A PEACH on the SLATE gray counter
Yellow orange rose – the colors
BLAZE against the drab surface
I brace for rotten interior
Ready to BLAME climate and capitalism in equal measure
I lift my BLADE and slice
Twist free the central pit and expose
The brilliant yellow and heady scent
If it were music, this would be the BLARE of a trumpet
The wail of a saxophone
And the sultry song of a blues singer
All rolled into one fuzzy package

Georg’ann

This year I was EXTRA AWARE
of how the blasts can SCARE.
In celebrations all through town,
loud pops over and over.
Our anthem is a war song.
“Rockets red GLARE,
bombs bursting in air.”
Guns blasting death.
The FLARE in my periphery
is reminder of war ravages,
the BLARE assaults my senses.
No joy in this cacophony.
Wars, big and small,
raging throughout the world.
In streets, neighborhoods, houses.
Children delighting in sparklers
remind me of other children
no delight in view.

Heather