Extemporaneous Thoughts
It's gone. All gone...Probably forever
It didn't melt like an iceberg
It still exists in name but only in name
Technically, it's still viable
but realistically it's not the same
Gone are many that once kindly ladled
bowls of words that were delicious
replaced by 'things' that have no heart
By 'those' who don't appreciate the art
of holding their own pen in hand to write
By 'some' who think we've a blind eye
to their sudden scholarly wisdom
Nothing is the same and who is to blame
On most days I take a pass on visiting
the place where once I found pleasure
My measuring cup is empty and there are few
neighbors whose doors I would approach
I've no desire to 'borrow' their poems
only sorrow for what used to be
and is no more
Bored by changes and the rearranged pots
and pans. Everything has been shuffled
except the muffled cries of days gone by
The new knives have dull blades
and everywhere I look is a new escapade
where even the cooktop is turned off
Scoff at the recipes where something's missing
It's the lack of flavor that I once savored
It used to be tasty but I'm weary
of cookbook titles that sound so dreary
What a waste of pure vanilla when a fella
or a dame pours it in beef stew
That cannot be misconstrued for poetry
Or when Ms. sous chef displays her version
of soup de jour, but burns it with the same
bitter taste day after day
Tables have been moved around in what was once
a restaurant on hallowed ground
The new menu is frightful...
the old one was delightful
It's gone and I don't hold hope of a resurrection
I'd call pest control to eradicate the premises
if I felt the place could be saved
but it feels as if it's dug its own grave
The lilting music is gone, too
No longer does it play sweet melodies
that make my feet want to dance
Keyboard keys don't rattle beneath my fingers
to open the door and enter
It's become humdrum, a chore to find
a valid reason to visit more often
It's gone and there's no joy to be found
in the ploy of the hoi polloi
Nothing is the same and who is to blame
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