On Reading Catherine Mansfield's ‘bliss' Poem by Roy Ballard

‘Why must it Always be Tomato Soup? '
a question worthy of the drills of Zen;
like 'What is bliss? ' and other thoughts that troop
unanswered through the cluttered minds of men.

Bliss comes from common things, no need of thrills:
we make tomato soup for friends and dine
or plant a sunny spot with daffodils
and then this joyful light begins to shine.

To shop exquisitely is happiness
for those endowed with ample energy and wealth
but not complacent in their state of bliss
for ruin ever watches us in stealth

while those white horses, far off from the shore,
like creeping cats, could turn to tsunami,
to car and corpses soup and muck galore,
that sweeps away our final ecstasy.