That “I cannot think of a single thing to write about” Kinda Morning

The Soprano screams in vibratto

And my coffee has gone cold but carries the same rich flavour,

And the crow honks like an 80’s electronic synth,

And the sun is too bright to looks at the deep blue sky,

And the wind makes the branches dance like they’re at a summer lake party with sweet serenades for their waltz,

And the schmooker stands guard like a patron on opening night,

And the tinkle of wind chimes sounds the same as they did in my early days,

And the tags from the new hanging pots smack against plastic stands,

And the hanging pots contain purples and pinks and yellows which cry “I AM NOT JUST A YELLOW THANK YOU VERY MUCH I SHINE FAR TOO BRIGHT AS YOU CAN SEE AND YOU SHALL KNOW MY COLOUR SO JUST YOU STEAL A GLANCE IF YOU DARE!”

And the tiny statue by the water fountain of the boy feeding the curious squirrel is the perfect capture of the contradicting effort to care, though the romance of befriending the squirrel overrides the horror of the human scent on wild creatures,

And the chives are heavily pregnant with their highly developed buds, sinking earnestly to the damp soil,

For it rained softly last night as it had so often before and refreshed the fresh as it miraculously tends to do,

And I sit here fighting away the oppressive block capitals of thought beckoning “THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT”, because it is just not true,

Since everything is moving,

And moments are never not being made

And the slip of the day is constantly tripping me,

And animals are risking everything every second,

And plants are pushing higher and higher

And while the world is alive there is too much to marvel at to ever be really dry of reactions

I just cannot always seem to open my heart as much as my eyes,

And the only cure is the work of reacting on the page, in the body, or on an canvas

Until there can be nothing but products of reactions.

By: Sarah C Louise

Photo from: http://hedybach.tumblr.com/

Everyone is Beautiful in the Morning

The man outside our house today came by with the power blower.

It did not snow. There was no need.

The hobby-horse of early morning excessive effort.

Everyone was forced into an abrupt and beautiful morning haze

The sloppy steps down the staircase that whines

The sagging shoulders as they saunter into the kitchen

The raspy growl of a “good morning”

The heavy arms which put every ounce of attention into steadying the cup as the coffee pours

The consideration wrapping conversation, so the pitch is not too sharp and the subject is not too pointed

The decision to pull back from what, at another time, would be a debate

Because everyone is at peace in the morning

Everyone is raw in the morning.

Everyone must endure the switch from a world of wild dreams to a world of hard surfaces

Everyone must begin to charge their bodies for the day

Meals of oats with hemp seeds and milk

Meals of 6 cups of coffee (substance to some)

Meals of hard boiled eggs on toast

And honey on toast

And PB on toast.

And the inability to be anything but true.

In big woolley sweaters to help bare the drafts

And rich, decorative silk pajamas or cozy, worn-in cotton pajamas,

And the clothes from the day before which appear more darling because of the necessity

The light, to mood, the comfortable air,

I wish to never miss a morning, be it coarse or fair.

By Sarah C Louise