, is pointed.

And knowing the acid brewing

is not best for breakfast-as a rule-

according to the orange juice

and strong brown coffee,

I am delusional.

They rest their cases. The resting still,

they are bloodthirsty, at the ready,

palms rubbing, rabid from a distance,

the young smoking.

Look at the mess they made last night.

They are poking around for War.

It will be found. Instigators have a chronic itch.

Admixture to weak sauce with whatever 

is lying around.

And all make green, except mine, faintly

in flesh tones and tossed in peach stones.

   

A tree, like bravery, builds itself up slow

like this gathered heart, low and labored.

Rather not swallow.

The blue early bird, first notices me;

gorging on gravel and gathering sticks

to replace broken bones, he does not blink back.

I think could never forget what the birds taught me,

this was no dream,

the heart still beats itself

without a body,

And I throw up 

this empty stomach. 

Image credit By Sol Horn (4/1939) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.