The Grind

 Eating to work, 

 Working to eat, 

 The same thing done, 

 The same day run,

 Only the date changes,

 In mockery of time. 

 The reason escapes, 

 The power of reason, 

 Finding an end to the means, 

 In the means to an end,

Seldom  catching one's breath, 

 In wondering why.

 The picture is painted, 

Upon the canvas, 

 Yet is the canvas contemplated, 

 By the painters hand? 

 Without the canvas, 

 Is there an image? 

 The fibers are grown, 

 In fields  flowing, 

 Rising from rain, 

 Harvested from pain, 

 Spun together, 

 To weave the fabric. 

 The paints are made, 

 From things of the earth, 

 Moistened and mixed, 

 Bottled and stored, 

 Yet without which, 

 No painting can form. 

 It is only through pain, 

 It is only through work, 

 That the backdrop is made, 

 Where magic can come, 

 Where the heart may express, 

 And miracles may run. 

 And such is our lives, 

 Within the daily grind, 

 For without this canvas, 

 For which we work, 

 No miracles could come, 

 From our acts of love. 

 Just like in the garden, 

 With patience and toil, 

 With sweat and heartbreak, 

 Life's miracle strikes, 

 New shoots do appear, 

 Then the blossoms do come. 

  What seems without meaning, 

 Supports the meaning of life, 

 Producing the moments, 

 Which are never forgotten, 

 Giving chance for the miracles, 

 That change now and forever. 

Upon This Street

 Upon the street, 

 Cars are racing in haste, 

 Schedules being kept, 

 Against the racing clock, 

 And endless circle of change, 

 Folding back upon itself, 

 Bringing repetition's reward, 

 Beneath this unchanging sky, 

 With birds reminding me of truth, 

 As I walk upon the street. 

 Upon the street, 

 Sign posts of the present, 

 Coffee cups and fender chunks, 

 Within the sparkle of broken glass, 

 Bumper stickers of thoughts past, 

 Amidst hearts asleep racing, 

 Wearing a rubber stamped expression, 

 Though some are truly awake, 

 Burning like stars with in the night, 

 Upon the street. 

 Upon the street, 

 With helicopter overhead, 

 I walk  above the sidewalk, 

 Being careful not to touch, 

 With Disturbia undisturbed, 

 Alone with in my footsteps, 

 I have never walked alone, 

 For souls know no separation, 

And God is ever present,

 And God is ever present, 

 Upon the street. 

 Upon this street,

 Rainwater casts reflections, 

 Held by the blackened pavement, 

 Showing trees and sky above, 

 As does the face that smiles, 

 Reflecting joys of heaven, 

 Contagious seeds of faith, 

 Taking root in other souls, 

 Growing trees of life and meaning, 

 Upon this street.