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. 

Memories of Prince Paul: The Hunt for Celery Tonic.

Prince was one of the 'Little People' -- a true dwarf, with a head and torso of regular adult size and legs and arms stunted to child size. He had a gruff baritone voice, much employed in cursing and trotting out such odd expressions as "Cease this constant bickering!" and "Are you a face sitter?" When in an expansive mood, he would warble his own version of Broadway show tunes, such as "I've Got a Customer for Your Face". 

It took something special for Prince Paul to remember a First of May's real name. He called most of us 'Heim Potz" that first season -- an appellation that has no etymological precedent in any language I have ever come across. 

For me, however, he found a unique name that inaugural season on the Ringling Blue Unit back in 1971: "Schmutz Finger". It's a German/Yiddish hybrid that means . . . well, you can go look it up yourself -- it has several meanings, all of them coarsely concerning a person's hygiene. 

I really don't know why he chose to nail that moniker onto me; he rarely said two words to me during the entire day for the first six months of the season. Frankly, I was a little bit afraid of him. He allowed no one to ever insult his dignity as a human being -- by that I mean that if anyone tried to lift him up like a child or make fun of his stature (which, considering this was clown alley, happened often enough) he grabbed his wood and canvas camp stool and pitched it with deadly accuracy at the offender's head. 

But a thaw of sorts occurred between him and I one summer day when his New York Times was not delivered to the top of his trunk an hour before come-in. Prince paid Rigger Mortis, one of the roustabouts, to buy and deliver the New York Times every single day. But that day Rigger forgot for some reason. Prince was incensed, storming up and down clown alley, turning the place into a Turkish bath with his steaming invective. Just by chance I happened to have bought the newspaper myself earlier that day, so I shyly laid it on his trunk. I hadn't even looked at it yet, so it was all crispy and folded neat as a pin. Prince recognized my gesture with a brief jerk of his head, then put on his half moon glasses and immersed himself in the paper while sucking on a Dr. Tung's Perio Stick. 

After the show he beckoned me over to his trunk to talk.

"What's your name, Schmutz Finger?" he asked.

"Tim. Tim Torkildson." I answered.

"What the . . . ? Tortle-twaddle, you say?" He shook his head in disbelief at my uncouth last name, and I knew I would remain Schmutz Finger to him for the rest of the season. 

"Listen" he continued, "I gotta get a new schlepper for my New York Times -- I can't depend on these #%%*#** working men anymore. You wanna get it for me or not? I hafta have it here at least an hour before the come-in. I pay for the paper, of course, and you get an extra five bucks a week for doing it."

He folded his arms and stared at me. It didn't seem like a difficult task, and I could certainly use the extra five bucks, so I said sure, and added --

"Can I get the paper when you're done with it each day?"

"Sure, kid -- why not?"  

So began my apprentice schlepperhood for Prince Paul, one of the bedrocks of clowning on the Ringling Show. 

All went well that first week. When the eagle flew -- meaning when the show paid off -- Prince made a great show of unfolding and smoothing out a five dollar bill so he could hand it over to me. 

"Keep up the good work, Schmutz Finger" he said with the lordly air of one born to command churls like myself. Resisting the urge to bow, or at least bring a knuckle up to my forelock, I quickly stuffed the money into the grouch bag I kept hanging around my neck (and yes, the grouch bag is where Groucho Marx got his nickname from -- it's a leather pouch performers hung around their necks to keep money and other valuables from developing legs and walking out of sundry dressing rooms in Vaudeville and clown alleys in the circus).

But then, as inevitably happens in these terse memoirs of mine, complications set in.

One day, as I was headed out to pick up the Times for Prince he stopped me at the curtained entrance to clown alley and said "Hey, pick me up a celery tonic while you're out, will ya? Thanks."

I nodded and left, only to halt in my tracks ten minutes later just as I got to the newsstand to ask myself 'What in the Sam Hill is a celery tonic?' 

They make tonic out of celery? Not in Minnesota they don't! 

I nodded to myself slyly -- a wild goose chase, eh? Well, Prince wasn't going to catch me with his snipe hunt! 

I bought the Times, then on my way back stopped at a grocery store for a bunch of radishes and a small carton of milk.

Just before going into the alley I opened the milk carton, dumped the radishes into it, then closed it up and gave it a mighty shake. 

I walked smugly into clown alley and laid Prince's paper on top of his trunk. Then spoke the fatal words:

"Sorry, Prince, they were all out of tonic of celery -- but they did have a radish milkshake, so here you are!" I placed the dripping carton on his trunk, next to the paper.

The next thing I knew I was prone on the cement floor, with Prince's camp stool next to me. 

As my wits cleared I could hear Prince spouting fearful imprecations at me while Levoi Hipps, the boss clown, held him back.

"Wha happen, huh?" I managed to slur.

By now the entire alley was forming a circle around my supine shape, laughing uproariously. When Levoi got Prince calmed down, he sauntered over to me and kindly explained that Prince had wanted a Dr. Brown's Celery Tonic -- an actual carbonated beverage flavored with celery that was popular on the East Coast. 

Once the little birdies stopped chirping and circling my head I went over to Prince to apologize.

"Think nothing of it, kid" he replied magnanimously. "Everybody makes mistakes -- remember Hitler?" 

Levoi Hipps brought Prince his New York Times after that.

(And if you're interested, they still sell Celery Tonic around the New York City area -- it's called Cel-Ray. I've tried it, and it's sure not worth getting clonked on the head with a camp stool!)

 

The Decayed Olive Tree

Jacob 5:3 -- "For behold, thus saith the Lord, I will liken thee, O house of Israel, like unto a tame olive tree, which a man took and nourished in his vineyard; and it grew, and waxed old, and began to decay."

Am I, then, like that olive tree -- now tame and all decayed:
Is my fruit bitter to the taste, my harvest too delayed?
Have I repaid my Master's toil and nourishment so great
by turning wild and heedless and becoming second-rate?
Tis easy to be twisted and produce a wormy fruit;
 O Lord, help me to prune away my sins down to the root!