You can't go wrong with sugar

I don't care what nutritionists desire us to think;
You can't go wrong with sugar in a carbonated drink.
That fizzinated bev'rage just aint right without the treacle;
take it out and what you have is very nearly fecal.
Sugar from the cane or beet or even ground up dates
will never tread upon my dreams (to quote from Mr. Yeats).
I always knew corn syrup was a vagabond ingredient;
just a cheapjack substitute that hardly was expedient.
Now we're back to good old sugar in our many treats;
this should cause rejoicing in a million million tweets!
Throw out that Diet Pepsi and start guzzling sucrose.
(Who cares that at the dentist we'll be paying through the nose!)   

Clap your hands!

Mosiah 18:11 -- "And now when the people had heard these words, they clapped their hands for joy, and exclaimed: This is the desire of our hearts."

Clap your hands and make a noise that joyful stoutly rings
through the bedrock of the world and over puzzled kings.
And let the sound of exultation enter ev'ry ear
that the ransom has been paid and Christ is drawing near.
Pure fountains bursting forth upon the wretched, poisoned land,
leave no doubt that God His work is starting to command.
Then take your leave of sorrow and upon the Mountain gaze,
and cry up acclamation for the Lord and all His ways!  

The Clown is our best teacher . . .

Who teaches us the meaning of Life's truths in cap and gown?
Not the smug professor, but the laughing circus clown!
His cap is patched and jingles with the sound of jester bells.
His gown is gaudy and immense; it holds delightful spells.
He's given tenure by the crowd to caper and explain
that thinking our existence is a burden must be vain.
His lectures may be silent and be full of custard pie,
but his conclusions never blush or have to tell a lie.
Exuberant and ever keen all ignorance to throttle,
he graduates his students with a brimming seltzer bottle.
The clown is our best teacher, since he goes straight to the heart
and never complicates things like that old Rene Descartes. 

Justice and Mercy

Mosiah 15:9 -- ". . . having the bowels of mercy; being filled with compassion towards the children of men; standing betwixt them and justice . . . "

As I am growing older I'm not sure I'm more astute;
but my taste for pure compassion sure is growing more acute.
As "justice" I have found to be a ruthless thing of stone;
relentless and remorseless, never leaving man alone.
The cry for justice often has revenge as motivation;
with welfare, rights, and mercy getting no consideration.
We are all a victim at some time in our brief life,
and also play the villain during seasons of deep strife.
I hope to never take the club of justice up again,
but spread instead some kindness and some good will now and then.
To understand another and to advocate release
is what I think it means to emulate the Prince of Peace.

Easter Lines

The gate is unlocked, the wall to dust falls.
The links of the chain clamor not down the halls.
The sterile give birth, the old become silk.
The hopeless are suckled with savory milk.
The Light of the Sun unimpeded displays
all who are smitten, and heals with its rays.
To each comes exemption like rain to the drought;
with godly abandon we all ought to shout.
Not just for the day or the week or the year
but beyond the forever with no thought of fear.

To handle words from God

Mosiah 13:4 -- ". . .  because I have spoken the word of God ye have judged me that I am mad."

To handle words from God requires discipline of mind;
otherwise their power the most sturdy brain can grind.
They act just like a two-edged sword that can be grasped awry,
causing pain and anguish and the innocent to cry.
Beware the words you quote when judging others -- sacred writ
should never be a weapon unless hearts are pure and fit.
Tis madness preaching scripture to a tyrant, unless called
by the power of the Lord and by Him so installed.
Live the words of power, study them for your instruction;
but leave to those anointed all the preaching of destruction.

Scientists Grow Chicken Embryos With Dinosaur Legs In World First

(Inspired by a story by Lauren Kruczyk)

I guess we call 'em eggheads for a reason, after all;
those guys who use young chickens for their crazy protocol.
They're fooling with some powers that extend beyond the reach
of mankind as it skirts the waves upon an endless beach.
There are some things that we are not meant to know, or even guess.
Like dino legs on chickens, or why children make a mess.
We should not graft a chicken head upon an apple tree,
or try to implant gizzards in a platter of fresh brie.
Making chickens lay square eggs is cruel, and won't avoid
loud squawks from all the chickens when they get a hemorrhoid.
You researchers should stop annoying chickens and instead
try to figure out what's inside Donald Trump's thick head!

We are guiltless . . .

Mosiah 12:14 --  "And now, O king, behold, we are guiltless, and thou, O king, hast not sinned; therefore, this man has lied concerning you, and he has prophesied in vain."

The leaders of the nations do not recognize their faults;
their people, too, would rather keep their failures in deep vaults.
When prophets plead repentance there is none to make afraid
 and the path of truth, less-trodden, becomes closed with stern blockade.
The Lord will crack the shells of despots, leaders, and their mobs,
until their insides melt like wax and ev'ry nerve end throbs.
From the house tops to the cellar, deeds of darkness must reveal
all the filth of mankind's doing -- O, how much can our God heal?
Mighty though He is to save, there's some, like wretched Cain,
who never come back to the Light and in the night remain.
Save me, O God, from tyrants both outside and well within,
that purity may rule my heart and never vote for sin! 

The List

From the Wall Street Journal: "Registries have proliferated rapidly in the U.S., experts say. While some lists restrict access to law-enforcement agencies or fire officials, others can be viewed online by anyone, according to the National Conference of State Legislatures. In addition to the 50 states that publicly track sex offenders, five states including California require registration for arson. Minnesota, Illinois and six others maintain lists of methamphetamine producers. In Indiana, a public website lets visitors use Google Maps to find the location of homes that have been used as meth laboratories. Tennessee requires registration for animal abuse— something nine other state legislatures are debating. Florida law requires registration by anyone convicted of a felony of any kind for up to five years after completing the sentence." 

When stern justice has been served, and a felon serves his time,
then it's only fair that he can move past his woeful crime.
Anonymity assures that mistakes stay in the past,
so the guy or gal is free from all bigotry or caste.
But the zealous Pharisee, the unbending martinet
 wants to make a little list that all ex-cons will regret.
Not allowed a second chance, with his mug shot so displayed,
the former inmate finds himself in shackles still arrayed.
May all unforgiving men, who want vengeance measured out
with a steam shovel become of themselves a thing of doubt!

My Prostate is Teal

From the Wall Street Journal:  "A Wall Street Journal survey of the 25 U.S. counties with the largest unauthorized immigrant populations found that 20 of them have programs that pay for the low-income uninsured to have doctor visits, shots, prescription drugs, lab tests and surgeries at local providers. The services usually are inexpensive or free to participants, who must prove they live in the county but are told their immigration status doesn’t matter."

 I'm trying to be lib'ral in my thinking day by day,
 and granting to all others their just rights to work and play.
But in the past few years I've gotten bills up the wazoo 
from hospitals and doctors who say "No insurance? Pooh!"
I don't go to the ER just to shoot the breeze, you know;
or get an operation just to have a scar to show.
My itty bitty pension doesn't pay for such insurance --
so healthcare people treat me like I must have great endurance.
I've put off medications and procedures by the score,
hoping to get better (or at least avoid death's door).
And now to read that freebies come to those who are illegal
knocks me for a loop so that I'm just about spread eagle. 
So pardon me if envy turns my prostate rather teal;
 I'll sneak across the border for a decent payment deal.

Seeking Lamanites

Mosiah 10:1 -- "And I caused that there should be weapons of war made of every kind, that thereby I might have weapons for my people against the time the Lamanites should come up again to war against my people."

And who makes war upon the Saints if not themselves betimes?
Whose pride and sloth and hubris in the eyes of God are crimes.
Instead of seeking Lamanites to blame and smite and fret,
we're better off to ask ourselves "O Lord, what lack I yet?"
So send an army, if you must, inside to your own soul --
to win the only real war for the world's complete control. 
For if we fight our own desires til they are made pure,
we can be sure the Lord of Hosts our battles will secure!

The Nain Rouge

What's red and black and scaly, with a laugh just like a horse?
In Detroit environs it's the darn Nain Rouge, of course!
This imp of French extraction is sure blamed for all the woes
that came upon the city while it was in its death throes.
Me, I think that there are more than one Nain Rouge around;
they function in the White House and they cover lots of ground.
There's one that pays my taxes and has never got it right.
Another causes gridlock and delays my airplane flight.
The Senate -- THERE'S a hot spot for the Nain Rouge, yessiree.
They've got more of them there than there are leaves upon a tree!
To placate these red devils you must offer them some graft;
so really, what's the diff'rence between Congress and witchcraft?

The Mighty Aaron Eagar

On the twenty-second day of March good Aaron Eagar

earned a letter from the Governor (and so a free star).

The Utah County Weed Department was recognized, through him,

for pursuing noxious weeds with vigor, stealth, and vim.

 His dedication to eradication of these weeds

has him raising them in Orem from their common seeds

just so he can figure out what poisons will work best

to lay those dandelions to their final deserved rest.

He is a foe to pigweed and to hoary cress, you bet!

Spotted spurge he decimates; he gives henbit cold sweat.

The mighty Aaron Eagar simply laughs at downy brome.

He uproots ev'ry puncturevine, right by the rhizome!

All you thistles, mallows, and sharp nettles please take heed --

you'll be endangered species now, in word and very deed!  

My door towards the temple

Mosiah 2:6 -- "And they pitched their tents round about the temple, every man having his tent with the door thereof towards the temple . . . "

My door towards the Temple, my face towards the light;
my spirit is climbing up from the dark night!
My compass, O Lord, help me keep to True North,
to the House of the Bridegroom that joy may come forth!
Cathedrals and stupas, though dazzling grand,
are only the work of man's unsteady hand.
Thy dwelling place no mortal fist may decree,
until it is sanctified wholly by Thee!  
   

Hiking

Hit the road, my parents said, when I was but a lad,
now that you've an appetite and are a high school grad.
And so I trudged down paths and trails to see what I could see;
and found myself with bunions, boils, and socks that smelled like brie.
I vowed that when my ship came in I'd never hike again --
but loll upon a davenport just like a broody hen.
My vessel must have sunk somewhere just off the coast, alas,
since I kept marching onward but all wealth did me bypass. 
I've hiked the Appalachian Trial a dozen times so far,
following a will-o-wisp I thought my rising star.
 My nickname is Bad Karma; it's because when I return
the only thing that I bring back is sizzling sunburn . . . 

Name Dropping in Clown Alley

Working as a circus clown for Ringling Brothers back in the 1970’s, I came in contact with a number of celebrities who visited the show – usually pushed, prodded and/or bribed into coming by the show’s nimble publicity agents. Even though I think most trips down Memory Lane are train wrecks, here is a partial list of the luminaries I met while performing with The Greatest Show on Earth.

• Tony Bennett. The great crooner and his wife came to see the show at Madison Square Garden in New York City. When clown alley heard he was in the audience, we immediately set to work cutting out a gigantic foam rubber heart, which we hurriedly painted a lurid red. During intermission all 26 of us trooped up to Mr. Bennett’s seat to tell him we were returning the heart he had lost in San Francisco. He took the joke well, and one of the clowns approached his wife to say “I understand you’re from my hometown in Ohio – Zanesville!” She looked at him coolly for a minute before replying “That was his last wife.” The publicity staff quickly shooed us all back to our steamer trunks.
• Larry Fine. The beloved “porcupine” of the Three Stooges came to see the show in Los Angeles. He was in a wheelchair, hooked up to a portable oxygen tank. After the show he insisted on coming backstage to shake hands with every single clown. For a young man like me, who was desperately trying to master the art of slapstick, it was like shaking hands with Jehovah.
• Cary Grant. Also in Los Angeles. I was hurrying out a side door to make my entrance for a clown gag and ran into a well-built older man in a black suit. I don’t wear my glasses when performing, so I did not see this road block very clearly. Irritated, I asked him to please move, and he replied politely “Certainly. I’m sorry to be in the way.” There was no mistaking that voice; I turned at once and gazed myopically into the face that launched a thousand heart throbs. “You’re Cary Grant!” I sputtered in complete awe. “Sometimes; when I feel like it” he replied with a real Hollywood twinkle in his eye.
• Art Linkletter. The genial television host was in a bad mood when he was told the evening performance had been delayed by fifteen minutes due to some issues with the Siberian tigers not getting their horse meat on time. He was the guest ringmaster. In the circus, the animals are always fed and watered before any human being – but Linkletter did not grasp that concept. I was standing next to him, so I heard him muttering, apparently NOT in jest, “This is no way to run a circus.”
• Richard J. Daley, perennial Mayor of Chicago. Daly and his Democratic party cohorts bought out the show one evening, and then threw open the doors and let the people of Chicago in for free. He took the microphone away from Harold Ronk, the ringmaster, and hosted the proceedings himself, often stopping the show for a brief political harangue. Being mildly liberal back then, I did not take kindly to his politics, or his raucous personality. When he asked all the clowns to come up and sit in the box seats with him, I quickly rearranged my makeup – putting on a Hitler mustache and combing my hair down in the style of the German dictator. I then goose stepped up to Hizzoner and gave the Nazi salute. He simply shook hands, uttering in his guttural style, “Nice ta meetcha!” and took no more notice of me. After the show, which lasted into the wee hours of the morning, I caught holy Hannah from the performance director, himself a German.

Gimme that ol’ time religion — or not

What do people want in their religion nowadays?
What will keep them coming back to church with eyes ablaze?
Is there any way a pastor can beguile his flock
so away from worship they don't inattentive walk?

Ditch the Ten Commandments, first -- they're very inconvenient.
People want a God of love, one who's very lenient.
Serve the sacramental wine in barrels to the crowd,
til they've raised their voices in a worship hymn quite loud.

Follow all the latest news and fads and trends, to copy;
sticking to the strait and narrow is considered soppy.
Do not mention Hell or any punishment divine;
that will only make the little children want to whine.


Make Deity as mundane as a corndog on a stick;
no more mighty miracles or healing of the sick.
Once you've turned religion into nothing but a sop
the stampede to your church will surely need a traffic cop!  

Blurry Lines: Disability vs. Ability

(Inspired by a story from Karen Feld.)

Each one of us is handicapped by things we cannot change;
it might be anything from mental illness to the mange.
As such it well behooves us to engage the Golden Rule
and never call another rogue or cripple or a fool.
If Donald Trump thinks he's immune from all the slings and arrows
of mortal life he ought to be embalmed with all the pharaohs.
He'll find that calling names wins nothing but the world's contempt,
plus heightened caution for what lurks beneath that hair unkempt

What did they learn from me?

Mosiah 1:8 -- "And many more things did king Benjamin teach his sons, which are not written in this book."

I did not teach my sons to breath, or grow their nails and hair;
I did not teach them how to walk or sit upon a chair.
I wonder now just what they learned from me who's not a king;
who knows so very little to which children ought to cling.
Perhaps when all is sorted out, illusions sacrificed,
 they might all remember that I do believe in Christ. 

Coulrophobia: Fear of Clowns (?)

I grew up in the 1950’s, when the great clowns were still alive and stirring in the American psyche; Chaplin gave use his movie tribute to clowns, Limelight; Buster Keaton was still actively pratfalling on live television; the Three Stooges were still cranking out their slapstick sonatas; and professional circus clowns were hilariously abundant, whether at Ringling Brothers or with the many Shrine circuses that crisscrossed the land. As a child I reveled in their unprincipled and undignified shenanigans, and, by a series of fortuitous events, I actually grew up to become a clown with Ringling Brothers Circus, attending their prestigious (if that’s the right word for it!) Clown College in Venice, Florida, in 1971. 
In my professional career as a clown I would occasionally run across a child who was initially frightened by my grotesque makeup and costume, and I learned to approach such children very carefully and respectfully, telling them in a reassuring voice that it was okay to be shy, and asking their permission to come closer to shake their hand. In most cases, after a few minutes of this strategy, the child would allow me to make contact, and I felt proud to have made a new friend for the art of clowning.
After many years in the business I changed careers, leaving my red nose and baggy pants behind. I had been a respected member of a great fraternity of buffoons, and remembered fondly all the laughter and affection I had received from audiences all over the world. 
Imagine my surprise and chagrin, then, when, just a few years ago, I briefly went back to my old trade – only to discover that nearly HALF of the people I interacted with said they were afraid of clowns, and wanted nothing to do with me!
What in the world had happened to change people’s minds, I wondered. I’m still not sure I have a complete answer to that vexing question. But I can make some reasonable surmises.
First of all, I blame the rise in amateur clown organizations across the country. Many circuses today have cut corners by not hiring professional clowns, but instead contacting local clown clubs to provide the comedy. These amateur clowns often have terrible makeups and no training in physical comedy; when they approach the audience for some fun it’s no wonder the children, and maybe the adults, feel threatened, rather than amused! I myself can recall as a child the amateur clowns that infested a local Fourth of July picnic I went to; how they tickled me until I wet myself. Many of them reeked of whisky. No child should ever be subjected to that kind of abusive clowning.
Secondly, I blame the author Stephen King’s book It. The book was published in 1986, and later made into a blockbuster horror film. The book introduces the character of Pennywise the Clown, a shape-shifting monster that preys on children. It is not a pleasant read, nor is it a pleasant movie to watch. 
Since then there have been other “monster” clowns; in fact, if you Google “clown” under ‘images’ you will get mostly gruesome fiends in whiteface, not the funny fellows we all used to chuckle at. One of the most popular costumes this coming Halloween, as it has been for the past fifteen years, is the monster clown outfit, complete with fanged mask and blood-soaked ruffles. 
So, in a broader sense, I guess I’d better blame Hollywood and the whole entertainment industry for promoting and marketing scary clowns for profit. Mere laughter is not enough – now our clowns have to be dangerous as well! I do not think this bodes well for American society. 
In Europe, Africa and Asia the clown is still a traditional figure of fun – allowed license to satirize the foibles and failings of kings and rulers, and of peasants and plebeians. He, or she, is a gentle creature, full of music and whimsy, and children flock to circuses and shows featuring clowns, with complete trust and delight. The way children used to here in the United States.
But America has grown so cynical and sophisticated that we see nothing wrong with taking the innocent zany that gave us so much laughter and pleasure over the years and turning him into an icon of horror, like Dracula or Frankenstein’s Monster. 
A pie in the face to all such demonizers of a great American comedy tradition! 

False Christs

Words of Mormon 1:  "And it came to pass that after there had been false Christs, and their mouths had been shut, and they punished according to their crimes . . ."

Not ev'ryone that says Lord Lord, that claims Messiah-ship
is legally anointed or is actually blue chip. 
Hallowed visage and sweet words, or stern denunciation,
do not guarantee someone is of a godly station.
The devil joys to counterfeit an angel of the light,
to lead astray the faith of men into a grubby night.
 The Lord above knows all his sheep, keeps his flock defended
so ev'ry preying faker is finally up-ended. 
Trod a humble path, my friend, let destiny unfold
not as you desire it, but as from God you're told.
If you are called to do great things, make your election sure
by staying in the shadow of your Savior clean and pure. 

There's nothing more to write

Jarom 1:2 -- "For what could I write more than my fathers have written?"

There's nothing more to write; my life's complete the way it stands,
for I have always followed all the Lord's overt commands.
Ev'ry jot and tittle finished; ev'ry weighty matter closed.
All the business of mortality I have faithfully disposed. 
So why is it I feel as if the Lord still had a stroke
or two to send my way -- is it rebuke . . . or just a joke? 

The Chili Pepper

My mother kept Tabasco Sauce upon the kitchen table;
one bottle lasted 20 years (the stuff is very stable).
But when into the wide, wide world I sent my taste buds straying,
with peppers hot and sweet and strange they started bravely playing.
I ate 'em smoked and dried and canned, or straight off verdant vine;
I masticated Capsicum long pickled in hard brine. 
Their Scoville units held no meaning to my sated palate;
I added them to ev'rything as if they were mere shallot.
But fascination with these plants soon turned to an addiction,
and I could never be with others without causing friction.
My wife said that an ancho in her gravy was abuse;
and for Scottish bonnets my dear kiddies had no use.
My co-workers complained about the stench around my desk,
which reeked, they said, of something very jalapeno-esque.
Bereft of home, and jobless, to the gutter I soon crashed,
where I lived on nothing but serranos crudely mashed.
I managed, after years of woe, to spurn the chili's power
by turning to craft vinegars -- which are so very sour!
So nowadays I revel in Balsamic or Red Wine.
(Some Apple Cider from the Braggs goes very well with swine.)

Even Moonshine Is Going Upscale With Funky Flavors and Tasting Sessions

(Inspired by an article in the Wall Street Journal)

Ah yes, my little chickadee, a sip of this ambrosia
will turn your stomach inside out; your tonsils will not knows ya . . .
Made with finest corn and water from organic swamps,
it'll give you heebie jeebies and the screaming whomps.
 If you don't need your eye sight, then a glass or two won't hurt;
if your brain pan needs a shine then drink it in a spurt!
We offer many flavors to intrigue the bacchanalian;
our Old Rope extract turns the fiercest Muslim Episcopalian!
It puts the hair back on your chest, especially for wimin;
men will find a solid quart will give their guts a trimmin'.
Ah yes, my little kumquat, pour as much out as you please --
but do not spill it outdoors since it kills off all the trees!

Spikeawopski: Remembering Terry Parsons.

The first time I met Terry Parsons in the Ringling clown alley, he gave me a lopsided grin and said “Call me Spikeawopski!”

But I’ll just call him Spike in this, a memorandum of my friendship with this Appalachian Till Eulenspiegel.

He liked to project an aura of the tough guy who went his own way, impervious to flattery and threats alike. He sneered openly at my LDS faith, but often had me over for his wife Danuta’s ambrosial pickle soup. In fact, it was his very disdain for any and all organized religions that led to our first clown gag together.

Spike had constructed a life-size female foam rubber dummy, which clown alley nicknamed Ruby. She had yellow yarn hair and a ditzy smile stenciled onto her canvas face. She was the butt of many a crude and lascivious joke, naturally enough; when I expressed my disgust about this lewd behavior to Spike he immediately became Ruby’s super-zealous protector, beating off would-be ravishers with his trombone – which had a boxing glove attached to the slide end and could deliver a near knockout blow. Spike jokingly suggested I start preaching sermons to her to get her to mend her evil ways; I, in turn, suggested we do a gag together, wherein Spike is devilishly trying to tempt Ruby off the strait and narrow path and then I show up as an angel to beat the crap out of him.

That was how clown gags were born and bred on the Blue Unit back in the mid-70’s!

Spike made me a pair of foam rubber wings and I rustled up a high school graduation robe from a thrift store and made myself a halo out of tin foil and a coat hanger. Then we launched the gag on the track, disregarding whatever hoary old gag we had been assigned by the boss clown.

Through trial and error we found out that what the audience wanted more than anything else was to see me knock the stuffing, not only out of Spike, but also out of Ruby. So I obliged, with an oversized foam rubber hammer, a bucket of water, a shotgun that fired blanks, and, finally, picking up poor Ruby and tossing her bodily into the audience. With hysterical shrieks of laughter the crowd would pass her around like a mosh pit before tossing her back to Spike and I. The blow-off had Spike becoming extremely contrite, begging my forgiveness, and then slinking off in shame – at which point, finding myself alone with this alluring creature, I, an angel, began making passes at her. Enter Spike, who did a big take, and then chased me off while I hung on to Ruby with an unrepentant grin pasted on my angelic features.

This was not a circus classic, by any means – but it stirred the wrath of most of the older and traditional clowns in the alley, which suited both Spike and I just fine.

“What the hell is that all about?” Mark Anthony, the famous tramp clown, asked me several times.

“You two are #%&**&# meshuganah, you know that?” Prince Paul told us severely.

When the boss clown told us we had to go back to our original gags, we blithely ignored him. This led to Charlie Baumann, the fearsome Performance Director, becoming involved.

“I vill watch dis ting und decide vat to do” he told us, with a glare that suggested he would welcome the opportunity to send us both to a clown concentration camp.

With Baumann impassively staring at us, we pulled out all the stops, and not only threw Ruby into the audience but also hooked her up to a handy Spanish Web rope and hauled her to the top of the arena.

By the end of our performance Baumann could barely keep a straight face, going several shades past beet red in his efforts to suppress an unbecoming grin.

We never heard any more about it.

The Happy Danes

The Danes are cheerful and contented, merry as a grig.
From the Jug of Happiness they've taken quite a swig.
The Cantril Ladder finds them on the very topmost rung;
they are never paranoid or selfish or high-strung.
There's wealth and health abounding in the land of Hamlet, plus
support and trust unmeasured -- and they're charitable without fuss . . .
Until the refugees start knocking on their happy door;
then joyful Danes are not enthused to take them off the shore.
Don't spoil the upbeat tenor of the Danes' blissful lifestyle;
all you fleeing people ought to go the extra mile
and settle down in Sweden or in Germany instead --
so that the mirthful Danes remain determinedly inbred.

The Dream

Jacob 7:26 -- " . . .  our lives passed away like as it were unto us a dream . . . "

When shall I awake from dreams and fantasies despotic,
which cripple me at times like a cure that is narcotic?

Shaking off the dust of trance and weary reverie,
I dread the advent of a cold and cruel reality.
But all my fears are gossamer that drift away unmourned
when with hope and faith in Christ my true mind is adorned.
Yes! At the Resurrection mortal slumber dissipates
and God himself removes my transient and pressing weights. 

Poetical Thoughts on the Provo Municipal Council Meeting. March 15, 2016.

The room was very quiet as the councilors filed in;
they shook the hands of spectators and flashed a modest grin.
The delegates seemed anxious to make ev'rything express;
they even showed up right on time (I'm speaking more or less).
The items on agenda were quite few and far between;
it was as flavorless a meeting as I've ever seen.
In fact the meeting was so short that if you dared to blink
they would have brought the ice cream in with spoons all going 'clink'.
Not even thirty minutes was consumed by cogitation;
is that any way to run a County in our nation?
With meetings short as this I feel that I have been mislead -- 
without their melodrama I'll just read a book in bed!  

Flattery

Jacob 7:2 -- "And he preached many things which were flattering unto the people; and this he did that he might overthrow the doctrine of Christ."

My ears are always open to the flattery of men;
I lap it up like honeyed wine, no matter where or when.
It's good to get some input that is positive and bright;
criticism often sounds so negative and trite.
But if I am not careful Satan's lullaby of praise
will deafen me to words from Christ that lead to better ways.
Humility sits lightly on me, like a flock of birds
that takes to flight the minute I hear panegyric words.
I cannot always please myself when I am pleasing God;
and praise may have to wait until I've grasped the iron rod.

The Censor

The censor is a nasty man who reads your mail and your trash can;
he looks for things you say and do that don't fit in his mental view.
Behind him lies the State's decree that all must love conformity.
The past is not to be exhumed, though a thousand corpses bloom.
The present must be whitewashed so that it becomes a job of snow.
O wretched censor, tremble now; the future is not your milch cow.
The voices of the Internet are growing and will kill you yet.
In China, Russia, Myanmar, you may now be the info czar;
but like the czars of old, beware -- cuz public scorn will part your hair. 

Living with the Kids

I thought it was considerate, my son inviting me
to live with him and fam'ly in their split level tee pee.
I'd get to see the grandkids any time I wanted to,
and tell 'em lots of stories about Captain Kangaroo.
But when I unpacked my caboodle of skunk pelts, oy vay!
I found how easy any welcome is to overstay.
And so I took my meager stuff on to my daughter's house,
and cooked Limburger cheese souffle for her and her fine spouse.
Next thing I knew the door was slammed right in my poor old face;
the EPA destroyed my meal, and didn't leave a trace.
Now I'm in a high rise with the geriatric folk,
and on my balcony I'm raising lots of poison oak . . . 

The Natural Fruit

Jacob 5:74 -- "And thus they labored, with all diligence, according to the commandments of the Lord of the vineyard, even until the bad had been cast away out of the vineyard, and the Lord had preserved unto himself that the trees had become again the natural fruit; and they became like unto one body; and the fruits were equal; and the Lord of the vineyard had preserved unto himself the natural fruit, which was most precious unto him from the beginning."

The natural fruit is one at heart, at soul, in body, too;
it grows upon the sturdy vine for all the world to view.
The bad fruit may hold sway a while, in gaudy splendor ripe;
but it is doomed to be plucked up and flushed down sewer pipe. 
Preserve me, Lord, from pest and gall, from sin and storm and drought;
O help me evergreen in faith to do thy will and sprout!  

GMO's

Genetics is a science that no one quite comprehends.
It promises to feed the world but many folks offends.
Is it harmless to the biosphere, or is it not?
Will it cause an Armageddon or make a rich feedlot?  
I think the research is okay, but dealing with Monsanto
is rather like an Eskimo

speaking Esperanto.