The Brillo Pad Sky

A day of dread arose and churned
across a sky of lines,
What waiting thoughts were fully burned!
What mixture filled the steins!

The morning's clear and hopeful start
gave way to acrid tones,
The smell of burning did impart
a fear, that made such groans.

What giant hands had scraped the sky
with Brillo pads so rough,
And left the tools displayed nearby,
when thought, "'Tis quite enough'"?

What colors lay behind the sheet
so dark with Crayon black?
Were orange, red and gold replete,
unseen by scalpel's lack?

Did fire burn some uffish land
charred black by crimson flame?
Had lightning struck or match so planned?
Who bore the final blame?

Or maybe nothing was amiss,
Divinest Hand had etched
Some image on a pad full kissed
by blackened glaze it stretched.

A dark block in the Artist's Hand
becomes a picture fair
By carving thin or widish band
for cotton candy hair.

But what of acrid smoke we smelled?
Was there a cause for this?
What goodish use could dare be telled,
that marred this day of bliss?

Were leaves aflame in someone's yard?
Were dryish woods as tow?
Were catalytics blocked and hard,
converting not, we'd know?

Tell, was the musty smell the cause
of lowering, shifting air,
That danced, though no one gave applause
to salty mixture there?

Though blackened tones may dark the sky
and smells may give us pause,
The light will shine from up on High,
and fresh will be the cause!

The joy of new day may give way
to dreaded etchings near,
But after wrestling with the gray,
the victory is clear!

Line Count: 48

by Jay O'Toole
on November 6, 2016