Banquets

In the shadows the pastries hum
not by melodies of hands,
but the natural notes of nature.

For within the ink well of quills
swirls the stains so ready to season
everything we see, feel and touch
until it becomes a banquet
amid the stale servings others tolerate
of life where the flour of the sensuousness
hasn’t become some dough to be shaped or baked
and is unable to rise or transform into true sustenance.

Because only for the one
whose heart is dipped in that creativity
does the pallet find flavors and appetizers
where others never shop.

It is the stroll by the spirit
a gate of pure intuitive
always satisfying,
even if others can’t appreciate its textures.

Nobody genuinely learns of rare gourmet quality
by merely looking where everyone dines.
That takes the appetite driven
beyond a predictable passion for the ordinary.

How fudge and frosting iced by manipulative fingers
might massage a entrée to make it more appealing,
never will it fill the stomach
of those who know the real value of ingredients.