Catharsis of Cooking

Despite a lack of enthusiasm,
From the consumers of my hand-made repast,
Kids won't eat it without complaint or bribery.
There was still simple pleasure in the act,
Purchasing those less frequently bought items,
Like calamari, deli cheese and a french stick,
The tactile experience of cutting veggies,
The anticipatory aromas of half cooked pork and seafood,
The periodic tasting of the various dishes,
The table set with fresh flowers,
Enough food so that there will be leftovers,
And having the time to take care.
Cooking a meal for my family,
Is healing for the soul.

Of This Town

He was of this town,
From the moment his eyes first perceived light.
Till they closed, as his light went out.
As he sat in the hospital in the next town,
His thoughts were always of his return.
The Catholic Church on the hill,
The house of his childhood,
The garage,
The town's water supply tank.
The pump house,
The golf club,
And his marital home,
These were the boundaries,
Of his life.
Within this town,
He grew, was educated, loved and was loved.
Here he found and served his community.
Here he was often happy.
Perhaps in the grand scheme of things,
Many may not find it worth celebrating,
Yet it was still a remarkable life.

Fermenting

I have been fermenting today,
There is a restlessness.
It produces gaseous exchanges.
That distend me and burst out at intervals.
It is yeasty,
Like my bread dough.
It is damp and mouldy,
Like my Winter wet house.
And it fizzes like Kombucha.
There is a sickening sweet smell pervading,
Like mature cheese.
And it craves sugar,
To feed its voracious appetite.
Perhaps some crispness,
Sunny Summer salad,
And light exercise in a drier climate will dispel it.



 

Optimism of a sunny day.

Potential,
Not yet realised but...
In your mind's eye you can see it.
You dampen down the doubts.
Tramp them with possible contingencies.
It seems to be the sunshine,
After an extended period of grey.
That brings on the dreams.

Don't go willingly into the fading of the light.

Rage against the dying of the light.
Ignore the aches and creaks of bones.
Look out into each new day,
As if newly minted and full of possibility.
Reflect only on the lessons,
That past hardships have taught you.
And offer the knowledge of your experience.
Wear your wounds and scars like badges of honour.
Seek the companionship of those,
Who eagerly embrace the wonders,
Saved for us who still live.

Third

They do go in threes,
The matriarch, the retired farmer and now the mechanic.
I was secretly hoping that he wouldn't make the Trifecta.
But he went at last.

When I was twenty two,
Young, eager,
And naïve.
I felt his gruff exterior abrade.
But I did not know his humour then.

I have been travelling the vital years of my life,
Marriage, children, maturity.
And he has been a constant.
Smiling knowingly,
Each time my car met with an unexpected mishap.
"You do realise that these things need oil."

A Catholic, dad seven times,
He fuelled my car and enjoyed my kids,
Tapping at the glass, smiling or engaging them in chat.

He told me once that he had raised those garage doors,
Every working day of his life since he was fourteen.
His son, third generation has recently updated them.
No need to put on the gloves and pull hard on the chain,
The new blue doors roll-up easily.

In hindsight,
It seems an unfortunate omen.




 

The Gang

Contrast flashes, white against black,
Moving up into the trees,
In organised mayhem.
These are a young gang of hoodlums.
This is their patch.
My approaching car precipitates,
a flight for cover.
Their numbers have grown,
A few more recruits have joined.
It is a 'welcome to Spring' sight.
The coolest gang of white-winged choughs,
On the block.