WAS NOT EASY

“Hank, Professor Holmes answers,
Your muse can be anything.”
“What if my muse was a rat?”
“Well, then that would be very unique.”

With a slight grin and flick of the paintbrush
A mix of decayed hunter green
dank clingy black lacquer appears,
Creating an nocturnal setting
fitting for their scavenger tendencies

Sometimes I do my dishes
The breakfast bowl and spoon
The salad plate, the silver fork
My healthy lunch at noon

The heavy iron skillet
That held my fried potatoes
The cutting board and paring knife
I used to slice tomatoes

The tea cup and its saucer
My favorite coffee mug
A tablespoon and measuring cup
My Mother's old milk jug

I know that, though they pile up
My dishes are a sign
How generous Mother Earth will be
Each and every time I dine

And rage blew down the mountain...
mutterings, lashing out, demanding answers.
"Where do you think you are going?
Your right to know, is diminished."

The part you play has not been established,
there is no validation, no context.
The valley, hidden in the clouds,
is unmarked by your compass.

How dare you? Watching from the sidelines,
is not participating; walk miles in his shoes.
Armchair directors, powerless paper pushers,
let your pizza-laden diet, be subdued.

We wander through our life.
seeking resolution.
Not knowing what will
happen next.
The answer lies within.
It's not about the Gods
we serve our destiny in hand.
We work our way along lifes path
and try to comprehend.
Pretending to be something
wer'e really not.
Don't try too hard
don't run to fast.
This game will have an end.
It may not be what others want
it's our life in the end.
Don't give up hope
Oh can't you see
the glory which extends.

The jacarandas are blooming again
Now every walk outside
Is like a caress to my very soul
And every day more beautiful than the last

I'm reminded of the last time they bloomed
When I barely even noticed them
With my heart in anguish
Crying for a lost love

Time doesn't heal all wounds like they say
But it does make the weight more bearable
Now the jacarandas are blooming again
And this time, I'm here for it

Dreary day, on the thruway...
Sitting in Auntie Jean's '66 Bronze Barracuda fast-back,
radio plays softly, pop-Christmas stuff.
Long silence to a retreat for me; long drive.

In the dark times, I accept the pain.
Pain, that strikes deep into the heart.
Heart of my life, comfort me,
Me, the one who lives for you.
You, for me...

I (a lapsed milquetoast) experienced
a head splitting hellacious hangover.

I tried to be part of Cool And Gang by being "bad"
to the thoroughly good bone, er...
which trend followed me till man hood,
whereby this bloke still a cad
plus the most
embarrassing older hippy dad
where a shaved pierced pate egad
seems to be the latest fad
boot this nonestablishmentarian
feels more content with himself and glad
though as a precocious

As we sit around our tables
With family and with friends,
I can't help but think and wonder;
Does giving thanks just have to end?

Is it just one day that we appreciate
The bounties we are blessed to know?
I would like to think we might agree
About daily goodness we might sew.

These gifts may look quite different
To others trying their best to cope,
Their bowls filled with very little
Yet they overflow with daily hope.