A.I. Generated Sunday Sermon.

 

Using chat.openai I entered the command:

write a 600 word sermon on the importance of Jesus Christ to the world.

This is the result, unaltered by me:

Good morning, dear brothers and sisters.

Today, let's turn our hearts and minds toward the profound impact that Jesus Christ has had on our world. Jesus, whose teachings form the bedrock of our faith, has left an indelible imprint on the soul of humanity.

Our faith is centered on the belief that Jesus is the Son of God, the Messiah, sent to Earth as a beacon of divine love and redemption. His teachings were radical for the time. His message of love, forgiveness, and equality ushered in a new era of spiritual awakening and continues to guide billions in their daily lives.

In Jesus, we see a model for living that goes beyond mere human laws. He taught us the importance of seeing the divine spark in each individual and treating others as we would wish to be treated. In His Sermon on the Mount, Jesus reminds us, “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you” (Matthew 7:12). This Golden Rule, echoed in religions and philosophies around the globe, continues to inspire individuals to lead lives of empathy, kindness, and compassion.

Jesus' sacrifice on the cross is the ultimate embodiment of His teachings, demonstrating the power of selfless love. He gave His life not for His own gain, but for the salvation of all mankind. He bore our sins, allowing us to reconcile with God. His resurrection signifies the triumph of life over death, love over hate, hope over despair. Through His sacrifice, Jesus established a new covenant with God and assured us of the potential for our own redemption and eternal life.

The world today is more interconnected than ever, and yet, divisions seem to be growing. We are challenged with the trials of intolerance, greed, and violence. Amidst such challenges, Jesus' teachings are more important than ever. He taught us to turn the other cheek, to love our enemies, to forgive, and to let go of hate. As He said, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God” (Matthew 5:9).

Moreover, Jesus' message is not confined to our interpersonal relationships; it extends to our relationship with the natural world as well. In a time when environmental issues loom large, we remember that God appointed humanity as stewards of His creation. We are called to respect and protect the Earth, our shared home. Jesus' teachings inspire us towards a sustainable lifestyle that harmonizes with the creation, not against it.

In conclusion, the importance of Jesus Christ to the world cannot be overstated. His life, teachings, and sacrifice have shaped the course of human history and continue to guide billions of souls. His love and compassion represent the highest ideals of human nature. As we face the challenges of our modern world, let us remember the words of Jesus: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).

May we strive to live in Jesus’ footsteps, practicing love, compassion, forgiveness, and stewardship in our everyday lives. By doing so, we keep His spirit alive and contribute to making the world a better place. Amen.

PLASTIC BAGS CONQUER THE EARTH! (dedicated to Kelly Cryderman.)

 

                    Martian saucers cleverly disguised as a street light.

 

NEWS BULLETIN

In a remarkable turn of events, the world has received unsettling information about the ordinary plastic bag. According to a groundbreaking international scientific study released today, these omnipresent blights on our environment have been deemed not only pollutants but also a sophisticated weapon of mass destruction designed by an advanced civilization on Mars.

Dr. Amelia K. Russo, head of the International Astrobiological Society, led the research team that made this startling discovery. "It appears that we've vastly underestimated the purpose and origins of plastic bags," she said at the press conference earlier today. "Our recent findings suggest they are a premeditated attack from extraterrestrial forces on Mars."

For years, scientists have warned about the ecological hazards of plastic bags: endangering wildlife, suffocating our oceans, and contributing to landfill waste. However, the Russo team's study now indicates that these bags are meticulously designed to slowly but inexorably erode Earth's environment, paving the way for a Martian invasion.

"What's ingenious, and utterly terrifying, is the subtlety of their approach," Dr. Russo elaborated. "The Martians have used our own consumerism and disregard for the environment against us, deploying these destructive agents under the guise of convenience. Each discarded bag not only pollutes our environment but also emits a biochemical signal towards Mars, alerting them to the readiness of our planet for takeover."

The study, carried out over five years and involving astrobiologists, chemists, physicists, and environmental scientists from all over the world, also revealed the likely timeline of the imminent Martian invasion. Based on the rate of signals being emitted by these plastic bags and the distance between Mars and Earth, the research team has estimated that the Martian forces are due to arrive in November 2024.

This revelation has sparked immediate response from governments worldwide, as a special session of the United Nations was convened to discuss this unprecedented threat. Secretary-General Amara Kofi called for a worldwide ban on the use of plastic bags and urged member countries to invest in research on countermeasures against the impending invasion.

"Immediate action is of utmost importance," said Kofi. "We are facing a threat not just to our environment but to our very existence. We must stand united to protect our planet and thwart these Martian plans."

Meanwhile, panic has begun to grip the world. The stock market has seen a massive sell-off, with the Dow plunging 20%. Many have started hoarding supplies and preparing for doomsday scenarios. Others, however, are skeptical, questioning the validity of the research and demanding further evidence.

Nevertheless, scientists worldwide have begun working on potential defense strategies and studying the plastic bags more closely to understand their construction and communication methods. Dr. Russo's team is urging the public to remain calm but vigilant.

"We are working around the clock," Dr. Russo said. "Our goal is to neutralize the Martian attack and ensure the safety of humanity. We are in a race against time, but I believe in our collective strength and ingenuity."

As the countdown to November 2024 begins, the world stands on a precipice. The humble plastic bag, long seen as a nuisance and environmental hazard, has now become a symbol of an extraterrestrial threat. Only time will tell how humanity responds to this Martian menace.

-ENDS-

The Carbon Savings Account. (Dedicated to Cloey Callahan.)

 

 

In the crossroads where profit and planet align,
A fresh path for savings doth shine.
Born of both duty and design,
The Carbon Savings Account, a solution fine.

Employees gather, their fortune to amass,
Under the green flag of sustainability, a novel class.
While business in its wisdom casts
A future-facing vision, breaking from the past.

CSAs, they call this emergent fund,
A boon to worker, Earth, and everyone.
Encouraging efficient homes, the work's not done,
Till every car reflects the warming sun.

Employers pave the way, their coins bestowed,
Helping each worker lighten their load.
Transitioning lifestyles, sustainable modes,
In the realm where finance and futures code.

Invested in the team, and Earth's protection,
Grows a symbiotic, virtuous connection.
Mutual benefit in this rare intersection,
Of corporate goals and eco-direction.

Account by account, house by house,
Silently, we combat the giant, Climate's spouse.
Investing in tomorrow, our hopes rouse,
In this green financial powerhouse.

So let the Carbon Savings Account take flight,
A beacon in the sustainability night.
Fostering futures, radiant and bright,
In the intersection of economy and Earth's right.

Lazy-Girl Job. (Dedicated to Katie Mogg.)

 

In the realm where daydreams take their flight,
There exists a role, so pure delight.
An idyllic post, void of stressful haze,
A 'Lazy-Girl Job' that truly amazes.

In her humble abode, she's found her nest,
Dressed in comfort, no need to impress.
Tasks unfold gently, no deadlines, no haste,
Work flowing like water, no drop goes to waste.

Emails, like birdsong, greet the day,
With words of encouragement that sway.
No hurried frenzy, nor anxious bite,
Just soft screen-glow in the hush of twilight.

The hours are hers to command and mold,
No overtime or tales of old.
A serene dance, her rhythm's own,
In this sanctuary where stress is unknown.

Management, like a cheering crowd,
Voices gentle, never loud.
Praises sung in digital notes,
Fostering success, casting hopeful quotes.

Payment arrives, like the moon's sure rise,
A sweet surprise that satisfies.
In this 'Lazy-Girl Job' of gentle sway,
Each day a gem, in its own unique way.

Thus unfolds this tranquil scene,
A 'Lazy-Girl Job', serene and clean.
A dream perhaps, or so it might seem,
A tale told in a wishful dream.

Incident at Hruska's Kolache Shop. Monday. July 24. 2023.

 

we were up at 5;30 this morning and on our way to the rec center by quarter to six. temperature inside the car was 76 degrees.

once home i immediately got my 'poet for hire' sign and went 3 blocks down center street to Hruska's Kolaches -- where I sat in my wheelchair, trolling for poetry commissions.  about an hour in a guy bought me an egg and sausage kolache, but otherwise it was a bust commission-wise.

even though dozens of people who had just finished the temple to temple 5k walk were lined up down the block to get a kolache. so i had a captive audience . . . but they were all philistines. barely looking at my sign.

still . . .  my sign continues to act as a magnet for the local maniacs.  today's loon was a slight young man with light brown hair who stopped to gaze madly at me and then demanded to know if i thought the provo police were sexist pigs.  i chose to ignore him, turning my head away.  he continued to accost me with growing volume and obscenity until he finally became so frustrated at my silence that he slapped me on the face and then hurried away, still yelling about the provo police and filming himself on facebook (he said.)  his actions upset several small children waiting in line with their parents so they began to cry.  no doubt someone will complain to the kolache management about the incident, getting it all wrong and blaming me for the unpleasantness so that the manager will ask me not to ply my wares there anymore the next time i go back.  i'm glad amy and i are going to the temple tomorrow morning.  i'm getting tired of either being ignored with my sign or drawing lunatics to me like flies.

still, it beats working for a living.

the rest of the day will be spent serving a free lunch of pulled pork with rice and cornbread.  Then settling back with amy (who went to springville this morning to bug goat's milk and shop at the walmart) to watch maybe a dozen or so episodes of the blacklist . . . for the second time.  Oh, and amy did the laundry this morning. i'm wearing a diaper now so that she doesn't have to do the whites quite so often.

isn't life wunnerful?

Heinie Manush.

China fixes her economy. A Fantasy. (Dedicated to Stella Yifan Xie.)

 

 

Upon the dragon’s mighty back, an empire’s weight does lay,
A pulsing heart of commerce, that beats both night and day.
Yet even dragons tire, and economies must bend,
For to invincible wealth, there is no certain end.

An offering to prosperity, a levy on the small,
A tax on sticks of bamboo, that feed them one and all.
Chopsticks, the humble servants, in every noodle's swirl,
Their price now borne by common folk, both boy and girl.

A grumble rises in the streets, a stir in the night market's din,
A tax on such a simple tool, can it be a win?
Their cups of tea grow bitter, their dim sum tastes of worry,
For an economy in flux, makes the future blurry.

Yet in this trial, a purpose, as leaders make their play,
To stoke the fires of industry, in a bold, unyielding way.
A gamble on their future, a bet against the tide,
To fortify their position, and hold their global stride.

The dragon stirs uneasily, sensing the people's plight,
Yet steadfast in its course, believing in its might.
A gambit to reclaim its strength, to bolster and secure,
The wealth of many at the cost, the few must now endure.

Yet chopsticks are more than tools, they are a symbol dear,
Of culture, history, unity, things the heart holds near.
The dragon must take heed of this, amidst its grand plan,
For the spirit of its people, is the true strength of this land.

So here lies China's paradox, in the hands of the humble and the great,
Can a stronger economy, and the people's will equate?
The dragon’s path is arduous, filled with both hope and strife,
In the balance hangs prosperity, the very pulse of life.

Horror Movies. (Dedicated to Stephanie Palazzolo.)

 

 

When shadows danced with dim moonlight, we reveled in our spooky plight,
Screen flickering with monstrous delight, nightmares conjured in the dead of night.
Dracula's charm, Frankenstein's groan, filled our hearts and chilled our bones,
The Blob consumed, the Mummy moaned, youth's laughter met with eerie tones.

In PJ's huddled, faces aglow, we'd journey where few dared to go,
Witnessing terror's grand tableau, amid the flicker of the picture show.
Oh, how we'd gasp when zombies crept, secrets of the undead kept,
The fearsome tales that made us wept, in our minds forever slept.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon, under a melancholy moon,
Struck a note of haunting tune, made us shriek and howl like loons.
Yet, it wasn't simply fear's embrace, but the wonder of that eerie space,
Where we could meet a monster's face, and feel alive in that chase.

Then, beneath the quilt we'd dive, as if to hide or to survive,
Every scene, so alive, made our young hearts strive.
Eyes wide in terror, hearts ablaze, lost in that cinematic haze,
In those times of naive craze, we lived our best of days.

Each monstrous tale, a treasured lore, left us always wanting more,
Sleep would find us on the floor, dreaming of what was in store.
In silver screens of yesteryears, we found joy amongst our fears,
Echoes of those laughter-tears, still resound in aging ears.

Now the reels of time have spun, those days of monsters, fear, and fun,
A glorious era, forever done, under a setting, ghostly sun.
Oh, the tales we could regale, of moonlight monsters, ghostly pale,
In the heart of childhood's tale, our love for horror will never fail.

The Sandwich. (Dedicated to Tim Carman.)

 

 

A noble BLT in daylight's glimmer,
Bacon crisp, lettuce fresh, and tomatoes prime,
Layered in harmony, each ingredient a star shimmer,
In its simplicity, a testament to time.

The fried baloney, humble, yet so rich,
In its ordinary guise, an unsung song,
The sizzle and the scent, a satisfying itch,
In each bite, a place where hearts belong.

Oh, the grilled cheese, a canvas plain,
Bread and cheddar merging in delight,
Golden crust, inside a molten vein,
A comfort clasped in hands so tight.

The turkey club, a tower tall,
A hearty feast, in three-layered might,
Bacon, lettuce, turkey, echo the call,
Of hunger quenched, in day or night.

The hot meatball, a tale of bold,
Marinara, mozzarella, a spicy dance,
Each morsel savored, each story told,
In every bite, an Italian romance.

For in each sandwich, there lies a glory,
Of simplicity and skill, of tale and truth,
An ode to the humble, an epic story,
A timeless testament to the wonder of our youth.

China Smoke. (Dedicated to Lisa Friedman.)

 

In smoky shadows of the east, a dragon wakes, it's feast,
China's industry churns on, unchecked, nature the least.
Smokestacks tower high, belching clouds that never cease,
The sky an open canvas, for its dark and deadly piece.

A ballet of stark emission, where clean air should prevail,
Coal and steel, relentless, paint a sombre, ashen veil.
Factories work tirelessly, in pursuit of growth's Holy Grail,
Sacrificing earth's green garment, as we watch, turning pale.

But let's not point just eastward, blame's a mirror in our hand,
For the problem's not just China, it's a global, burning brand.
Our own consumption feeds the flames, across every land,
We demand, they supply, this truth we must understand.

Yes, China's footprint's weighty, their course dire and unjust,
Yet we all share a role, in this breaking of earth's crust.
A dance of shared destruction, in consumption we trust,
Where in this blame game, ponder, who holds the greatest thrust?

So let's not scapegoat nations, but to ourselves be true,
It's our collective actions, that turn the sky from blue.
With each choice to consume more, our blame too does accrue,
In this tragedy of the commons, we all play a part, we do.

A challenge vast and urgent, in unity we must engage,
To turn the tide on climate change, is our shared heritage.
China, yes, must curb its course, this modern industrial age,
But the blame is ours together, written on the same page.

Barbie for President. (Dedicated to Maura Judkis.)

 

 

In the grand theater of our nation's dance,
Let's elect a leader of charming stance,
Who can rule with joy, radiance, and advance,
Not of brain but a symbol of balance.

No, not the intellectual, not the severe,
But the one with a smile from ear to ear,
A painted grace to soothe, not to fear,
A Barbie for President, let's make it clear!

With her optimism, she'll light our days,
In the haze, she'll find the sun's radiant ways,
No debates, no strife, no political frays,
A beacon of hope in the people's gaze.

Her glamour and style, we cannot ignore,
In the White House, she'll add colors galore,
With a sparkle and glimmer like never before,
A Barbie for President, forevermore.

She needs no brain to lead with heart,
In this complex world, a different art.
Unsullied by scandals or dart,
A symbol of purity, a fresh start.

Against the Raggedy, clothed and bland,
It's time for our Barbie to take a stand,
For a nation of dreams, vibrant and grand,
In her painted smile, we find a land.

So, let's vote, my fellow Americans, let's unite,
For Barbie, our leader, our beacon of light.
With her plastic charm and spirit bright,
She'll lead us with hope, with love, with right.
 

They lost their legs. (dedicated to Jessica Silver-Greenberg.)

 

 

In hushed halls where Hippocrates once reigned,
Unscrupulous surgeons play a wicked game.
Promising cure to those in ceaseless pain,
Yet their actions bring nought but cruel shame.

With scalpel's gleam and soothing words they lure,
Each patient desperate, seeking a sure cure.
Yet beneath their hands, health takes no leap,
Victims crippled, in agony they weep.

The clink of gold, the profit from despair,
A theatre of horror, cloaked in sterile air.
Operations botched, lives forever marred,
A charade, where trust is brutally scarred.

A leg, once strong, now bound for amputation,
An ironic twist to their sworn obligation.
Innocents marred by this malicious greed,
While the guilty shroud their deeds in needless secrecy.

Shadowy giants of medical device,
Entangled in this scandalous vice.
Their truth concealed, their connection discreet,
In this tangled web of deceit, they beat their retreat.

Yet the cries of the victims echo, loud and clear,
A haunting chorus for those who'd hear.
Against the greed, the deceit, the lies,
A call for justice eternally cries.

Oh, beware the surgeon's mask that hides a grin,
The twisted game where no patient can win.
In the quest for truth, may light expose the night,
And bring an end to this ghastly plight.

Bankruptcy. (Dedicated to Becky Yerak.)

 

 

In the chambers of power, they twisted the law,
Where money speaks louder, it's raw and it's flawed.
The little guy's burden grew heavier yet,
In a system of debt, that's cast like a net.

Bankruptcy's refuge, once open and fair,
Now wrapped in red tape, with a cold, stony stare.
For the small, humble debtor, the path is much steeper,
While the rich man's escape grows notably cheaper.

Fat cats in silk suits, they chuckle and grin,
Knowing the laws help their kind to fit in.
They dance round obligations with a sly, cunning wink,
While the little guy's hopes continue to sink.

Once a solace for many, now a game for the few,
The laws that were just are now askew.
The scales of justice seem weighted, not right,
Favoring those who can afford the fight.

High and dry are the creditors left,
Victims of this acquisitive theft.
Yet they're the ones with the strength to endure,
It's the little guy's pain that is harder to cure.

In the dance of the debtors, the music's gone sour,
Echoing the tune of the powerful's hour.
The promise of relief, once real and near,
Is lost in the wind, to the fat cat's cheer.

But let us remember, as the night falls deep,
The strength of the small is not cheap.
For laws may change, and the fat cats may thrive,
But the spirit of the little guy will forever strive.

Editors. (Dedicated to Katie Kokal.)

 

 

In the hush of the creator's solitary night,
A tale blooms, bathed in imagination's light.
Unseen world to paper bound, with words unfettered, free,
Born of a mind, unhinged yet tethered, in sublime soliloquy.

Enter now the editor, with sharpened eye and keen,
Bathing in red, the woven dream, cutting through the scene.
Defaced, the crafted word falls prey to unforgiving knife,
In the name of clarity, it's purged, such is the writer's strife.

Love and loathing intertwine, a tango of the mind,
A creator craves approval, yet to criticism, often blind.
A custodian of language, the editor stands tall,
A necessary torment, the bitterest gall.

Each alteration, each correction, a wound so raw and deep,
Yet in their wake, arises a tale more worthy of the keep.
The editor, like a smith, in the furnace of revision,
Tempering the narrative, with unflinching precision.

To hate is easy, as love’s effaced by indelible ink,
Yet underneath this struggle, a deeper bond, we think.
For both are sculptors of the tale, through tumult and tranquility,
The writer spins the yarn, the editor shapes reality.

So, here’s to the symbiotic dance, entwined in love and hate,
To the writer, the dreamer, and the editor, the slate.
For stories, like diamonds, are formed under pressure's reign,
From chaos comes the masterpiece, from struggle, comes the gain.

In the love and hate that intertwine, a truth rings pure and clear,
Without each other's guiding hand, the story disappears.
Writer and editor, in the dance of creation forever twirled,
In concert, they bring forth new worlds, and thus, they shape the world.

A combat-ready militia in the Sunshine State. (dedicated to Lawrence Mower.)

 

 

From where the palm trees sway and pelicans glide,
Where sunsets kiss the Gulf in sweet goodnight,
A change unfurls 'neath the Floridian tide,
In shadowed halls and dimmed, uncertain light.

Once stood the Guard, in hurricanes' fierce throes,
A beacon in the dark for those displaced,
Now their purpose wavers, evolves, and grows,
Their true intentions subtly encased.

The Governor’s words stir worry and dread,
As DeSantis molds a mightier Guard,
Visions of combat fill the public's head,
And the implications hit all too hard.

They fear, for peace, a price too steep to pay,
When a militia's mustered in the fray,
Rumors of coup, in hushed whispers they say,
Could Florida's own face an inner affray?

Unnerving questions cloak the Sunshine State,
A future obscured in a cloudy slate,
What are these changes that we tolerate?
What hidden storm does this new Guard await?

Yet hope persists in every Floridian heart,
For strength in unity can play its part,
In face of uncertainty, they'll not depart,
Standing together, they'll make a fresh start.

So, may truth triumph in this southern land,
For the power of the people is close at hand,
And in the face of change, they’ll make their stand,
As the tides shift upon the sun-kissed sand.
 

California's Housing Market. (Dedicated to Ryan Fonseca.)

 

 

California's housing market is a wretched mess,
Where the price of homes breeds such duress.
The coastal dreams, once within reach,
Are held aloft, like a sun-kissed peach.

Gilded mansions stand tall and bright,
Underneath them quakes strike in the night.
Along the shorelines, floods rise high,
In the tinderbox hills, fires light the sky.

Each year brings more threat, wildfire's bloom,
Homes wiped away, leaving just gloom.
Yet the costs spiral on, with unending increase,
A merciless cycle, offering no release.

The burdened buyer, weary and fraught,
In a merciless market, their dreams are bought.
Bogged in battles of bidding and claim,
In the Golden State, the game's in the name.

And where is refuge? Can safety be found?
Not in these prices, skyward bound.
Even the heartland, away from the coast,
Hosts haunting prices, a ghostly host.

Mortgage rates, a treacherous sea,
Robbing the hopeful of their glee.
And the agents, oh, their ethics wane,
In the pursuit of profit, in the hunger for gain.

California's housing, a troubling tale,
Where dreams are sold on a grander scale.
Yet beneath the glitz, and the golden gleam,
Lies the hollow echo of the Californian Dream.

I wish I lived upon a boat. (Dedicated to Colleen Wright.)

 

 

I wish I lived upon a boat, beneath the sky's grand quilt,
Where marina life's the antidote to worries and to guilt.
To rise with sun, to sleep with moon, amongst the rhythm, the flit,
To be one with the morning's croon, and the seabird's sunlit lit.

Ah, the public marina, where dreams float at modest rent,
Where laughter echoes off the brine, and hours joyfully spent.
Every dawn, a canvas bright, every night, a star-kissed token,
Life's simplicity at its height, unspoken words, yet spoken.

To the market, for daily bread, to the dock, for friendly chatter,
By humble means, yet nobly fed, where the world's woes do not matter.
The endless tales of ocean's might, in each boat's weathered lines,
Where every day brings sheer delight, and even sorrow shines.

But a shadow grows across our berth, a bitter, hard-drawn line,
The scent of change upon the earth, the taste of sour wine.
St. Pete's marina, once our home, now taken by the grand,
Where once was freedom's vast, blue dome, now stands the private land.

They raise the rent, beyond our reach, the dream begins to wane,
This haven, now a forbidden beach, filled with unneeded pain.
Where life was sweet, and joy was cheap, only echoes remain,
In our hearts, the wounds run deep, the loss feels like a chain.

From our boats, we must depart, our homes upon the wave,
Each farewell, a breaking heart, yet we must be brave.
The dumpsters wait, with open arms, a grim and bitter jest,
Yet even there, amidst the harms, we'll make the very best.

I wished I lived upon a boat, beneath the sky's grand quilt,
But now the dream begins to float, on waters of the guilt.
Yet hope endures, as tides will turn, and dreams might yet revive,
For in our hearts, the sea-lights burn, and keep our spirits alive.
 

Give me air conditioning or give me death! (Dedicated to Julia Carpenter.)

 

 

In the summer's fevered embrace, where sweat and desire interlace,
Sundry long for steak, seared and rich, for luxury such is their wish.
But give to me not meat's delight, nor pleasure drawn from appetite,
A humbler yearning stirs my soul, my comfort - the air conditioner's role.

While some seek sun-kissed skin and sand, and bodies bronzed by summer's hand,
I yearn not for a sun-soaked scene, with bathing beauties' radiant sheen.
Rather, I dream of icy plains, where snowfall weaves her endless chains,
In penguin's guise, I'd find release, in solitude, in icy peace.

The sun-drenched throng may scoff and jest, to them, my pleasure seems a jest,
Beneath the sun, they dance and sway, but I, in coolness, prefer to stay.
No sizzling steak or sultry beach could ever within my contentment reach,
For me, the summer's burning glare is naught compared to AC's care.

Such is the cool, steady hum, a lullaby to some,
It weaves a world of frost and snow, where heat and hunger seldom show.
Antarctica, in my dreams I roam, among the icebergs, I have found home,
Where frost-kissed winds do freely blow, in AC's steady, soothing flow.

Like penguins huddled against the storm, I feel not cold, but rather warm,
Amidst the snow and silent ice, I find a paradise concise.
While sun worshippers may sneer, I hold my frosted haven dear,
And shiver in my pleasure dome, the cold, my heart, forever home.

The scorching summer sun may reign, but I yearn for winter's domain,
Yearning for the icy blast, for summer's tyranny to be passed.
I call out to the frosty air, Old Man Winter, do not despair,
Hasten forth your frosty reign, bring your soothing, icy rain.

Oh Old Man Winter, hear my plea, make haste, return and set me free,
Exchange the heat for your frosty kiss, grant me my icy bliss.
End the reign of summer's tyranny, replace it with your gentle, icy sea,
Come, Old Man Winter, return and stay, and keep the burning sun at bay.

LGBT History is America's History. (Dedicated to Ben Chapman.)

 

 

In classrooms of stone and chalk, a story left untold,
Of lovers bold, of spirits free, of courage strong and gold.
Not tales of battles fought with swords, but battles of the heart,
A missing piece of history's scroll, an integral part.

In rainbows of identity, diverse in every hue,
Lies the LGBT story, full of life, authentic and true.
To cloak it in the shadows, deny its rightful place,
Is to rob the young of wisdom, blind them to grace.

Each tale spun in the classroom, it shapes the world we see,
For from knowledge comes understanding, from understanding, empathy.
Stories of love and struggle, of triumph over pain,
These are the lessons crucial, etched deep in every brain.

Ignorance breeds intolerance, so let our children learn,
Of the many roads to love and life, at each and every turn.
Tales of Stonewall's fiery night, of bravery shown in the face,
Of intolerance and bigotry, of finding one's true space.

Reflect the many shades of love, in all its splendid forms,
Break down the walls of prejudice, reject the tiring norms.
Equality's not a tapestry woven with a single thread,
But a vibrant, rich mosaic of love's colors spread.

For the youth will craft tomorrow, in their hearts and minds,
A world more just, inclusive, leaving no one behind.
Teach them of the past's mistakes, of love's enduring strife,
And they'll create a future, where all may live their life.

So, unveil the LGBT history, let its truth unfurl,
Paint a more complete picture of our wide and wondrous world.
In our classrooms, let these stories sing, resonate and thrive,
For in diversity and tolerance, we truly come alive.

The years have caught up with me. (Dedicated to Bill Kole.)

 

Now I bask in the warm light of indolence,
No reason needed, 'cept for senescence.
The years have caught up, as they tend to do,
Finally, I am free to sip my lazy brew.

Gone are the days of nine to five,
Now in languor's arms, I joyfully dive.
Reports and deadlines, they all can flee,
For the years, my friend, have caught up with me.

"Oh, you're a slacker!" they used to chide,
But I've always let such remarks slide.
Now that I'm aged, grizzled and grey,
There's no need for excuses, I dare say.

I bask in the glow of my TV screen,
In sweatpants and slippers, no need to preen.
Years of rushing, all a memory,
Now the years have finally caught up with me.

Unhurried mornings, endless cups of tea,
Books and daydreams, as far as I can see.
Ah, sweet laziness, my jubilant decree,
For at long last, the years have caught up with me.

I'm not lazy, I'm just biding my time,
In the rhythm of retirement, a beautiful rhyme.
Why run and chase, when you can be free?
Thank the stars, the years have caught up with me.

So here’s to the joys of doing nothing at all,
To living life slow, letting the time crawl.
I'm not a slacker, just finally living carefree,
Blessed be the years, for they've caught up with me.

The Hollywood Writer's Strike. (Dedicated to Samantha Chery.)

 

 

In the heart of Tinseltown, a discordant note rings,
Hollywood's scribes have downed their tools, silenced are the kings,
Scripted fantasies are frozen, on paper they remain,
In directors' heads, their visions - but their voices, they restrain.

Their words that fuel the dreams of many, stand in stark defiance,
No longer playing puppeteer in the dance of compliance,
TV screens grow silent, movie reels refuse to spin,
In the kingdom of the silver screen, a rebellion from within.

For each has found their power, in the silence and the pause,
They will no longer write on demand, without a noble cause,
No more cardboard characters, no plots absurd and thin,
In the absence of their labor, may a new era begin.

Now Netflix waits in nervousness, its catalogue growing bare,
Marvel's heroes rest awhile, mid-flight in comic air,
The ceaseless churn of mediocrity, finally at an end,
The call for true artistry, the writers did send.

From the ashes of this strike, a phoenix may just rise,
Stories told with more depth, no longer simply franchise,
The slate wiped clean, a canvas fresh, the writers hold the key,
To a future of more substance, where true storytelling's free.

So, hail this Hollywood strike, though it may seem severe,
For in its wake, we may just find, a cinematic sphere,
Where artistry is valued, and stories truly matter,
And the din of vapid content, begins to simply shatter.

For if we see no longer the incessant, thoughtless churn,
Then perhaps we'll value more the tales that truly burn,
Deep within our hearts, they'll resonate and thrive,
Heralding a new dawn, where quality will survive.
 

Threads vs Twitter. (Dedicated to Art Raymond)

 

 

There is nothing Twitter dreads more than Meta's brand new Threads,
A social network change the pace, on this grand stage, it treads.
Boldly entering the internet's high stakes game,
Twitter pales in comparison, feeling old, quite lame.

Once as vibrant as a rotary phone, now just an antique,
Twitter struggles to maintain its peak.
Its character limit, once a sly trick,
Now feels restrictive, a candle wick burnt quick.

Enter Threads, the innovative brainchild of Zuckerberg's mind,
A realm where thoughts can flow, unconfined.
Where conversation can flourish, ideas interlace,
Threads provides a dynamic, pulsing space.

People, they flock to Meta's newest gift,
Twitter's relevance down a precipitous rift.
The era of Tweets seems like distant past,
In the face of Threads, shadows it cast.

Musk's Twitter realm, once so popular, so bold,
Now seems weathered, stale, and old.
Zuckerberg's Threads, however, fresh and inviting,
Leads the social media era, bright and exciting.

In the realm of progress, the old must give way,
Twitter, like the rotary phone, has had its day.
The future is Threads, its appeal widespread,
A new age of communication, excitingly bred.

So, here lies Twitter, beneath Meta's expanding sky,
As obsolete as a rotary phone, we bid goodbye.
The world embraces Threads, its potential untold,
A testament to innovation, brave and bold.
 

In the MAGA mirror, Trump's personal peril looks like a personal threat. (Dedicated to Jesus Rodriguez.)

 

 

In the realm of power where voices intertwine,
Trump echoes loudly, his tactics bold yet fine.
A charisma like no other, his followers align,
Yet their hearts flicker with a disquieting sign.

His maneuvers skirt the edge of the lawful abyss,
In the political realm, it's a perilous bliss.
Yet those who stand with him in the boisterous mist,
Question the whirlwind, their loyalty amiss.

With every decree, each executive order,
Some fear they're pawns in his chaotic disorder.
Each rally cry, each accusatory recorder,
Does it herald trouble across the border?

For each legal misstep, a potential cascade,
That might implicate them in the mess he's made.
His words might shield him in the media parade,
But will their compliance render them betrayed?

They stand on the precipice, filled with unease,
Each tweet, each controversy, failing to please.
Could they, too, be tangled in his complex squeeze,
And be swept away by a legal breeze?

In the heart of his fervor, they're left to wonder,
At the echo of a gavel, a growing thunder.
Trump's reign, his tactics, the political plunder,
Leaves them in the tremor of potential asunder.
 

When A.I. Rules the Entertainment World. (Dedicated to Amol Sharma.)

 

 

 

(1)
On screens that hum with a pixellated light,
In echoes of laughter, in stories untold,
AI is the scribe that writes through the night,
Unleashing narratives, both new and old.
No longer do humans hold exclusive right,
To create the tales that on screens unfold.

(2)
In shadows of silver, on film celluloid,
AI crafts a drama with depth and scope.
Director, actor, both now devoid,
Replaced by algorithms that challenge hope.
Yet, in the echoes of what's been destroyed,
Lies the question - can a machine truly cope?

(3)
Now music whispers from silicon throats,
In melodies sweet, born from binary hearts.
Each note, each chord, algorithmically floats,
Creating symphonies, state-of-the-art.
But will this coded song in the end promote,
A world where human touch has no part?

(4)
The written word, once a human feat,
Now flows from AI with flawless ease.
Books and articles in every seat,
Created not by hand, but by machines.
Yet in the heart of each tale replete,
Will there remain a human's tease?

(5)
In the realm of sports, AI takes the field,
Predicting outcomes with unnerving skill.
From player stats to the protective shield,
It controls the game, bending it to its will.
Are we prepared for the world it's revealed,
A future that's algorithmically distilled?

(6)
On billboards high and banners wide,
AI crafts the message to sell and sway.
Human designers set aside,
As algorithms now hold sway.
Yet, can we trust this digital tide,
To ethically lead the way?

(7)
As AI encroaches upon our sphere,
In every field, in every way,
A question echoes, drawing near -
What is the human role to play?
Yet, in our hearts, let's hold no fear,
For we are the dreamers, come what may.
 

Tons of fancy office furniture has been moldering in storage since the start of Covid. (Dedicated to Stefanos Chen.)

 

In the bustling heart of the city that never sleeps,
Rise towers where office furniture in silence weeps,
When tired of the hustle, when no longer in demand,
Begins a fantastic journey, strange and unplanned.

On a moonbeam they hitch a ride, quite out of sight,
In the stillness of the cosmos, under lunar light.
Desks of mahogany, chairs of chrome and leather,
Rest in lunar craters, weathered by ether.

Martians with their flying saucers, zipping across the stars,
Collect unwanted filing cabinets, vintage typewriters, seminar chairs.
In Martian living rooms, Earthly furniture finds its place,
An alien curiosity, a touch of the human race.

Swiss chefs with a secret, their recipe quite unique,
Transform the worn-out office tables into gourmet mystique.
As tender Swiss steak, the transformed relics find a plate,
An unassuming dinner, of a furniture's fate.

To China they're shipped, with histories invented,
As faux antique Chippendale, the past reinvented.
These once-neglected pieces, now adored anew,
Bearing false tales of centuries, only if they knew.

And thus, New York City's office castaways,
Travel on their unexpected, surreal pathways.
Once overlooked, now shining in moon's glow,
Or Martian decor, or a meal, or in China's show.

If I had a private chef. (Dedicated to Ashley Wong.)

 

 

If I had a private chef, to cook for me each day,
Rib-eyes from Kobe beef, in all their rich display.
Seared to tender perfection, with a pat of truffle butter,
Roasted and delightful, a delicacy like no other.

Wild berries from the Arctic, Fuyu persimmons rare,
Garnishing my platter, like jewels beyond compare.
Mangoes ripe from tropics, with their succulent delight,
A cornucopia of flavors, every day and night.

In my chef's skilled hands, greenery is not a bore,
Rare heirloom tomatoes, who could ask for more?
Tender greens and root vegetables, in colors bright and bold,
Sauteed in garlic-infused oils, a feast to behold.

A tangle of saffron linguine, sweet balsamic reduction,
Luxury in every bite, such edible seduction.
Risotto with morels and aged Parmesan,
Each spoonful a symphony, a gastronomic grand slam.

The sauces - oh the sauces! Velvet, rich and deep,
In velouté and beurre blanc, we're far too gone to sleep.
With cognac, cream, and caviar, they coat each savory piece,
Indulgence in each bite, our gluttony's release.

Gorging on such treasures, a feast for every sense,
The decadence is intoxicating, it’s all so immense.
Yet, beneath the sweet allure, a discomfort starts to grow,
A twisting, churning, gnawing pain, a sign of woe.

Alas, the bitter irony, as the pleasure turns to pain,
Feasting in such abundance, no longer our gain.
What was once a paradise, becomes a gastronomic hell,
In the symphony of flavors, a dissonant bell.

Desperate for a remedy, to the drug store I rush,
Through the aisles I wander, in a fevered hush.
Reaching for a savior, my salvation in pink,
A bottle of Pepto Bismol, to save me from the brink.

Sweet relief in chalky sips, my stomach starts to cool,
In the face of gourmet excess, a humbling tool.
I dream of simple broths, of grains and greens so light,
A stark contrast to the indulgence of last night.

My private chef stands ready, with renewed culinary fervor,
Yet my palate yearns for less, a simpler flavor.
There's wisdom in this indulgence, and in its painful cost,
In our quest for opulence, something else is lost.

Perhaps the finest banquet, is not in rich meats and gold,
But in the simple pleasures, our senses to behold.
A lesson learned from indigestion, a truth hard to swallow,
In our hunger for the finest feast, we forget how to wallow.
 

Student Debt Depression. (Dedicated to Andrew Restuccia.)

 

 

 

In halls of learning, whispers, like ivy, entwined,
With futures promised, young minds brightly shined,
Through books and theories, our dreams were woven,
But soon we found, the cost of wisdom cloven.
Loans accrued, the debtors swiftly called,
In the name of education, we were enthralled.

To parchment paths and lofty thought, we pledged,
In the hopes of brighter days, our futures hedged.
With a signature, we sealed our fate,
For a promised land, we'd not hesitate,
Bearing weighty chains of debt, a sour serenade,
In the shadow of knowledge, our innocence began to fade.

Upon graduation's stage, our triumph waned,
For the specter of debt, like a beast, remained.
We sought reprieve from the government's hold,
Dreaming of benevolence, bold and cold.
Yet our plea, in the halls of power, found no ear,
Only echoes of our dread, crisp and clear.

In the dance of numbers, our hopes were drowned,
As the federal hounds, in pursuit, were found.
Chasing us through streets of adulthood's making,
In the dawn and dusk, our peace forsaking.
The dream of wisdom, now a nightmare's silhouette,
Haunted by the specter of an insurmountable debt.

Once students bright, now weary debtors,
Bound by chains, shackled by collectors.
Our dreams, once vibrant, now washed in gray,
In the harsh light of the debtor's day.
A cruel lesson learned, a crueler price,
For the pursuit of knowledge, we rolled the dice.

Echoes of our plea still ring in the air,
Seeking justice, compassion, an affair so rare.
A generation's hope, tangled in red tape,
Our youthful optimism, lost in the escape.
We march on, dreams deferred yet unbowed,
In the shadow of the tower, where once we were proud.

Washington and Wall Street. (Dedicated to Andrew Ackerman.)

 

In the halls of power, with marble so grand,
Whispers of deceit, deals made by the hand.
Bankers and bureaucrats weave a web so wide,
In the dance of corruption, in power they confide.

In Washington’s grasp, politicians hold sway,
Brokers from Wall Street come to play.
Amidst the gloss of progress, behind closed doors,
The common man’s wealth, secretly it implores.

Shadows of greenbacks cast long and lean,
The dance goes on, a sight unseen.
In their fox trot of greed, only one decree,
"Fill our coffers, let the little ones bleed."

From Main Street to farmsteads, from coast to coast,
It's the small, the weak, who lose the most.
The price of their dance, a toll we bear,
In silent resentment, in stifled despair.

But remember, there's power in the humble and low,
In unity's strength, resistance can grow.
A dance can be altered, a song can be changed,
If the piper’s tune, we choose to rearrange.

A chorus of voices, a melody of might,
Can reclaim the rhythm in the dark of night.
In the dance of the world, the steps are ours to make,
For it’s the people, not the puppeteers, who the future will stake.

Mime Troupes and Morality Plays. (Dedicated to Lily Janiak.)

 

In the heart of the square, where cobblestones lie,
Mime troupes don vivid veils, under the blue sky.
Their faces are pale, the stories are old,
They unfold medieval tales, in silence so bold.

The mimes, they play, the vices and virtues,
In a world void of words, where only movement accrues.
As mortal as man, as fleeting as day,
They portray life's trial in a mute ballet.

Beguiling at first, their silent discourse,
Yet the crowd starts to thin, showing remorse.
For in the age of the loud, of the vivid and clear,
A mime's quiet narrative falls on a deaf ear.

The innocence of folly, the cost of pride,
In their subtle gestures, these truths abide.
But these tales of old, so deep and profound,
In the bustle of now, hardly resound.

Still, they persist, these brave mime troupes,
Playing out sin and salvation in silent loops.
A silent echo of time, a morality spree,
Unheard in the clamor of modernity.

Alas, in the era of sound and fury,
Their timeless tales are lost in the hurry.
Mimed morality plays - a forgotten feast,
Drowned out by the noise of the clamorous beast.

Planning a Block Party. (Dedicated to Karen Garcia.)

 

In the heart of the day, beneath the sun’s vibrant array,
A neighborhood block party is in full, resplendent play.
Lawns transformed into banquet halls, sidewalks a festive bazaar,
Children's laughter, music's tune, both near and far.

Grilled delights perfume the air, an open feast for all,
The clink of glass and cheerful toast, summer's sweetest call.
Yard games commence, bocce balls are tossed,
In this timeless celebration, no one counts the cost.

We break the ice with lemonade, fresh, and homemade pie,
Served from porch-steps, kitchen decks, under a cotton-candy sky.
The street, a stage for children's dance, chalk art in bloom,
A picture of community in the afternoon.

Then comes the time, as twilight nears, for the talent show,
Jugglers, singers, comics, magicians stealing the afterglow.
A painted face, a puppeteer, a storyteller spins a yarn,
Captivating, charming, under the early evening's charm.

As moonlight gilds the neighborhood, and stars above us gleam,
There’s flickering glow of fireflies, a whispering night’s dream.
We sit on blankets, faces upturned, for a movie under the stars,
Enjoying the simplicity, the friendship, and candy bars.

When dawn's light touches the quiet streets, the remnants of delight,
We'll hold the joy of unity, of shared laughter in the night.
A block party's end, but memories endure,
In every neighborhood heart, the fun and warmth secure.

the united states is destroying its once vast chemical arsenal. at last. (Dedicated to John Ismay.)

 

Once where fear dwelt, and shadows cast,
A lethal legacy, now outlast.
No more the specter of the unseen,
Chemical foes, erased and clean.

Awake, rejoice, for there's a victory won,
A brighter chapter has begun.
The United States, with steady gaze,
Cleared the path through a toxic haze.

The threat dissolved, the deed is done,
Underneath the watchful sun.
No longer hidden in our midst,
The phantom menace will be missed.

From dark to light, the world does shift,
With this burden set adrift.
Lessons learned, history's page turned,
In peace and safety, we've discerned.

A sigh of relief, the globe does breathe,
An age of fear, we finally leave.
Today we stand on common ground,
Where love, not war, is the only sound.

Rejoice, rejoice, with voices strong,
Echoing the triumphant song.
In unity, we share this news,
Of a future we choose, free of chemical blues.

Thank You, Michelle Kaufusi.

 

In the heart of our fair valley Provo lies,
A shining gem beneath the wide, blue skies.
One name does echo 'round our radiant sphere,
Our Mayor Michelle, a leader we hold dear.

She stands a beacon, bright against the night,
With vision clear and courage in her sight.
Her tireless service, deep as canyon's bend,
Reveals a steadfast, and a faithful friend.

For rich and poor, for young and aging too,
She weaves a tapestry in diverse hue.
Her policies of equity unfold,
In tales of unity and love retold.

She's raised our city's voice in national song,
Through trials and triumphs, however long.
Provo's reputation glows, a rising star,
Its brilliance seen both near and far.

From Wasatch peaks to fertile valley's crest,
Mayor Michelle gives nothing but her best.
And in her charge, our cherished city thrives,
A beacon of hope, where every soul arrives.

So here's to Michelle, who guides Provo's days,
Her outstanding ability ever amaze.
Through all her deeds and words so nobly said,
She's cast a crown of glory on Provo's head.

In the hands of thoughtless youth. (Dedicated to Jason DeRusha.)

 

In the hands of thoughtless youth, a sparkler's merry dance,
Becomes a tool of recklessness, and chance takes its chance.
In the thrill of fleeting light, in the laughter of the night,
Dwells the danger unbeknown, when safety's out of sight.

A box of fireworks, misused, a bonfire of delight,
Turns quickly into terror's flame, in the absence of the light.
Young hearts see only joy's facade, in the burst of colored sky,
But forget the deadly power held, in the pyrotechnics high.

Playing with such potent tools, as if they were mere toys,
Puts at risk both life and limb, in pursuit of fleeting joys.
For the sparks that fly are not just light, but embers burning hot,
And when handled without due care, cause harm that's dearly bought.

Homes and trees set ablaze, from an ill-timed rocket's glare,
Witness to the reckless act, in the sultry summer air.
In the wake of youthful folly, lies destruction and despair,
A stern reminder of the cost, when caution's lost to dare.

Respect the flame, the bursting star, the cascade of the night,
For in their beauty lies a beast, that's eager for a fight.
Let's educate our young, impress upon them this truth plain,
That reckless acts can kindle woe, in every fiery rain.

So let us celebrate with care, with fireworks that delight,
Safeguard lives and property, in the soft and starlit night.
In every burst of joy and awe, let caution play its part,
And let wisdom guide each hand, and understanding every heart.

A Dog Named Balut. (Dedicated to Wade Lambert.)

 

In a world that's chaotic, yet strangely astute,
There’s a joy in my heart for my doggie, Balut.
His wagging tail meets me at the end of the day,
With warmth and excitement in purest display.

He chases after shadows, in summer sun's light,
His barks are a symphony in the hush of the night.
At parks and on pathways, we make our own route,
Life’s never a bore with my jolly dog, Balut.

Through fields of daisies, we gallop and roam,
With Balut by my side, I'm never alone.
His eyes hold a magic, an unspoken tribute,
To the love and loyalty of my dear friend, Balut.

In winter's chill or the heat of July,
He stays close to me, always nearby.
He's not just a pet, not just a cute mute,
He’s a faithful companion, my darling Balut.

The scratches, the fetches, the games we partake,
Each memory with him is a pleasure to make.
In his fur, I find comfort, in his silence, a flute,
A melody of love, from my best mate, Balut.

As stars fill the night, and in dawn's first light,
He is my shield, my unyielding knight.
In the company of Balut, all worries dilute,
What a splendid joy, to own a dog like Balut.

Female Leadership Is Here To Stay

 

In the heart of Utah, beneath the mountain's sway, Thrives the city of Provo, lighting up the way. A beacon of change, it's more than okay, Female leadership is here to stay.

Women at the helm, with strength that doesn't fray, Their voices echo, shaping the day. With wisdom, love, and hearts ablaze, Female leadership is here to stay.

They lead with insight, never going astray, Inspiring minds in every possible way. With a vision for progress, not mere display, Female leadership is here to stay.

In boardrooms, and in the council, they hold sway, Shattering glass ceilings, they're in the fray. Guiding Provo with a steady array, Female leadership is here to stay.

They've etched their names in the city's clay, Their influence is vast, like the sun's ray. A promise of a brighter, inclusive day, Female leadership is here to stay.

Teaching Journalism. (Dedicated to John Schwartz.)

 

 

 In classrooms bustling, loud and bright,
Teaching journalism, day and night.
Imparting truth, fact-checking, sources,
Riding turbulent information forces.

The art of words, they must learn,
As the pages of time slowly turn.
To discern between the truth and lies,
Is a skill much harder to apprise.

Engaging minds, so young, so bright,
A teacher's task, from morn till night.
From the basics to the ethics code,
Preparing them for the writer's road.

Fake news emerges, truth to smother,
Teaching them to trust one another.
Honest reporting, a fading trend,
A tradition we must defend and mend.

Social media, a realm untamed,
Where journalism's often blamed.
Teaching balance, objectivity,
In the face of rampant subjectivity.

For the pen is mightier than the sword,
The power of words cannot be ignored.
Though teaching journalism can be tough,
The impact of truth is reward enough.

The Legend of Dickendoof. A Fantasy Novel. Chapter Five. The Death of Sir Earwig. by Tim Torkildson.

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE.  The Death of Sir Earwig.

History is always interesting when it happens to someone else. We now come to the sad ending of Sir Earwig, the knight who put down the dragons and then fought the blue goblins to a standstill. 

In the 12th century, in the time of Sir Earwig, the tranquil land of Dickendoof, nestled in verdant valleys and kissed by the gentle waters of many rivers, experienced a momentous upheaval. The Birkenstockers, a formidable group from the North, armed not with swords and shields, but with cucumber seeds and trellises, executed an invasion unlike any other. It was not a tale of blood and conquest, but rather, one of plantations and wine.

On the eve of the summer solstice, just as the sun began to bow beneath the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet, the Birkenstockers descended upon Dickendoof. They were a countless multitude, pouring over the verdant hills and flowing into the peaceful valleys like a sea of determined gardeners.

With seasoned agility and practiced precision, they immediately set to work. They tilled the fertile earth, turning over the soft soil to expose the darker, nutrient-rich underlayers. With robust arms and diligent spirits, they transformed the pristine Dickendoof fields into meticulously designed cucumber plantations. Their zealous vigor echoed in every strike of the hoe, in every thrust of the shovel, transforming the placid landscape into a vibrant sea of verdant green.

The Birkenstockers, renowned for their agricultural acumen, employed ancient techniques passed down through generations. They used their unique trellises, structures resembling webbed lattices, for supporting their cucumbers. Within days, Dickendoof witnessed a transformation. The once-bare land now brimmed with rows upon rows of cucumber plants, their blossoms promising a plentiful yield.

As summer waned, the cucumber vines burst forth with life, their green bodies heavy with fruits. The Birkenstockers toiled tirelessly beneath the sun, their hands methodically plucking the ripened cucumbers. The once quiet air of Dickendoof now filled with the sound of harvest, the murmur of voices, and the rustle of plants yielding their bounty.

The following phase was perhaps the most important for the Birkenstockers. With crates of cucumbers, they embarked on their ancestral practice of making cucumber wine. The squashing, the fermentation, the careful preservation—each step carried out with an unrivaled dedication. The scent of fresh cucumber permeated the air, merging with the sweet-smoky aroma of fermentation.

Once ready, the cucumber wine, with its unique greenish hue and distinct flavor, was bottled. It was a sight to behold, the sun's rays catching the bottles, casting radiant speckles of light across the Birkenstockers' triumphant faces.

The invasion of Dickendoof was not marked by warfare, but by the sprouting of cucumber plants and the brewing of wine. The Birkenstockers, with their numberless host, had left their indelible mark, turning Dickendoof into the cucumber wine capital. The tranquil land, under the new influence, began to thrive. A newfound harmony reigned between the original inhabitants and their unexpected guests, weaving together a tale of unusual invasion, lush cucumber fields, and intoxicating cucumber wine.

Sir Earwig, appointed to guard the kingdom against all enemies by King Donald Trunk himself, drew up a plan of immediate action. Unfortunately as he mounted his stallion to ride out to review the troops his horse was startled by a pine cone. It reared and threw him into a bramble bush, where he was attacked by a swarm of angry solicitors. He was dead before anyone could come to his aid. 

 

We feel it necessary at this time to warn readers that the medieval Dickendoofian funeral ceremonies were rather strange and puzzling, and to our modern tastes perhaps repulsive.

Creedly the Cleric, a contemporary of the unfortunate Sir Earwig, has left this description of the rites and service: