The Bulls Of The Yellow House Poem by James Fitzpatrick

In a dining roomed Mausoleum, above a worn shop
On a slight but steady incline,
I stared at crass Orange frames, corralling
Strange botanical Homilies.
Wild Yellow Gatsbian eyes, winked incoherently from one landscape to
Another, as a painters wand swirled like Ivy,
To the dark hedgerows of an easel's border....
In hindsight, it was indeed ironically pastoral,
But just then, I was lost, subdued in the brightness of it all.

From the airy studios below,
Creaky chairs keep whistled Wagnerian tunes company,
As a postman's buxom wife scratches her
Sweating baby's nose.
Above, alone, I stood by an open window,
Glaring at the dishevelled.
An ill wind would sometimes blow oiled petals, left from right,
Piling pressure on the softened colours,
But the Bulls of the house weren't interested.
Nor could they hear the cries of nearby
Butchered beef, echoing across the funny coloured tiles,
Landing at the feet of an unnoticed guest.

An ear flies to the floor of the crowded portrait,
As the Reaper rejects a cowardly shadow
Gracefully dancing across the icy room.
As dark storms gather, light changes
Affecting strokes, tone and mood
Of the female Portrait, before the method, abruptly comes to a stop.
Brushes down, I'm shown, then handed a sea of
Yellow heads with a disgruntled nod,
Followed by a warm lonely smile, of which I return.
I stare down at the womanless picture of nearby fields,
Answering masterful queries with an unaccomplished nod,
Before wandering back to an unambitious
Station in the sun.