The welfare of my soul

 

The welfare of my soul

lies with the Great Physician,

who cures me of my ills

upon complete submission.

No bill does he submit;

his prescript is that I

serve all my fellow men

with kindness in my eye.

Prose Poem: Valid Information.

 

There was a man in our town

who gave away golf balls.

He always wore a gray fedora 

and a white shirt 

with a bright floral bowtie.

His name was Mr. Peters.

He owned the hardware store.

I think he gave away the golf balls

because, in reality, 

he didn't want to own a hardware store

but a sports shop.

When he grew old and blind

he lost the hardware store

and had to move in with 

a daughter who went bowling

every night, leaving him alone.

He got disoriented one night

and wandered onto the highway,

offering golf balls to passing semis.

One of 'em ran him over.

There wasn't much left of him,

so he was buried in a golf bag.

Everyone agreed it seemed appropriate.

But before the accident,

before he went blind and

lost the hardware store,

Mr. Peters told me an interesting tale.

It seems as a young man he 

hunted jaguars in Brazil.

He put jaguar bait on 

strips of duct tape,

and when the jaguars 

took the bait they got

entangled in the duct tape

and collapsed from nervous

exhaustion.

Then he sold the jaguars 

to Indian maharajahs 

and Hollywood starlets.

The interesting part,

according to Mr. Peters,

was that there are no jaguars

in Brazil.

When I asked him why he would

tell such a nonsensical story 

in the first place he replied:

"I give away golf balls, 

not valid information."

He may have meant something 

by that,

but I prefer to think

he just liked to hear himself

talk.

Today's timericks.

 

Stomach rumbles come with age/old folks have a pressure gauge/that sends spices, cheese, and nuts/roaring through their inner guts/and MUST there be an audience/when it ends in flatulence?

Tittle-tattle reigns supreme/from pool room right to academe/We are spied on and reported/for innocence and things most sordid/Friends and fam'ly now are snitches/so watch out for those sons of . . . glitches?

When pastors flout the law they show/the Lord is just a cameo/in their ego-sodden creed/as from mask-hood they secede/Congregations follow suit/as gospel love they prostitute.

How I loved the milkweed plant/when I was knee-high/to a hopper and could watch/the silky seeds drift by/Food for monarch butterflies/and imagination/those vagrant plant still offer me/a bit of consolation.

And would none of my reproof.

 

The Lord reproves his servants oft,

and not always with phrases soft.

He lays it on the line when we

come nigh to some iniquity.

Be thankful for a reprimand;

'twill help you gain the Promised Land!

Photo Essay: New Postcards to My President.

 

Today's timericks.

 

Getting rich is easy/This is all you have to do/Marry into money/with a spouse of great value/Then invest their moolah/in a ship to outer space/and suckers will buy tickets/with gold bars in a suitcase.

Countries promise greenhouse gas/they will cut down, but alas/what they say and what they do/rarely is the same world view/the only way to assuage/this thing is going all stone age.

Texas vaccination site turned away undocumented immigrants over their status, against state policy.  (WaPo)

Need a vaccination, chum?/To our clinic please do come/Unless, of course, we find that you/don't fit in -- then whoop de do!/We'll run you out of town for sure/and you can find your own dang cure! 

Joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving and the voice of melody.

 

You just might be a Christian

if you burst into song

when things are far from perfect

and so much seems so wrong.

For faith in the Atonement

and charity performed

causes folk to warble

as their heart is warmed.

Prose Poem: Lake Erie.

 

As America becomes more partisan

and divided,

I have found a way to become

filthy rich.

It's a simple case of adopt

and then adapt.

Since everyone is sticking up

for their rights and no longer

fears being disagreeable,

our nation's infrastructure has 

come unraveled.

My company's solution:

the extendible flag pole.

When a governor wants to honor

some dead liberal or conservative

by lowering the flag to half mast,

there's always a riot and legislative

deadlock.

My poles solve the problem

by leaving the flag in place,

and sending the pole up another ten

feet or more.

In other words,

you don't move the flag --

you move the pole.

I've got orders from every state in the Union --

and Puerto Rico and the District of Columbia.

And I'm going to use my wealth

to buy Lake Erie and drain it

 for a parking lot.

In our bodies we shall see God.

 

The largest truth of our existence

is there isn't any distance

'tween ourselves and God above;

we all shall see him with great love

on that day when He shall reach

out to us to heal the breach.

Today's Timericks.

 

Mother's in the cellar

and father's on the roof;

they are wearing jackets

that are bulletproof.

Toting guns like cowboys,

they declare with glee

that a new world order

with Trump will come quickly.

They feed us kids on sardines

and powdered milk -- that's all.

And we are drilled each morning

for invasion protocol.

It's getting kind of scary;

I wish the internet

had not made them desire

to own a bayonet!  

I've thrown away a sofa;

I've thrown away a sink;

a pair of rusty fire tongs;

a coat that might be mink.

I set 'em on the curbside

to let the scroungers scrounge.

They congregate like barflies

at a cocktail lounge.

I've thought about my in-laws,

and how I wish that they

could also be discarded

on the street and hauled away . . . 

Anthony Warner knew lizards from space/were coming to conquer the whole human race/and so he decided to blow up a truck/to show all those reptiles that they'd have bad luck/messing with humans, cuz we are so crazy/we act like the movies of Mr. Scorsese.