Don't Eat the Yellow Slush

I looked outside the house on Christmas morning
And lo, what was it that I soon did see?
A pile of slush that reached up to the awnings
White as white and wetter than the sea.
The weathermen were all sorely mistaken
For lovely, fluffy snow never did come.
I think I'll go outside and make a slushman
And add some lemon syrup and eat some.

White Elephant Wish

White elephant gifts are so groovy;
They're better than butter on toast.
I hope that I don't get a movie,
But I'd sure love a seven pound roast!

Simple

I went to the gym
And now I feel sore.
Seven plus one equals eight.

We borrowed some cash
And now we are poor.
Finances just aren't that great.

So let's not be dumb,
Pretend it's not clear,
When really it's clear as a bell.

We made decisions
And they weren't so wise
Now the country is going to (need some changes).

Pieku

Latticed covering
Layed over fruit filled
Center. Glorious.

A Pie Haiku

Give me some pie please.
Cherry or apple or peach,
Mincemeat or pumpkin.

The Form of Thanksgiving

This Thanksgiving poem might seem a bit on the cynical side, but it isn't meant to be. Really, I was looking at myself and thinking about how I have sometimes looked at Thanksgiving, especially the idea of gratitude on a certain day of the year. In the end, thanksgiving is a year 'round kind of thing and it's pretty imperfect, like the cranberry stain on the linen. Imperfect, yet an "ingredient" that transforms all of life. And that's something that's worth standing for.

Thanksgiving takes the form of a list,
Often if not always. "I am thankful
For A,B,C and a portion of grist!"
"Tick", "check", "yup" and "Oh, me too!" we answer.
List completed, we toss and move on.

Thanksgiving takes the form of reproach
For the pure who want you to know it,
Using words like, "really" and "truly" and
"You aren't thankful enough (you little git)."
Pat, pat, pat on my back and move on.

Thanksgiving takes the form of a rite,
Genuflections before old recipes;
Some families make room for a fight,
Football and mass sofa napping.
Carve up the leftovers and move on.

Thanksgiving takes the form of a life,
Imperfect and American round here.
It shows like cranberry on white linen.
Or like the secret ingredient? "Dear
God, I hope so. Every day. Stand there.

Reading Between the Lines

I'd like a little health care
For free if you don't mind.
It's better far for you to pay
And really much more kind.
!

Syringomyelia

Back when my grandfather was young,
The father of two girls, four boys,
He got a pain in his back.
No big deal in the hubbub and noise
Of his Lutheran parish.
Weren’t there many suffering worse?
Didn’t he preside at funerals
And send folks away in a hearse?
He didn’t have time to even know
What the pain was, or even what
It would become, that it would grow.

But with years, the pain started to cut
And scrape his very nerves, it seemed.
So he paid a visit to his doc.
“Syringomyelia” he said,
After much looking through rare books.
“You will experience increasing
Pain for the rest of your life.
And I have a question, does your wife
Work? She’ll need to soon, to support
Your family. You’ll have to retire.”

“What?!” grandfather said, “I can’t do that.”

“This rare disease will conspire
Against every remaining day
And sooner than not, steal you away.”
“I’m so sorry” the doctor said.
“But in a few years you’ll be dead.”

Thirty years my grandfather said “NO!”
And my grandmother with him,
Til mercifully the lights dimmed
And Syringomyelia let go.

The Tale of Horace 3

"I require your presence at lunch."

Beltran turned around, expecting to see his friend Horace. No one else would talk like that, after all. But all he saw was Horace's backside as it loped around the corner. Not being a man of much vim, nor vigor, Beltran contented himself to let his furtive friend escape without questioning. "Why must he always be so melodramatic?" was on his short list, however. Beltran offered a tepid "Whatever" just to finish the aborted conversation. He finished changing out his books and headed to class.

"Beltran!"

Wishing not to be pestered, but unable to ignore the commanding tone, Beltran turned.

"Beltran, what in the world is up with your friend? Horace stood up on his desk first period and started ranting and raving. Something about Gandhi and Chay somebody or other. I have no idea. Anyways, then he sat down and refused to talk to anybody. Mr. Penwhistle-Frist didn't know what to do. He started huffing about making Horace taking a time-out. Then he realized that Horace was already taking one. Weird."

"I don't know what to tell you Ricardo. Horace is just weird I guess."

"Well duh. I was just wondering why. Did he get dropped or something? Did his mom make him sniff glue? No, wait a second. Horace never does anything; he just talks all the time. Something is definitely up."

"Nah. I mean, he reads books and stuff. He was probably just acting out Shakespeare or something."

"Yeah, weird. Well I gotta get to geometry."

Ricardo turned on his heel and walked off, leaving a suddenly pensive Beltran in the hallway. Just what was Horace's deal anyway? Acting different was normal, but standing up on desks? He'd known Horace for a long time, but he'd never troubled himself to act; he just talked incessantly. It was all vaguely disquieting and Beltran really didn't want to think too hard about it. He reassured himself with a "Whatever." Leastwise, he tried.

Drrrrriiiiiiiinnnnnnggggg

"Dang, I'm gonna get a tardy slip" Beltran whined to himself. "Oh, whatever."

The Tale of Horace 2

(part one can be read here)

Beep, beep, beep...
Whack
...
Beep, beep, beep...
Whack
...
Beep, beep, beep...
Whack

"Oh for the love of all that is good and true, why must I be beset by this infernal cricket in my ear? This electronic nag, this insistent ear-grater? God help me, I've got no cows to milk! Do you hear me? NO COWS!"

Horace was not accustomed to rising before being driven from his bed by pangs of hunger and the lure of cold pizza. At this hour, 6:18AM, the sun had not yet penetrated the heavy black curtains of Horace's window, nor even lightened the periphery. All was dark save the glowing numbers. He was too tired to even be hungry yet. And he was befuddled. Somewhere in the back of his mind, hidden under blankets, was a reason for this invasion of unwelcome sound. Muffled memory told him there was something, but he didn't care to know.

"Drat and foolishness!" A recollection dawned in him. "I'm to be made a slave of the state today, a slack-jawed, drooling yes man for various adult mediocrities. These ludicrous excuses for maturity, these knuckle-dragging toadies, these chalk-choked unionistas and soft-hearted fascists are going to hold me in their perverse hands, trying to mold me and shape me. Their pudgy fingers will grope about and try to make me one of them. My God, they are going to eat my brains! No, I'll have none of it! They may drag me to school by force, but I refuse to let them lay a hand on my mind!"

However high-minded Horace may have sounded in his opposition to public education, the reality was that his desire for personal liberty was rooted in sloth. Teachers were always after him to DO things. And the things in question were never worth the bother, he was certain of that. They were like happy little gnomes serving as functionaries in a Kafka novel. He didn't understand it. Why were they so enamored with his potential, having been so little interested in their own?

"Humbug" he fumed, dressing himself in the darkness. "I declare this day that these self-appointed do-gooders shall be made to pay for their impudence. I, Horace, will be decidedly and persistently unhelpful. Sullenness will mark my demeanor like leprosy. I will be a stinking corpse, a baneful scarecrow, a malevolent toad in their classrooms!"

This path of non-violent resistance decided upon, Horace actually started to feel excited about the first day of school. He imagined himself to be a kind of Neo-Ghandian with meat on his bones. He would thrust himself forward as a leader of men, a valiant fighter for freedom. Horace Pickwick would give them what for.

Thirty minutes later, Horace trudged to school with something approximating joy in his heart.

Education

Tax levies for education,
Conveniently scheduled for off-years,
Are a smelly abomination.
They deserve only "NO" votes and jeers.
Throwing around cratefuls of cash
Is a foolish and wishful waste.
Kids don't need money that is rash,
But parents, and time face to face.

I get so sick of public schools coming to beg for more funds year after year. "If only you give us more money we will do a better job" they say. Not true. Spending more money does not improve education. There's empirical evidence to the contrary. But everybody wants to be on the side of kids and their well-being. Here's my thought: education will improve when adults realize that they can't improve it by throwing money around. You improve education when parents have the time and inclination to be involved, the more the better. Spending money is just an opiate.

A Red Door Is....

A red door is... striking.
A red door is bold.

A red door will beckon you

In from the cold.

A red door gets opened

When you've got the key.

But it isn't much help

When the key is with me.

A red door takes mail

On the days that it comes,

And sometimes graffiti

When found in the slums.

But this door is special,

Whate'er it appears,

Because it's my Granny's

And has been for years.

Eating a l'anglaise

Bangers and mash in the morning.
Ploughman with pickle at night.
Follow 'em both up with custard
And life will be goin' alright.

London Graffiti

I said to my soul, "Be still."

For the rattle of the train

Carved a headache on my skull,

Stirred my stomach, made me ill,

And throbbed my hurting brain.

I said to my soul, "Be still."

Since incessant pigeons flocked,

Strutting 'bout the feet of men

Bobbing heads and pecking bills

Taunting our footfalls and socks.

I said to my soul, "Be still."

For crowds of business suits

Surged past my shoulders, faces

Blank. Empty window sills.

A deafening chorus of mute.

I said to my soul, "Be still."

My God I need your peace.

The world is whirling all askew

My own falls flat, give me your will.

Lead unto your quiet place.

"Back Pain" or "Poetic Quality is not Inherent in this System!"

I have a throbbing back ache.
I think it's pretty clear.
I wish that a pro bono
Masseuse would now appear!
But those folks all charge money
And wallet's looking lean.
I think I'll just take Advil
And vent a little spleen.

Pop and Fizzle

I have a can of soda pop;
It's full of Cee Oh Two
It's prob'ly gonna warm the world.
Just kidding! That's not true.

A Rube Ode

The Yankees are so scuzzy.
The Yankees are so yuck.
I'd like to think my Twinkies
Will run over them like a truck.
The odds are long, I know this.
The chances might seem thin,
But all the Twinkies have to do
Is WIN, WIN, WIN!!!!

Prison

I wouldn't want to be in prison high above the ground.
I wouldn't want my sundry limbs with rope to all be bound.
I wouldn't want a swatch of duct tape cutting off my sound.
I'd hate to think I'd die up there, never to be found.

Stumble Bumpkin

My two left feet are problematic.
Dancing good ain't automatic,
'Specially when we're doing Lindy Hop

I am just a clumsy bugger,
Love excuses just to hug her.
Can Fred Astaire be purchased in a shop?

For I would take his dexterous movements,
Make a couple small improvements,
Then I'd truly hit the tipsy-top.

Bold

My love, you are a rose that I saw this summer,
Basking in the sun, and preparing to burst out.
By tender beauty wrapped 'round, softer than velvet,
Your color brash and bold, your principles to shout.
No space-filler you, no one out of the dozen,
No timid bloom blending to the background of green.
You pronounce yourself present at such time you choose
Proclaiming truth with confidence, to be seen
By those with eyes to see, no apology.
Too often we've been soothed by weak timidity
And had our boldness blunted, our color bleached out.
But God calls not the rose to shrink, a timid violet
Or ponder long on lists of troubles that beset,
But show his glorious color in all things round about.

Along the Charles

Blurry Boston's on my right.
I got the worst in a fist fight.
Or so it seems; I'm feeling groggy
Or is it just the night that's foggy?

A Limerick for My Wife on her Birthday

Kingdavid informs me that it is National Bad Poetry Day. It is also my wife's birthday. So I have cleverly combined the two in this toxic brew that is sure to get me in trouble. Just for the record, this is purely fanciful. She doesn't color her hair to cover up gray (though she has promised to do so as soon as necessary and until the day she dies.)

There once was a wife who was aging.
'Gainst little grey hairs she was waging
A war to the pain
While she put on more stain.
When she reads this she'll surely be raging.

Happy Birthday my Love!!!

Hats off to Music

I'd like a fur hat to wear when I'm drumming.
Or maybe a mitre to wear as I'm strumming?
There's something 'bout hats that's so full of appeal.
They fill me with burgeoning globules of zeal.
So trill on your piccolos, ye of coonskin caps
While men in fedoras write Italian raps.

The Moo-Cow Pet

I tried to catch a cow one day,
To catch her in a net.
She was just a-standing there,
A-looking like a pet.
She gave a moo so startled
I swear she must have swore,
But then I dragged my new cow pet
Right through my kitchen door.
So now I've got a moo-cow
Making messes on my floor.

An Ode to Some Sausages

Oh dear little sausages filling the pan,
I'm frying you up for to eat you.
The pan that you're in belongs to my gran,
But she'll only have one, I'll have two.
For you're tasty, you see, much better than toast,
Though no one's as good as a good Sunday roast!
So thank you for frying, it's been awful nice
Next time think two times before you entice.

Bridge of DOOM!

Spooky bridge out in the country,
Full of spiders, dark and gloomy,
May I never tread your timbers.
May your shadow never doom me.

Evil lurks in dark recesses,
Spinning spider webs so vile,
Venom seeps and oozes outwards
Seeking travelers to defile.

The Fall

Don't let anyone lie! Living water
Can toss you and bash you around.
The promise of God isn't swimming pools
But seeking the thing to be found.
It's not that his kingdom is hidden;
It's clear like pure water on rock.
Moving, demanding, and plunging ahead
To live with this water you'll have to be dead
To yourself, your pretensions and all.
The water will chute you over the fall.
And there, at that spot when you're out of control
His living water is quick'ning your soul.

Christmas Puzzle Potential

We were on a boat.
The boat was in a river.
The river was in France
Home of goosey liver.
Though the day was warm
The evening had a shiver.
Never mind, never mind.
Thomas Kinkade would approve.
Look at the lights by the Louvre!

Just to be clear, that isn't the Louvre. The Louvre is over to the left, just off camera. As for the title, I associate puzzles with Christmastime. Oh, and since the photo looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting I associate it with puzzles. I'm not sure if that's circular logic or just general confusion. Bye!

Pigeon Mafia

These pigeons are Italian Sicilian,
Three mafioso dons,
They're looking out for easy marks,
Rollovers for their cons.
"Nice jacket ma,am. T'would be shame
Were anything to happen.
Why doncha give me fifty bucks,
Insurance 'gainst birds crappin'?

A Stone Mustache

I'd like to grow a mustache
That's made of chiseled stone,
For facial hair is groovy
And full of pheromone.
I'd hang about in churchyards
And gaze at folks below.
Alas, it's empty dreaming.
For my wife has said "no."

Folsom Underground

I hear the train a-comin';
It's rattling in the Tube.
And I'm here takin' pictures
Like some Midwestern rube...
I'm here in London, England,
Honeymooning man.
But that train keeps a rollin'
North up to my Gran's.

Takin' a Spin 'Round the Lawn

Today's the day to mow the lawn;
I feel it in my bones.
I'll rev the engine mightily
And place the racing cones.
Then I'll tear from front to back
And back to front and then...
I'll cut the grass so placidly
That silent nuns would smile
And lend a hand with trimming
Cause every nun's got style.

Wandering Eyes

Our prez, well, he's not perfect.
No man ever was.*
I'm sure he says some cuss words
As most everyone does.
And I'm sure he ogles
And casts a closer eye
When pretty women cross his path
"My oh my oh my."

*There was one!

In Praise of June! (now departing)

Today's the day that ends the month
The last of thirty days.
The month's been good and so now I
Will give it fulsome praise.
All hail to June! Shy of July,
The month that's just past May.
What wonder June! Its days were warm;
I'd be inclined to stay.
But time moves on and so do I
(I've heard those words somewhere?)
Oh never mind, all hail to June!
I'll see you soon. I swear!

I don't really have to pee.

It's too bad dogs can't talk,
To explain why they balk.
They whine, "I gotta go!"
Then do they? Clearly, no!

While dog-sitting I am vigilant to respond to the dog's entreaties lest the carpet suffer on my watch. Unfortunately, the dog is just yanking my chain. We go out, she looks around, sniffs the air and then looks at me, "What are we doin' out here?"

"We're out here so that you can take care of... natural urges."

"Oh. That's nice. But I got nothin'."

"Well let's go inside again."

"Right. See you in half an hour?"

Bad Dog!

Swelter

Cook and fry, roast and boil,

Today is just a time of toil.

Heat is high, air is thick,

Dreaming of a mountain creek.

Moving slow and finding shade

Am I in Miami-Dade?

A Whine Sonnet

"I'd hate to complain" is most often said
By folks who love just that most dearly.
And somewhere I heard, or maybe I read
That complaint is a toxin! Or nearly
At any rate. It's certainly not good.
It dries up your bones, drives away your friends
And you all know it well if you have stood
Within earshot of a carper who lends
Liberally of his dissatisfaction.
Or maybe you know it from autodidaction?
Repent then, in defense of your bones
And even more, save your loved ones some groans!
Let us then gather and agree to refrain
From whiny self-pity and words that complain.

Dead? Not Dead.

I heard it whispered that maybe I'm dead.
Poems have been sparse for some weeks.
Never you mind, think "happy" instead
Then you'll get the poems that you seeks.

Honeymoonin'

Once upon a time,
In a poem without a rhyme,
A couple said, "I do."
And then went to England.

They went to see Big Ben
And a church designed by Wren.
And then they bought some Pickle
Named after some guy Branston.

Haikus of Impression

Planting a garden,
Going on plastic cup runs,
Moving large bookshelves,

One more laundry load,
Making yet another list,
Double checking times,

Excitement is here!
Buzzing, caffeinated bees-
Zipping, shouting, pow!

The Calendar Tips its Hat

T'would be nice if today
My eggs were just right,
The bacon strips crispy,
The Hash browns a delight,
The coffee so bold,
The orange juice cold
And there I'd be sittin'
Four and thirty years old.

I have no doubt that these things will be true. Give me two shakes and I shall verify.

Diving Catches in Future Endzones

Tis a beautiful day in St. Paul.
If I had a son, we'd toss the football.
He'd leap in the air and dive on the ground.
I'd do play by play and make the crowd's sound.
Grass would be staining our elbows and knees
While the wind would be blowing a beautiful breeze.
Tis a beautiful day in St. Paul.
Tis a beautiful day in St. Paul.

Going Positive

Sharing disgust
Doesn't do much.
Amendments, however,
Are quite the endeavor!

We are in a political climate where something fundamental has gone wrong. I'm not pointing the finger at the present administration, though I think they are pushing the problem to its logical ends. No, we've got a Washington problem that transcends party affiliation. The way to solve this problem is through the process set out in the Constitution, amendments.

Follow the link in the poem for some proposed amendments to the Constitution that seek to address some of our current problems. Scroll down to the footnotes for plain English explanations of the legalese. (Here is the link for The Bill of Federalism website.)

Disgust

The 'media' disgust me;
They're lower than scum.
Lying reporters
Think we're all dumb.
They choose all their stories
To fool the unwise,
The people unwilling
To open their eyes.
So long as we listen,
And read what they write
Our country will suffer
Continuing blight.

The media is a cancer. Far from contributing to society's well-being, they actively undermine it. Until they are ignored or just laughed at, we will suffer because of them.

Not a Poem!

The following is not a poem. I repeat, not a poem.

Our president is an obnoxious twit.

What you just read was not a poem. I repeat, not a poem.

Nahum

The prophet Nahum
So rarely gets love.
That's really too bad.

He bashed Ninevah
For being evil.
They made him mad.

But they didn't last;
They got all destroyed.
And Nahum weren't sad.

(next week: Habakkuk)

This Poem is an Absolute Embarrassment to Whoever Wrote It.

I went to the dentist.
My face is now numb.
I wonder if maybe
I shouldn't chew gum?
She warned me of danger
From chewing too soon
Cause chomping your tongue
Is hardly a boon.
And so I'll just starve
Till the numbness subsides
And dream a sweet vision
Of hot curly fries.

Not that Anyone's Counting

Twenty-nine days til marriage arrives.
S'ven hundred-five hours on the nose.
Then there'll be cake and a dance and a kiss,
A thrill running down from our lips to our toes.
So strike up the organ and ready the rice
Wouldn't a wedding in May-time be nice?

Almost a Limerick

On Monday I dressed in a sweater
And folks were all saying, "What's upper?
You're looking quite spiffy
Though your shaving is iffy."
I said, "Thanks, I'll shave after supper."

Sing this One to that Tune (you know the one)

I wrote a sermon last night.
It wasn't very good.
And so I wrote another one
As a good student would.
That is three this weekend
And I am feeling tired.
I think I'll drink a pot of joe
Cause then I'll just be wired.

Tea Party

This is one of my better efforts. It rhymes. And there are groupings of four lines. Yes!

The tea was nice;
The signs were fun;
Let's put big spending
On the run.

It ain't just Left
Nor just the Right
Who's gotten us
Into this plight.

So let's turn leaf
And do this thing;
And put an end
To wanton spending.

Turned Away at the Door

The bouncer said, "Get thee away!
You have no place here; it's not your day.
Wait some more months, until you've got proof
Til then you'll find me strictly aloof
To eyelash entreaties and cash on the sly
Cause I'm an honest and upstanding guy.
The law is the law and I'm just a cog;
Don't give me sad faces like some ol' hang dog."

Tough Guys

There's a new gang and they don't play nice;

They ride their boards in the snow and the ice.

They will look surly if given the chance

And if you hug them they'll both look askance.

Haircuts are out and high-flying is in

Build them a grind-box, just maybe they'll grin.

Moving Books

I'm loading books in boxes.
I'm storing prose away.
Shelves are looking barren
And oh so sad today.
Moving isn't easy,
But better soon that late.
One day, when I've a study
My books will look just great!

Swing

Say now young lady, would you care to swing?
I've got the right shoes on and it's just the thing.
Let's take a twirl as the Commodores play
Some tunes from the greats, from Ellington's day.
Don't mind my feet and I'll stay off your toe
Dance with me baby, wherever we go.

Sly the Absconding Rat

When a rat goes missing you had better beware
Cause rats are kinda socialist and they like to share;
They'll nibble on the goodies that get left on the shelf
And they'll leave a wee gift for you to clean up yourself.
The best thing for you to do as far as I know
Is to set aside the shotgun and set out a "hotel".
"Oh no, you didn't say that! Why you're just a cad!
Threatening the poor rat's life is just terrible bad."
No doubt this is true, but I'm just winkin' my eye.
I'm all for happy endings for that rat named Sly.
So come on home sweet rat, we're sad that you're missing
All will be forgiven and boy won't you get some kissing.

Eloquent Protest

Barry is a schmuck.
Yeah, yeah.
Things he do just suck.
Yeah, yeah.
His mouth is in his butt,
Yeah, yeah.
I wish his butt were shut.
Oh yeah.

Gnosis

I want so desperately to know.
Not to have competing ideas,
But the one strong idea
That stands up and declares.

Not knowing is like the world
Gone blurry. A vague headache
Nagging at me, stealing my joy.
Knowledge is self-justification.

But that is a pernicious lie,
That I know sometimes
When I am weak enough
And Christ is strong within me.

I awake with sun and with song,
Sung with cracking voice
And the pale light overcome
By a sadist wind whipping.
Surely there are flaws
That really living reveals,
Scratches of criticism well-earned,
And rusty spots neglected
By thought or effort.
But the Son will find something to shine on.

A Western Love Poem

I saw some folks at the bar tonight,
They were laughin' real hard.
Seems somebody had seen the light,
So sang the tipsy bard.
Friends gathered round and shouted loud
To rise above the din
But a hush came down and everybody bowed
When the princess walked on in.

She was hotter than a pistol and right smart too
And she sashayed 'cross the floor.
She sat right down at my left side
And shot my esprit de corps
Up through the roof and I don't mind sayin'
That I was proud as proud can be
To have on my arm a pretty girl swayin'
And I'm sure that you'd agree.

So we're gettin' married sometime soon
Though an hour'd be too long,
So I'll hold on tight and keep on wooin'
And singin' loverly songs.
The tulips'll pop right out of the ground
When the time has come to say,
"Why yes I'll take this lovely lady
For all the rest of my days!"

The air was awash in shards of crystal,
Perfectly mesmerizing as they settled to earth.
The ground was laden with heaven's broken goblets
The love which was therein shown to us in a birth
That renews us day after day,
Making us white, like the crystals last night
And cheering our hearts for the way.

Worthless Fruit

Fruit on the tree, past its time,
Withered and long past sour.
Tired ideas, already tried,
Wasteful and wanton power.
Fools will consume it, smiling.
And point at us others, reviling.
But your "better" is certainly worse
Because sour, old fruit is a curse.

Step Closer and I'll Give ya Some Hope

I just had a very happy thought!
Our imaginations are so small.
We assume doom for what we've wrought,
But what if that ain't all?
The Great Depression ushered in
Some things that were unthinkable.
Who's to say, in the state we're in,
That big gummint ain't sinkable?
They are reaching audaciously
For our forgotten authority.
But what if we arose,
And punched them in the nose?

A Short Postal, Epistemological and Eschatological Epic (with picture)

The hooded man prowls the twilight
With two wheels to carry his load.
Not a burly man, rather slight,
But fiercely walking on the road.
He will deliver, there's no might,
The mail to every man's abode.
And devil come to give him flight
If e'er he stray from doing right.

Ides of February

It's that time of year again.
When real love is professed,
Not the fakey crap peddled by Hallmark.
Yes, it's the Ides of February.
Give someone you esteem
A canister of premium nuts.
For my Cashew I give cashews.
Funny how that works.

Stimulation

The squirrel looked at me from off of the wall.

"By some coffee," he said.

"And not the cheap stuff. Buy something that will stimulate the economy."

I don't know where squirrels get off being so pushy these days.

Stick of Fire

He took a stick of fire

And twirled it in the air.

Round and round the air it went

Pulled off with gypsy flair.

But then a slip and there it went

And landed in his hair.

It wasn't flame retardant

And then his head was bare.

The Dichotomy of Super Bowl Commercials

Why do we seek the evil, the profane, the ugly, the crude?
I'm thinking particularly of movies and tv shows which purport realism, but really only show life stripped of all redemption in its gore, hate and profanity.
Or instead we shield our eyes from all such things, even those which do exist in our actual lives and instead we exult in the silly, the airbrushed and the sentimentalized.

The Godly woman does not deny what exists, warty as it surely is. But she seeks the good in it, to bring that to light and give it its due.
The Godly man does not withdraw into fantasies. But he is willing to play and laugh and leave seriousness to the side for a time.

Life is deadly serious and there is much reason for Godly laughter in it.
Life is joyful exuberance and we must strive earnestly to do the right thing even when it hurts.

God's creation is beautiful and painful and we are called to live in it, make the best of it and give thanks for it. That is respect for life. That is reverence for God.

Luminary Loppet

It was a cool and windy night.

The skyscrapers and lights bent with every icy gust.

It's really a miracle that the whole darn town

Didn't fall right down.

Snack

Potato chips are crunchy;
Potato chips are nice.
I'd rather eat potato chips
Than eat a bowl of rice.
They give me lots of sodium
And carbohydrates too.
I'd like to eat a whole bag full
But I think I'll just eat two. (or maybe seventeen)

A Matter of Hours. or: Hypocrisy

I heard that there were some folks
Who were chucking shoes the other day.
Oh, they were dancing with fate!
What if they'd been a day late?
Wrong president would have looked out his window
And seen the angry faces of Selma.

This isn't a poem or anything...

But I just need to get something off my chest. As of this hour, the president is now Barack Obama. I am sick to death of his minions already. "I'm so glad that 8 years of idiocy, incompetence, torture, and disregard for the Constitution are over!" said one Facebook luminary. And don't forget that he's going to heal the planet!

Another complained that Obama was receiving way too much criticism and that he was mad about it. Bueller? Do I need to kiss a portrait of his backside? No wait, was he serious? Yes he was. He was mad that people weren't excited as he was to have a new president. Well guess what. I'm not excited. Go ahead and tickle yourself giddy if you think he's something special, but don't you dare tell the rest of us what brutes we are for making fun of your slobbering, cultish devotion.

15 Year Old Girl? Or a Member of the Media?

"Ok, like, I've heard that there's this guy who's, like, going to the place tomorrow. And they're gonna, like, inuberate him or something. I totally don't know what that is, but, like, I saw his picture, and his wife too. OMG!!! My mom said he's going to, like, make the world a better place and stuff. *sigh* And he's taking over for this meannie-poopy-head who was like, like Hitler or something? But anyway, he was so hot!"

Distance Reduction

This morning my Cashew was 1,072 miles away
Tonight she is a mere 12. I would just like to say
That this is a wonderful development.
Ahh, she is heaven sent.

Good and Proper

Bacon for breakfast is right,
Like thousand watt bulbs are real bright,
Like darkness is lack of the light,
Like cowards are prone to take flight.

Pondering....

Here's a question:
Does anyone use that phone between Thanksgiving and St. Patrick's Day?
Here's an idea:
Let's make it into a snowman!

A Bit of Silly

Me and Jangletooth were hippin' to the jive of the ever merciful and cooth Charlie Mingus. Man did that man have sass to the nth and ever higher levels, like butterscotch dripping skyward.

Mm, but when he slow down? It's like seeing a shell-back mourning the loss of his legs and don't he ever got the blues? Mmm.

So anyways, Jangle he say to me, "Pick up the bass and slap out a happy rhyme for the walkin'. We'll pack your mirth into our back pockets and smooth it far.

The Tale of Horace 1

"I think it's clear."

To Horace Jones everything was always clear. He lived in a place of perpetual certainty, able, with nary a grimace of reflection or strain of thought, to conjure up an effortless, if not admirable, clarity of purpose. Often enough this natural ability was a boon to the young man. While others of his friends might tarry over inconsequential decisions, ruminating with their feeble brains much like a cow might ponder what she was chewing again, straining to find the best possible answer when several possibilities would do just fine, Horace would dive right ahead and choose. And so he did.

"We will have the stuffed mushrooms."

"But I'm not entirely..."

"Silence," said Horace softly to his friend Beltran, "If I wanted to wait until you were entirely sure I would have to start gnawing on my elbow for sustenance and we both know that is unlikely."

Horace and Beltran were at the Olive Garden reaping the rewards of their passivity. Beltran's mother had gotten so sick of the pair making a racket in her basement that she had begged them to leave, furnishing them with twenty dollars and a very firmly worded request to not return for the rest of the afternoon. Firm in this case was a very relative term, as Beltran had not inherited his proclivity for vacillation from a vacuum. Still, the two ten dollar bills were more than enough motivation for the seventeen year olds who had not as yet landed, or indeed even searched for, jobs of their own with the attendant remunerations. Twenty dollars was a tidy sum indeed and in the afternoon no less! Usually such bribes were reserved for the weekend, but the long Christmas vacation with the boys home from school had Beltran's mother frazzled down to a nub and she wished to nap in peace.

"After the mushrooms we shall dine on the soup and salad," declared Horace. "And if that is not enough to convince you, dear Beltran, we shall feast on bread sticks as well. Shall we squander the funds that your mother has so kindly provided us out of the fruit of her labor? Nay, we shall eat to the full and be satisfied!"

In addition to Horace's native certitude, he also possessed a measure of grandeur. Or so he imagined. Beltran simply rolled his eyes and acquiesced with a snort. He didn't much mind. He sometimes felt it necessary to assert his independence by indulging in some passive aggressive body language or letting loose with a word, maybe two, of protest, but he was only too happy to avoid any decision making of his own. Decision making entailed responsibility and Beltran had been trained from a very early age to studiously avoid that like a dirty diaper on a hot day in a locked car. And that is not so much a simile as a story that will remin untold for the time being, the soiled baby-ware that is.

As for aversion to responsibility, that started with his father who upon being told of his son's conception immediately uttered those three words, "See you later." Southern Ohio hadn't seen a trace of him since, but before you start feeling too sorry for Ms. Honeycutt, Beltran's mother, please realize that she was no more interested in responsibility than her erstwhile boyfriend. She had promptly enrolled herself on welfare and had kept herself there through thick and thin; seventeen and a half years on the dole was a testament to her indolence and her ingenuity, one of which she had passed along to her son.

He looked over his shoulder towards the kitchen and let out a soft whine, "When are those mushrooms going to get here? I'm hungier than..." he huffed rather than complete the comparision. No sense in taxing himself when he was suffering so grievously from hunger.

"My dear Beltran," replied Horace, "we have yet to order the delictables and I think it unlikely that they should arrive before the order is made. There are some leftovers on the table behind you. Taste and see that the breadstick is good."

Beltran's hunger, though strong, was overcome by his sloth and he slouched an inch in response.

"Very well. If you do not care to sate yourself on the abundance all around I shall blaze the trail for you. I tell you that I shall rise from this table and return victoriously with booty and treasure..."

Horace's building triumph was cut short by the appearence of their waitress who looked askance at them briefly, steeled herself for what was sure to be a very slender tip, and introduced herself, "Hi, my name is Wendy and I'll be your server today. Can I get you guys anything?"

"My dear woman," started Horace, "'You guys' simply won't do. Messieurs Horace and Beltran at your service. Or rather, you're at our service isn't that right? Bring us the mushrooms and make it quick. Beltran is feeling weak."

Sensing the hopelessness of the situation Wendy made a note, turned on her heel and retreated towards the kitchen, grabbing some dishes from the neighboring table. She well knew that Messieurs Horace and Beltran would not be proffering a tip that would merit much effort on her part.

Horace waited for her to disappear, arose with dignity and walked over to the next table. "Why, the shameless hussy has stolen our breadsticks!"

{to be continued}

Hope is in the Bitter Cold

Every year there is much talk of hope renewed,
The passing of the old year and its failings,
The coming of another set of days.
Might they be different this time? Better?

But hope does not reside in the artificial.
There is no new hope in a number;
That is but a stale wish for last year's rebellion
To finally succeed. Not by hook or by crook, but by digit.

Pagans.

But there is hope of new life in this world.
God sustains his creation by his word;
He has written this hope all around us,
In the flower, by all rights dead in bitter cold,
Only to be raised up to new life in Spring.

This is indeed a time of hope renewed,
For the bitter-cold-power holds sway;
And we have known this day before,
When death mocked life and Satan laughed.