Thanks for giving
little dishes and
hugs and kisses-
and the people in
my life that love
without measuring
spoons.

Thanks for giving
all your free time
to the warmly
decorated rooms
and the smiles
you put on
everyone's faces.

Thanks for giving

Tic toc tuck.
Life is full of muck.
Pluck up or get stuck.
Learn to drive the garbage truck
to the dump, Tree Stump.

Empty all your broken wares there.
Break down your swivel chairs there.
Learn to forget your cares there.
Discard the dirty socks from the pairs there.

Tic toc tuck.
Life is full of muck.
Speed it up or get struck
Learn to drive the garbage truck
to the dump, Tree Stump.

Lose all your cares there.
Toss your worn-out shoes there.
Learn to sing the blues there.
Don't forget to read the news there.

Tic toc tuck.
Life is full of muck.
When you have run out of luck,
Learn to drive the garbage truck
to the dump, Tree Stump.

Behind my head, paws in my hair,
Hunter the cat lays dreaming there.
Every so often he starts combing,
purring while he thinks of roaming.
The life of a wild cat would be grand.

All the world's mice to chase and eat.
Around the town he'd govern the street.
A nimble strategy Hunter would employ,
to capture a beetle or moth, some scrumptious toy.
But, where would he look for an ear-scratching hand?

Hunter, the cat is really a genius.
He understands exactly just what he needs.
Tis why never a fairy-tale shall come between us-
why never this puss-in-boots does evil deeds.
The life of a pet cat is just as grand.

Every morning Hunter is cuddled warm.
When he is hungry food is provided.
His fur is never mussed in a rainy wind storm.
He receives special treats when he has delighted.
Hunter never suffers at a human hand.

Although whether wild or pet Hunter does not choose.
His purring cuddles I'd loathe to lose.

The keys were here. Where? Over there?
Were they right here? Yes right there.
I thought I dropped them on the stair.
Where? The chair? Yes. The chair there.
Well maybe they are in the drawer?
No, I always hang them behind the door.
I do not think you are actually sure.
Well help me look.
Isn't this your book?
I don't know I think I meant to read it.
It could be good but you do not need it.
Now? What was I looking for? The door?
Yes! But I still can't leave, without my keys.
Oh dear me! I'm trapped by key!
Did you drop them in the yard?
No, that's where I dropped my credit card.
Why is this always so very hard?
Did your brain get stung by a bee?
No, but now I cannot find my Id.
A key, an Id, a credit card,
simple things make life so hard.
You know it could be much worse,
you may have lost your new coach purse.
Wait that's it!- when I find that sack
I may place all of those items in the pack.
I'll store them safely in one place.
Organized, Ill dominate the human race!
But until each item I deftly find,
I remain a prisoner of my broken mind.

I lived to love you- one and only.
I lived to love you- while I was lonely.
Wished away dark wonders within your eyes.
Weeping willows were my replies.

I live to love you- one and only.
I live to love you- while I'm lonely.
Sleeping sadness sells my soul.
I sweetly savor your control.

I will live to love you- one and only.
I will live to love you- while I'm lonely.
Thoughtfully, this is what I'll do.
You'll agonize if this is you.

As though it never happened
because you were out of bounds.
Calling "foul ball" is part of "fair play".

But because I called "time-out".
You want home plate inspected-
Even though we never even got to first base.

While I was in the outfield,
You came at me from left field.
I never took the short stop's side.

The pitcher pitched curve balls,
while the batter stared desperately
reaching for the grand slam hit with bases loaded.

All of a sudden, in the bottom of the ninth,
It started to rain and the field flooded.
Game Over.

The road glows rose.
And, as it goes toward the horizon,
he takes the low road with leaves gold,
grown, a man, a boy only one spring ago.

On the low, rose, road, where the leaves blow gold,
he shall traverse slowly and climb in time-
when the road rises, a gradual incline,
gentle to the soul.

A perfect road would rise just right.
It would never leave an explorer tired.
Such a road would absorb the rain,
so that never in mud would his boots be mired.

Such a road would not be lonely.
The ease of the journey would appeal to many.
Purple blooms that release a sugared perfume,
would attract a joyful crowd and a merry friend.

To such a road such a man would want no end.
On such a road all of his thoughts he'd spend.

And what if there be something more astounding,
far beyond the man's endless bounding?
Would he strive to try and seek
that thing aloft a mountain's peak?

Would you choose to struggle if you were content?
Even if your soul could know love more brilliant?
Perhaps, when God mapped our roads, this was all he meant.

Hearing heels click down the hollow hallway-
These are hollow thoughts in hallowed places.
Where the sun streams through stained glass,
I can see the dead skin float- in the spaces
that the rays illuminate in the cool, dim,
incense infused air.

A breath, a prayer, and I close my eyes
to concentrate and obliterate the distraction
materially caused by matters that take
no priority in any world.

Is God here? I wonder if God can hear
the wrinkly old lady in the pew behind
me when her breath starts to rasp.
I wonder if she might possibly grasp
the disturbing affect her death in
church mid-prayer could have on
the collective chanting mind.

And it is so enchanting, so divine,
the archways highlighted in gold-tone paint,
It is so inspiring, so very Byzantine,
the detailed carvings of the ultimate saint.

Is God here? I wonder if God can hear
the priest attempt to suppress a burp
while the lay people take their turns
reading snippets of the Gospel with somber
faces and awkward pauses during sentences
placed in such a way that it is quite clear
they do not understand the words they read.

And it is so uplifting, so divine,
the majesty of Christ who died for my sins,
it is so provocative, so very Byzantine,
the money for the poor collected in gold-plated bins.

Is God here? I wonder if God can hear
the feet that shuffle out the door just
before the closing prayer but immediately
after communion. A bite and a sip,a bit of
body and blood is all they need to satiate
their spirits until next week.

And it is so captivating, so divine,
the power of the spirit holy,
it is so righteous, so very Byzantine,
the echoing footsteps exiting church lonely.