Today's Timerick.

 

“Fried-Chicken Sandwich Craze Is Causing U.S. to Run Low on Poultry.”  Bloomberg Report.

I went to see my butcher for a chicken wing or two/he told me there weren't any and I didn't know what to do/Even stewing chickens are evaporating fast/If this goes on much longer I don't think that I can last/Fish is too expensive and my doctor says no beef/Pork is getting stale for me; where can I find relief?/Will even eggs be rationed and hen gizzards go extinct?/I'll file a missing fowl report down at my own precinct!/I blame the fast food people -- they have gobbled up supply/leaving me with tofu here at home, which makes me cry/I do not wish to have to buy a chicken sandwich, mate/I do not have a budget that such costs will tolerate/I'm reduced to pork & beans, and maybe buttered toast/Gone the days of chicken soup or tender luscious roast!/I may be forced to join a cult and live off nuts and berries/pecking at the kind of stuff they feed to pet canaries!  

Today's Timericks.

 

Biden has proposed such change/it gives Republicans the mange/New taxes will provide the gelt/to keep the poor from growing svelte/To help the homeless destitute/the rich will wear a birthday suit. 

The pundits say commodities/like diapers and our dear Wheaties/are going up in price until/we're gonna holler 'overkill!'/Even tp now will cost/more than silk that's been embossed/With my savings vaporized/I'll give up being civilized.

There's face masks in the gutter/there's face masks in the trees/they're blowing down the highways/with the springtime breeze/like plastic bags they litter/the landscape near and far/they're even clogging sewers/in far off Zanzibar. 

Ole Anthony Edward.

 

Ole Anthony Edward was born again one day.

Embracing gospel teachings, he gave his things away.

Like whiskey, which he still drank, he liked religion straight,

and sought corrupted preachers to gleefully eviscerate. 

His mission, as he saw it, became a great crusade --

to bring to light the hypocrites who sought financial aid

by preaching on the airwaves and asking for donations --

which they used for prodigal big ol' mansions and vacations.

Investigating bank accounts and digging through the trash

of television preachers he found how they spent the cash

that widows sent in envelopes in hopes of intercession

for their sins and trials (with many a trite confession.)

He aimed the spotlight on the lives of many famous clerics,

showing their hypocrisy and causing them hysterics.

But now his earthly time is done, and he's gone back to God --

I wonder if in heaven he still searches for some fraud?

(From an obituary in the New York Times by Clay Risen.)

Today's Timericks.

 

In China nobody retires/they cannot find any new hires/so elderly staff/do not often laugh/as their pension plan now expires.

The Fed's in cahoots with Wall Street/so rich people get all the meat/The rest of us dine/on leftover brine/ and sorghum with cold Cream of Wheat.

Hamburgers are history/according to most GOP/Biden's conniving/to start us all shriving/confessing we'd rather have brie.

A letter from my President.

 

Today's Timericks.

 

Some people are willing to use toxic bleach/instead of a simple vaccine/People won't listen to reason at all/their sanity seems mighty lean/We're better off rounding the scammers all up/and putting them in quarantine.

Ticks that carry Lyme disease/are at the beach, on bush and trees/You can't escape the little critters/ubiquitous as apple fritters/As if the Covid weren't enough/the outdoors grows more rough and tough!

Climate change has come to France/their vineyards do not stand a chance/the grapes are frozen or dried out/which makes the vintners scream and shout/Wine is going to perdition/It's almost like old Prohibition!

Today's Timericks.

 

When they mess with you online/pouring on raw turpentine/pay a charge that's pretty big/to remove each deadly dig/it's a scam, of course; you see/the same who diss collect your fee.

 Thailand wants its tourists back/cuz the country cash does lack/but the covid virus rules/closing bars and beach and schools/Land of Smiles and durian/you won't catch this Missourian.  

Children shouldn't have to fret/they'll lose their home because of debt/When parents cannot make ends meet/the children now will get cold feet/What a sorry country we/have built upon democracy. 

Today's Timericks.

 

The mushroom is an ugly growth/to eat one raw I am quite loath/Even when organic grown/I let the champignons alone/In a can, and over steak/a bite or two I just might take/But plants that lack all chlorophyll/will never have my whole goodwill. 

Charity begins at home/so do not be a slouch/fill your pockets with spare change/and sit upon my couch.

Putin is a cagey guy/the patience of the world he'll try/but when he gets close to the brink/he has himself another think/and pulls back just enough to brag/he's put no one in body bag.

In Iowa lawmakers say/run down people any day/long as they are demonstrators/(cuz we don't need agitators)/It's getting so a picket sign/puts you on firing line.

Study laughter all you want/It will leave you tart and gaunt/Only madmen have the key/to the world's hilarity/Clowns and comics celebrate/only when they detonate/Academics, please refrain/from picking at the jester's brain!

Today's Timericks.

 

Biden is planning upheaval/of policies now medieval/Electric jalopies/and fields of wild poppies/granting the earth a reprieval.

What do you call some large bowls/of curious deadly black holes?/Such groupings, or worse/in our universe/could maybe be called 'fumaroles.'

Dead soldiers don't care if a stone/carries their name all alone/They've gone to a place/where creed or their race/have long since been all overthrown.

You have the right to record/police action single or horde/When done with your cell/like a bat out of hell/run, though it's all aboveboard.

If you are an outdoors-type Brit/you'll find bathrooms still closed a bit/If you need to go/just bring your own hoe/to compost that nice pile of  . . . 

Bring in the robots to feed/millions who fresh produce need/Old Farmer Brown/can just sit around/and push buttons to plant his seed.

Today's Timericks.

 

By 2050 backers say/insurance rates much hob will play/as global warming inundates/coastal towns and fries farm states/Underwriters all agree/their fees will pass infinity.

In middle age I rarely slept/as a career I madly kept/and now my hair is white and sparse/while sanity I cannot parse/Oh woe is I, senility/begins to creep right up on me/Is it because I banished sleep/that my brain now is cassareep?/How ironic; now I nap/all day long without a gap.

Are paper towels a poison pill/filling up each new landfill?/Or a handy cleanup tool/absorbing every greasy pool?/Either way, can we survive/if and when supplies take five?/Still . . . if you want to save some jack/you're better off with flour sack.

Prose Poem: Eat like a monkey.

 

One morning as a child

at the breakfast table

my dad told me:

"You eat like a monkey."

That's why, telescoping back in

on myself,

I am so immersed in food.

What else does a monkey have to do

 all day up in a tree?

I ate a gobbet of beef today.

Peruvian beef swimming in 

cilantro sauce.

With rice and beans.

In a dull dark dream place.

It was not really a place to eat,

but a place to dream.

I don't know how they stay in business.

In the six years I've lived in this neighborhood

I've never seen that place crowded.

They must spin straw into gold.

Or fix parking tickets. 

In my food dream I was 

sailing a gravy boat, full of

brown gravy of silken texture.

We ran aground and the tanker leaked

gravy all over things like ice cream

and radishes. 

The environmentalists were up in arms,

so I slipped them some fried yucca 

for hush money.

Then drank my Inca Cola,

which tastes like bubble gum.

I wasn't chewing on food;

I was chewing on dreams.

And when I woke up I had

finished my plate, 

all except one piece of fried yucca.

That stuff sticks in my craw

like the Ever Given.

I left the waitress a one dollar tip.

And Amy's H & R Block business card.

Now that she's moving to Omaha.

To live with the monkeys.

Today's Timericks.

 

If you are a dissident/and the rules you've slightly bent/lawmakers and GOP/dump you in the hole quickly/America is like Hong Kong/and that, my friends, is very wrong.

Old King Coal is a merry old soul/as difficult as arms control/We want him gone, but here he comes/beating on those carbon drums/There's too much money still at stake/so Mother Earth keeps this headache/But someday she may rise in wrath/and act more like a psychopath.

Putin likes to boast and brag/how he'll surely shoot and scrag/any country fool enough/to give Russia any guff/He's got guns and big tanks, too/and he'll gladly mess witch you/on the street or in the hood/(though mostly his strength is plywood.)

 

Prose Poem: Drunken Noodles.

 

I have fed too many people for free.

I'm was tired; burned out; grown weary of 

the perfunctory 'thanks' and lack

of eye contact.

So I'll quit doing public service meals

and start to lunch out.

I went to a Thai place to have drunken noodles.

There's no alcohol in them, but they wobble

on your fork.

Thai restaurants are famous for their slow

service. But the slower the service, the

better the food.

So it didn't bug me too much when it took

a half hour for my noodles to arrive.

But then I couldn't block out the conversations at 

the other tables while I ate.

People much younger than me, in white shirts and

blouses, with tattoos on their arms,

were talking about IPO's and

turnover rates --

not about the beautiful spring

day outside or how good the food 

tasted.

And it came to me again; that I'm not

part of the modern human race anymore.

I am a relic.

 I looked in the mirror

in the Men's Room and saw a pudgy old

geezer in a wide brimmed straw hat with

his pants held up by suspenders --

who yearns to talk about his collection 

of Archie comics when he was a kid

and the awfulness of his mother's 

tuna casserole on Friday nights.

Tomorrow I'll make the old ladies

vegetable turkey soup in my slow cooker.

At least they don't have any tattoos.  

Prose Poem: Bailey's Beads.

 

"The persistence of memory"

said Crazy Henry,

"is both a blessing and a curse,

according to Proust."

"What's that?" I asked, astonished.

Crazy Henry barely made it through

high school -- where did he get off

quoting Proust at me?

"If we try to push the past away,

it simply becomes stronger" he

continued.

"Huh?" I said.

"Forgetting the past is a false construct"

he said, not at all smugly but very simply.

"Our past is as much a part of us

as our arms and legs" he finished.

"You thought all that up?" I asked derisively.

"Voltaire" he replied.

"Oh" I said. Then we went silent.

We were on a beautiful beach near 

Honolulu, sipping raspados.

A seagull flew over us, screaming

in false agony.

The waves smelled of Tide laundry detergent.

I was suddenly very happy

that the Order of the Solar Temple

had sent us to Hawaii to observe the solstice

eclipse. 

After a while I asked

Crazy Henry: 

"How do you know about people like

Proust and Voltaire?"

"Oh" he said, "we studied about 'em at

night school. I've got a degree now in 

belles-lettres."

"I never knew you went to night school" 

I said. "You never told me anything about it."

"Did it for the past five years -- every night after

work."

"But, but, I thought you were always at 

home in the evening watching TV -- like me."

"Oh, I did that for a while, but y'know it got awful

boring after a while -- so I signed up for some

night classes down at the community college. Now

when we get back home I'm gonna start teaching there,

part-time."

"But you could've asked me if I wanted to take classes

with you" I said, starting to choke.

There was a rusty pizza cutter slicing

through my heart right about then.

"Huh" he said, "I guess I could've.

"Wonder why I never thought of it?"

"We'd better hurry" I replied dully.

"Otherwise we'll miss Baily's Beads."

The sand turned to ashes beneath my feet. 

Today's Timericks.

 

A sleeping giant has awoke/and countries don't think it's a joke/Big tech platforms unrestrained/need big taxes to be chained/Supervision and repression/have become a real obsession/Facebook, Twitter, and the lot/are more than just an afterthought. 

Happiness is so intrusive/that it sometimes seems abusive/Showing joy in word and play/just is not the Finnish way/Though their country ranks up high/in happiness, the Finns ask why?/Statistics are for balladeers/cuz Finns say joy will end in tears.

Democracy in Hong Kong is as dead as dead can be/Beijing's pulling all the strings with no timidity/I wonder what the British think about their former ward/now that it is trampled by the local overlord? 

Today's Timericks.

 

Trial by riot seems the way/justice is dispensed today/If the verdict does not please/mobs take over like disease/If I were a judge right now/I would move to Curacao/throw away my nasty gavel/and enjoy some tropic travel.

Anyone can buy a gun/even madmen on the run/weapons of assault are cheap/causing sane folks' skin to creep/It's a buyer's market, friend/when the rules so easy bend.

Supreme Court justices agree/the media is quite pesky/Recent rulings seem to show/they'd like reporters to lay low/Journalists had best take care/and invest in lots of prayer.

If an author you would be/write about the GOP/praise them up and down to cause/spending like old Santa Claus/they will buy your book en masse/making it bestseller class/Who cares if your writing stinks?/you'll be out on green golf links!

No matter how you do the math/the rich will never take a bath/when it comes to paying taxes/their wealth don't wane/it always waxes/Be assured the upper crust/never will be going bust/The middle class must always pay/for how the wealthy like to play.

Prose Poem: Wash in warm soapy water.

 

I bought a new toaster the other day.

My old one, when I looked into

its crumby blackened slots,

looked like Lord Foul's Creche.

So I stopped by the supermarket

and got one for fourteen dollars.

When I opened the box and took

the thing out of its plastic bag

cocoon, I read the instructions.

Carefully.

They said, quite clearly, to wash

it in warm soapy water before using.

"That can't be right" I said to myself.

"You don't plunge an electric appliance

into water -- ever."

But there it was, in black and white.

So I called my old friend Crazy Henry

to see what he thought about it.

Two heads are better than one, right?

"Sure, you can put the whole thing

in warm soapy water" he assured me.

"Nowadays these electric doo-dads

are all waterproof anyway. It's a federal

regulation."

"You sure?" I asked him.

Crazy Henry used to own a pet monkey;

that kind of guy can't always be trusted.

"Trust me" he said. "I read about it in

the New York Times."

"Well, okay" I told him. "But if it blows up

or something -- I'm gonna have you buy me

a new toaster!"

So I washed my brand new toaster in

warm soapy water.

I let it dry, then plugged it in.

It blew up.

Sparks and smoke and gouts of flame.

I burned my hand. 

Furious, I dialed Crazy Henry.

"Guess what?" I shouted at him.

"The damn thing blew up and

nearly killed me!"

"It must have been a defective toaster" 

he said.

"The New York Times is never wrong --

they got fact checkers checking every story."

"Well" I yelled at my phone, "you

and the New York Times can go

straight to hell!"

I threw my phone on the couch. The putz.

I got out my first aid kit and read the

instructions on treating a first degree

burn.

It said to soak the affected skin in

warm soapy water.

So I did. I dipped my hand in

a tub of warm soapy water.

And it didn't feel any better at all.

Nearly weeping in frustration and pain

I smeared my burned hand with butter.

I remember that's what my mom used to

do when she burned herself cooking.

That felt much better.

Then I went out to feed my 

dwarf hotot rabbit to calm myself down.

The poor thing didn't look well.

It was squirting thin green streams

of evil smelling stuff all over the place.

Luckily I knew a good vet,

so I called him up.

"Hello" he answered promptly.

He sounded like Crazy Henry.

"Is this George Metcalf?" I asked.

"No one else" he said. "What

can I do you for?"

I told him the problem with my hotot.

He said "Just feed it some warm soapy

water and that'll clear it right up."

"Are you POSITIVE that's the right

procedure?" I implored him.

"Never fails" he said, still sounding 

like Crazy Henry.

"Thanks" I said faintly.

So I did like the vet said.

And my dear little dwarf hotot

rabbit got better.

My hand got better, too.

And the supermarket refunded my money

for the exploded toaster.

With which I bought several boxes 

of melba toast. I love spreading

lemon curd on it.

Sometimes life gives you a punch before

it gives you a hug.

Today's Timericks.

 

When it is a slow news day/reporters still must have their say/I don't say they fantasize/but new twists they improvise/on old themes of sex and crime/It sells papers all the time.

Tapioca can't be had/making boba drinkers mad/They will have to switch, I fear/to a Pepsi, or cold beer/Me, I just can't sympathize/with their passionate outcries/Drinking pudding ain't my thing/to the malted milk I cling.

Now I've read an article/about a wave or particle/that defies and then reverses/what we know of universes/Muons and their unknown kin/make of science a has-been/Throw out all the textbooks, chum/to start a new millennium. 

Welcome to Surveillance Land/where when you take an adverse stand/your face is recognized and linked/to the nearest grim precinct/Russia, China: all the same/You're ratted out by their mainframe.

Today's Timericks.

 

Uncle Sam can do no wrong/in places where he don't belong/Our troops will wipe away all tears/although it takes a thousand years/Perhaps if we stayed home a span/we wouldn't have Afghanistan.

The experts say that old T. rex/never really reached apex/It numbered but a couple thou/but I can tell you anyhow/even one's too much for me/if it's in my community!

Economic sanctions come in many shapes and sizes/but if they're used too frequently there may be some surprises/If too many countries feel the wrath of Mr. Biden/our foreign trade is bound to start a long and deep subsidin'.

Prose Poem: I am a Capitol Rioter.

 

I am a Capitol Rioter.

I was there, in the middle of things,

when it all went down.

I thought I was doing the right thing.

Now . . . I'm not so sure.

It all started innocently enough.

I was sitting on a butt-sprung couch

in my neighborhood used book store,

glancing through Goldwater's 

"Conscience of a Conservative"

when the calico cat on the counter

said clearly and distinctly to me:

"You're needed in Washington

to knock some sense into Congress."

The next day I was on the bus

to Washington, District of Columbia.

When I got there I found kindred souls

gathered outside the Smithsonian,

chanting and waving placards that read:

WE ARE NOT AMUSED.

I can't say there was any one person

or persons who organized our march;

to me it appeared completely spontaneous

and undirected. I was actually

headed down the street to get a hamburger

when the crowd surged towards Capital Hill,

and I was forced to go along.

I didn't really want to topple that

marble bust of Thomas Jefferson in

the Rotunda. Or throw granola bars

at departing legislators.

But everyone else was doing it.

So I went along.

It seemed to be my patriotic duty.

Bunker Hill all over again.

But the next day,

when reports started to circulate

that we were all being branded

as 'terrorists' and would be

hunted down and prosecuted

by the FBI,

I left town and moved to

a foreign country where my

hefty bank account assures me

complete anonymity.

And I help baby sea turtles hatching

during the full moon to make

it safely into the ocean.

That is an activity that gives me

peace and assurance of life's

basic goodness.

I'm beginning to think 

that calico cat was

all wet.

Inclusion

 

"The Lord expects us to teach that inclusion is a positive means toward unity and that exclusion leads to division." Gary E. Stevenon.

I can't afford to push away

anyone in any way;

angels come to those who seek

to always turn the other cheek.

Outsiders often blessings bear

when welcomed with both love and care.

Prose Poem: I wandered down a sandy road

 

I wander down a sandy road

while my heart is riven with doubt.

The sunlight seems to shun me.

The shadows smirk at me.

A small green lizard eyes me warily,

and then lays several brown eggs

on a rock --

mocking my sterile condition.

I can never lay an egg,

can never create something,

anything,

worth a second glance.

I know this because I wrote

a poem and mailed it to a

world famous magazine.

Then waited,

shivering like a leaf

caught in a spider web.

Their response arrived six months later.

It was bordered in black.

It came C.O.D.

There was a skull and crossbones on

the back of it.

It read:

"Dire Sir:  Your submission 

ranks as the most asinine and

discouraging piece of literary

twaddle in the sad sad annals

of misbegotten poetry.

It is so bad that we burned it

and then sealed the ashes in an urn

and sent it to

Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository

for permanent burial.

If you ever try to write poetry again

we will see to it that your fingers 

are run through a lawn mower."

So I wander down this sandy road,

and think to myself that I will use my

stimulus check to buy a commission

in the Swiss Navy, and sail away to the

Matterhorn Islands forever and a day. 

Prose Poem: The Little Trees Killer.

 

I'm known as the "The Little Trees Killer."

Or, rather,

I will be known as "The Little Trees Killer"

once my heinous murder spree is uncovered.

You see, I murdered my first husband

by grinding up a bunch of Little Tree

car fresheners and putting them in the

zucchini bread I constantly served him.

He was a very abusive husband.

He shot rubber bands at me.

He used the dog food to feed the

fish in the koi pond --

so my poor little Fluffy had

to go hungry sometimes.

He chewed celery with his mouth open.

He was just a rotten guy.

I put up with his swinish ways

for two years --

then decided to poison him.

It took fifteen more years to do it,

and the doctors said it was the bus

that ran over him while crossing the

street that killed him -- 

but I know my special zucchini

bread contributed heavily to his demise.

Just wait till the police find out!

I'm remarried now, but wouldn't you know 

it --

my second husband is worse than the first

one --

He wears a face mask to bed;

says it's the only way to slow down

the pandemic.

His mother is always coming over

and making him do handstands

in the living room when I want

to play Uno.

His left ear winks at me.

And he insists on keeping a cheap

pocket watch, that ticks so loud

it gives Fluffy a migraine.

So he's getting my special

zucchini bread, too.

And this time, to speed things

up a bit,

I'm including lard in the

recipe.

Conversion: All or nothing

 

"To be truly life-changing, conversion to Jesus Christ must involve our whole soul and permeate every aspect of our lives." Jan E. Newman.

It matters not how fast or slow

conversion happens here below;

when Christ becomes your centerpiece

it will not take a press release

to show the world that your full trust

in great Jehovah is robust.

sunday morning musings email

 

well, here it is 5 a.m. on sunday morning -- I don't feel like doing anything strenuous, after struggling to put a turkey carcass in the stock pot to stew all morning for soup at noon. i don't even feel like capitalizing or punctuating this email.

of course, part of the reason is that I sliced my finger open this past week on a vegetable slicer that Adam gave me several years ago, which I have kept stored in a shoe box in my pantry for some reason that escapes me just now. I finally pulled it out last Tuesday to cut up some cukes for lunch and lo and behold on my first thrust I nearly severed a digit on that infernal machine. So, after much bad language and half-baked first aid that involved miles of surgical tape and a mountain of mis-applied gauze, I threw the damn thing out.  it's obvious that adam wants to kill me, the rat.

so I've been hobbled in my writing; switching fonts and just getting  the lettering right has been a huge challenge. so i've been working on my visual art instead -- i used some of my stimmie money to buy a lot of international stamps and a roll of 100 postcard stamps -- and now i'm going to town on sending postcards to everyone whose home address I have. mostly journalists.  i asked for home addresses from about a hundred journalists a while ago -- since they don't get mail sent to their office -- and only about six replied with addresses -- the rest either ignored my request or apologized for being paranoid and not wanting to give it out. several had the gall to send me phoney addresses - I wasted good stamps on them only to get their postcards back. so I send postcards to the grandkids and thepresident and mitt romney and my few and far between friends.  i'm really getting into postmodern color work for my postcards -- i love splashing around black and white and red and blue -- the resulting mess is aesthetically pleasing -- and then I add something silly from a catalog and sometimes even paste on a paragraph from a book on philosophy by Mortimer Adler.

(excuse me, but that turkey carcass smells so good I have to go take all my pills that I have to take on an empty stomach so I can have my breakfast -- beans on toast with fried eggs.)

speaking of food, sarah took me shopping twice last week -- once to Winncos and once to the asian market --  and each time i spent way more than i had intended -- i really can't control myself when i'm in a food store -- i have to buy everything i see -- among other things, I bought ten dollars worth of israeli couscous and ten dollars worth of bulgar wheat, and what the hell am i going to do with that stuff? -- so after i was done at the asian market i gave sarah my debit card and asked her not to give it back to me until the end of the month -- when my other stimmie check is supposed to be deposited -- and then i'llprobably buy hundreds of dollars worth of books for my kindle.  i'm such a putz sometimes.

also on the food front -- i'm drinking lots of ginger tea now -- it seems to quiet my borborygmus. that means 'stomach rumbling' -- it's the medical term. and also reduce my nausea and other tummy troubles i have in the morning.

it got so bad there for a while that i had to stop going to the rec center in the morning cuz i was afraid i'd have an accident.  also i got into a terrific and silly fight with bruce young, who always gives me a ride there, over his using me as a punching bag and whipping boy because he's always so nice and considerate to other people that he was taking out all his rudeness and abusive feelings on me.  i've noticed over the years as i've made new friends, or tried to make new friends, that once they learn i was a circus clown they usually begin to get verbally and physically abusive with me, like i must have enjoyed getting slapped in the face and have my pants pulled down, so they could be as rude as they wanted with me and i would thank them for it.  bruce young got to be that way with me -- he would make cracks about my weight and my slowness due to arthritis in front of other people and then he began to give me light slaps on the side of my head and playfully push me around and punch me sometimes in the shoulder or in the belly -- now if i was in prime physical condition i could roll with such things, but i'm getting to be pretty rickety and have to be careful with my balance or i'll fall down -- so i kept noticing how nice bruce was to everyone else and how rotten he was becoming with me, until i blew my top at him -- it was a ridiculous argument -- he kept insisting that he was an abusive person with  everyone else, not just me, and i kept insisting that he was always an angel to everyone else, even complete strangers, and only a devil to me.

so weparted ways. but i inivted him over yesterday to finish the thai rice porridge i had made for breakfast (nobody in the whole building wanted to try any) and we had such a pleasant visit that i decided what the hell this is stupid and asked him if i could start getting rides again. he was very happy to say yes. so i think i'll get a ride from him to the rec center each morning and then walk myself home -- in the past he always seemed to get more unruly and abusive after swimming than before.

so anyway

today i'll spend my time creating new poster paint masterpieces to mail out to unsuspecting journalists presidents and friends, and continuing to read The Second Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, by stephen r donaldson, and napping -- i've been up since 4 a.m.

and, hey, my finger doesn't seem as sore, so maybe i'll start up withmy poetry again . . .

stranger things have happened . . .

ever thine,  

Wooster P. Dowdling the Third

the mask mandate ends here in utah on monday, by the way.

Children mirror what they see

 

"We cannot wait for conversion to simply happen to our children. Accidental conversion is not a principle of the gospel of Jesus Christ." Joy D. Jones.

Children mirror what they see

in the home and family.

If you're sour and too caustic

you will raise a fine agnostic.

Show them faith in God instead,

if just a nod for daily bread.

Beyond Personal Agendas.

 

"The gospel message they [missionaries] offered transcended politics, history, grudges, grievances, and personal agendas."

Dieter F. Uchtdorf.

The gospel message is germane

to our modern fear and pain.

Listen with an ear unclogged

by all prejudice that's dogged.

You will hear of sweet redress

to your own despair and stress.

Photo Essay: Mahatma Kane Jeeves.

 

could this be an NFT?  Yes, it could. 

the higher you reach the less dignity you retain

the meter is ticking but no one is listening

when one door closes, it usually locks

gravity is a state of mind

fame

is less real

than a muon