Wealth maketh many friends

 

If you want lots of friends, be rich --

they'll come to you without a hitch.

My life would sure be very nice

if I could take my own advice.

But since I'm broke, and threadbare, too,

with the Heavens I'll make do.

They smile on me majestically,

though I am poor domestically.

Today's Timericks.

 

I'm gonna get a million from the government real soon!/I'll buy a yacht, a foreign car, and one trip to the Moon!/That Biden, he is quite a guy; so generous and kind/Of course a number cruncher in DC can loose his mind/But what care I if dollar bills will soon become tp/I'll burn 'em in my barbeque to make a fricasee!

The Ayatollah and the Pope were meeting in old Ur/A site so ancient that the dust was too tired to stir/They shook hands for the media and smiled real wide as well/while thinking to themselves "He's just a lousy infidel!"/Perhaps the Buddha had it right; we'll all come back again/and maybe learn to love more wide while still in our playpen. 

I love to fry up onions/they go with any meat/some people call them noisome/to me their flavor's sweet/morning, noon, and dinner/ I slide 'em in a pan/and use them for a topping/ on steak and fish and Spam/My neighbors are complaining/they cannot stand the fumes/but I'll keep eating onions/while they starve in their rooms!

The mercies of God.

 

Where does the real compassion dwell

for the saint and infidel?

Who has the mercy broad and strong

to counter arbitrary wrong?

Methinks that God alone can claim

complete control of such domain! 

Prose Poem: Sanctioned.

 

I was looking at the pink marshmallow sky

on the beach when an ugly horde of 

ghost crabs scrabbled up to me.

Since this was a magical day in the tropics,

they began talking to me:

"Is it true you've been sanctioned?"

asked one.

"Will you fight this in court?"

asked another.

"How does this affect your standing

with the current administration?"

asked a third one, which I immediately

squashed with my foot.

I felt no remorse.

Later on, at the tiki bar, where I was enjoying

the pu pu platter,

a gecko on the ceiling above me

fell into my crab rangoon,

screaming "Will you be running

for office again?"

My waiter offered to have the gecko

grilled for me, but I took it home

in a doggie bag instead.

"Now" I said to the gecko,

which I had deposited in a bamboo

cage,

"My fine feathered friend, what is the

meaning of all this twaddle about me

being sanctioned?"

"Let me talk to my editor first"

demanded the gecko sullenly.

"Who do you work for?" I asked it.

"Who else? The Gecko Times!" it replied testily.

Just then an enormous cockchafer crawled up

on my table.

"I'm with the Kafka Tribune" it said to me,

as I raised a rolled newspaper to swat it.

"I have diplomatic immunity!"

"Not with me you don't!" I snarled,

and brought the paper down with a satisfying

whack.

I googled the mailing address of the 

Kafka Times and addressed an envelope

to them with the remains of their reporter

inside it.

But I couldn't find a single stamp in the house,

so I threw the envelope in the garbage.

During the ruckus the gecko had gnawed

through the bamboo bars and escaped.

It was on my ceiling, dropping tiny black

pellets on me and laughing insanely.

"Is that any way for a journalist to act?"

I cried in disgust.

"It's the only way, pal" replied the gecko, snapping up

 a moth fluttering nearby.

Then a much bigger gecko suddenly darted 

out from a rafter beam and swallowed my 

tormentor in one gulp.

"Thank you" I told the large gecko.

"Don't mention it" replied the reptile, "I was 

his editor . . . "

******************************

Here is some push back on this poem from a reader, who also happens to be a good friend of mine:

(Notice of forewarning: Everything I say in this message is meant sincerely and straightforwardly.)

Several moments in your prose poem bring a smile or a bit of a smile (usually as a response to what we call "wry humor" or to something incongruous or odd). But there was one moment when I laughed out loud. It was when I read these lines:

I googled the mailing address of the 

Kafka Times and addressed an envelope

to them with the remains of their reporter

inside it.

For whatever reason, I love those lines, especially the last couple. I think it has something to do with the fact that the reporter is (in my mind) both an insect that can be smashed and (at least in a shadowy way) a full-sized reporter, all of this combining into the incongruity of mailing the reporter's remains in an envelope to the Kafka Times. (The envelope retained its small size in my imagination.)

So it was disappointing to read that "you" (the speaker in the poem) proceeded to throw away the envelope. What a waste! I really wanted that envelope to make it to the Kafka Times! 

As a frequent reader of your work, that moment of throwing away the envelope reminded me of MANY similar moments in your work, at least in your prose poems--moments of incompletion or loss or failure. (Sometimes moments of quick and casual destruction or dismissal.) My sense is that these moments happen very often in your poems--honestly, to my mind, too often. It's partly that they've become something of a cliche. Besides that, they often seem too easy, not earned and not productive of any particular pleasure or insight. 

I think my unsatisfied response also comes from my imagining that these frequent moments reflect something in you--an inclination that I think you have (based on my small acquaintance with you) to believe that all hopes will eventually be dashed and all efforts will be frustrated. (When I say "inclination" I don't mean a committed belief--I just mean a kind of habitual tendency to see and feel in a certain way.) Besides wanting you (as the unique individual you are) to be more hopeful and happy, I think my response reflects my own desire--even my own habitual inclination and effort--to hope, to see happiness and success as an eventual outcome, even if it will take a long time, even if its full accomplishment is in the eternal sphere. 

You may feel I've put a lot of weight on little filaments in a whimsical creation. But I'm just saying how I honestly responded. And I do think that our moments of whimsy often reveal things of deep import.

But again, I LOVE those lines I quoted. Spontaneous laughter feels great.

My email response to his critique, thus:

Yes, I agree with you that the casual sadism, violence, and death in my prose poems is becoming a familiar trope. But I don't see it as a possible liability. The use of violence in my work stems directly from my slapstick clowning background. I learned early on as a clown the basic 'lazzi' or 'schtick' that slapstick venues rely on -- explosions, pratfalls, blows to the head, slaps and kicks in many variations, loss of pants, gooey items thrown into the face, defenestration (usually through paper hoops), and even murder most foul -- as in the famous clown routine 'Dead & Alive.'  (Here is a link to that clown skit if you'd like to see it yourself:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PkCpbw4EpEI  )

I am also a huge fan of classic American cartoons, and especially of cartoon director Tex Avery's work in that field. The grotesque violence and Grand Guignol merriment in those animated productions can still leave me breathless with admiration.

I see nothing problematic in viewing our current world as fallen and full of danger, and wishing to chronicle it whimsically in some of my poetry. To quote Jacob 7:26 -- "by saying that the time passed away with us, and also our ^blives passed away like as it were unto us a ^cdream, we being a ^dlonesome and a solemn people, ^ewanderers, cast out from Jerusalem, born in tribulation, in a wilderness, and hated of our brethren, which caused wars and contentions; wherefore, we did mourn out our days."

Perhaps the most salient point I can make about my bleak and violent conceits is, as you so kindly wrote, that in the midst of my dark visions will come a moment of risibility that is in such delightful contrast that it causes readers to laugh out loud.  As I gain further mastery over my craft, I hope to be able to do that much more often.

Movie Review: "Heart of Africa 2."

 

Despite pandemic restrictions, the movie "Heart of Africa 2" is still showing in theaters across Utah and receiving a warm reception from hardy cinephiles who enjoy its timely story line and the sincere performances of the main actors and actresses. 

It would be a shame if this film, which won third place for a feature film at the recent LDS Film Festival, is allowed to slip out of theaters anytime soon. It's one of those films that will benefit from word of mouth and grow a respectable audience if given half a chance.  

 It's message of intercultural understanding and the relevance of conflict resolution in today's disintegrating world has never been more important -- or needed. According to one of the movie's producers, Bruce Young -- who spends most of his time teaching Shakespeare and C.S. Lewis to students at Brigham Young University.

Bruce Young. Producer, Heart of Africa 1 & 2.

I spoke to Bruce recently about his involvement in "Heart of Africa" and "Heart of Africa 2."  We viewed the second film together at the Thanksgiving Point Megaplex. Bruce says that he and his wife Margaret, who has script credit on both films, were determined to help revive the film industry in the Congo DR, after it ground to a halt nearly thirty years ago during a period of civil unrest.

The couple teamed up with Congolese director Tshoper Kabambi, helping to find grant money, equipment, and staff behind and before the camera. Both movies were filmed entirely in the Congo DR.

"Heart of Africa 2" basically retells the story of "Heart of Africa" from the POV of Elder Jason Martin, a service missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, called to help build an orphanage in the Congo DR with his native companion Gabriel Ngandu. 

This is not a Church PR film, by any means. We see the two companions struggling with demons from their past and coming to grips with cultural and racial misunderstandings and intolerance that at several junctures lead to very unChristian macho behavior. Emotions and dialogue get pretty raw in places. At one point Elder Martin calls Elder Ngandu a 'jungle monkey.' This is both extremely shocking -- and extremely real.

As a Church missionary myself, serving in Thailand for two years, I had companions that ranged from true saints to slackers who were only there because their parents promised them a new car if they would carry on the family tradition by serving a mission. I was physically threatened by my companion on several occasions -- fortunately, instead of resorting to macho responses I tended to joke my way out of those situations like Woody Allen or Bob Hope. Putting two young men together in a strange place, with a ton of rules and restraints added into the bargain, is not your average formula for immediate camaraderie. Perhaps one of the real miracles of the Church's massive missionary program is that almost all companionships lead to lasting friendships instead of assault charges. 

But even though "Heart of Africa 2" is not propaganda, it does take on the controversial and complex issue of the role of Jesus Christ in an individual's life. The film dares to sidestep other issues like racism, colonialism, and sex, for a good fifteen minutes to focus on how the Savior's sacrifice and atonement influenced and changed both Martin and Ngandu. This Christ-centered dialogue is breath-taking because, among other reasons, it's not pandering to the normal popcorn-chomping movie crowd's cravings.

It's a bold, and, to my way of thinking, admirable, movie maker who is willing to challenge audiences with the age-old question "What think ye of Christ?" 

Movie goers will be well rewarded for taking the trouble to view "Heart of Africa 2" during it's limited run. Bruce Young assures me the film will eventually be available to stream, but the film really benefits from the generous screen of a Megaplex; there are many exceptionally beautiful and haunting shots in the film that will stay with the viewer for a long time. 

 

Intercession for the children of men.

 

Only One can intercede

for us -- Father, his words heed!

Christ will plead for all who try

to follow him and don't ask why.

And those who never heard his law

will also feel his care with awe.

And even those who scorn his plea

will be forced to bend their knee.

Photo Essay: Postcard Triptych Mailed to Journalist Jennifer Graham of the Deseret News.

 

He giveth grace unto the lowly.

 

Grace cannot be bought or sold;

it has no truck with rank or gold.

God showers it on lowly folk

who in this world may seem a joke;

but those who laugh and scorn will find

when they need grace it is declined.

In Memoriam: Irvin Holst Torkildson

 

The years have softened nothing;

where I walk is rawness still.

Where I walk without my Irvin,

who lies in the sod so still.

Forgive me, God, my bitterness

at death so young and swift;

so final and unyielding

that it set my heart adrift.

I lost too much to ever heal

completely here in dust.

I want to see my little boy,

and so to Thee entrust 

my prayers that Resurrection

will allow me to erase

the present misery I feel,

denied his cherub face.

 

Photo Essay: Unmailed Postcards to My President.

 Due to recent severe illness, I'm reworking my budget for the merry month of March; postage has no place in my emaciated accounts for the next several weeks. But I still create, document, and will eventually mail these postcards to President Joe Biden -- soon as my stimulus check arrives . . .