The day will come when all will feast
with our Lord, the Great High Priest.
A celebration is in store
for scapegoats, outcasts, and the poor.
The high and mighty, though, will sigh --
as they are served with humble pie.
Wednesday, March 10, 2021
Tuesday, March 9, 2021
Prose Poem: Which way to Sego?
If only North Dakota were closer,
I could walk to it.
Breathe in that scent of watchful waiting;
Hear the quiet hum of icicles fighting the sun.
If only I could get to North Dakota tonight --
I feel certain someone would have a piece of
cud for me to thoughtfully chew on
for the rest of my life.
And people would nod at me,
in a friendly manner,
and not talk very much.
But no -- I'm stuck way out here between
leering mountain ranges;
a victim of encroaching prosperity, surrounded by
cunning do-gooders who want to help me
improve myself.
They never stop talking.
They give me water with special
molecules in it.
Ancient inedible grains
that go down like gravel.
They don't even stop talking to eat.
When I look at them, all I see
is Doris Day.
When I look deeper, all I see
are plastic bags floating in the wind.
They tease me incessantly
to invest in cyber widgets;
they tell me my money will grow
exponentially.
I don't even know what
'exponentially' means.
They want to lave me in essential oils.
Take me into salt caves.
Cure my malaise with a perky smile
and a positive attitude.
They attack my cherished melancholy
like committed terrorists.
If I can't reach North Dakota,
maybe I can get to a western
ghost town.
Sit silently on a hill of mine tailings.
Immerse myself in the fumes
of underground coal fires.
Let my veins fill with alkali.
Which way to Sego, kind sir?
And don't come near me with that
skin moisturizer!
Today's Timericks.
Pastor Stewart-Allen Clark/has now really made his mark/telling maidens plain so shy/that they need to beautify/their dull faces so to rouse/men to want to be their spouse/With no money in his plate/told his pulpit to vacate/this poor preacher now resides/far from any blushing brides.
When you shake the money tree/who cares about trajectory?/As long as I am getting mine/I won't waste breath on some big whine/about the undeserving poor/who also this time 'round will score/a check from Uncle Sammy's purse/I love he's now a free wet nurse!
Reporters ought to know by now/police expect them to kowtow/to their demands to leave a place/or get some cayenne in the face/Though it's their job to cover news/some judges find that's no excuse/to witness what police may do/when protestors have come in view.
He shall make bare his arm in the eyes of the nations.
The mighty power of the Lord
by men today has been ignored.
But there will come a day when He
will bare his arm for all to see.
The nations then shall recognize
his right to reign and to chastise.
Monday, March 8, 2021
Photo Essay: Outdoor Sketches & Commentary.
I watched Kirk Douglas in "Lust for Life' on Netflix last night. So today I had to tote my sketch pad and drawing utensils into the great outdoors for some manic/depressive scribbling. Here are the results:
In a brown pot
even mostly dead herbs
look classical.
When the artist makes cedar
behind a fence look like
a bamboo grove --
it's time he took up
photography.
A windy day.
A red No-Parking curb,
crammed with dead leaves.
It all means only one thing --
torticollis.
Sunday, March 7, 2021
Prose Poem: Beijing Socks.
"I got these socks in Beijing
twenty years ago -- and they're
still as good as new" I told our
dinner guests.
They all dropped to the floor
to gaze under the table at
my socks.
Dark green, they are --
with fuzzy white specks.
"Woven from spruce thread"
I told them, once they had
reseated themselves.
The socks were a gift from
Jiang Zemin during a trade
conference in Beijing.
I was there as a junior
plenipotentiary.
We successfully renegotiated
cottonseed oil quotas.
Then went on to Malaysia
to arbitrate the annual copra appraisal.
That's where I learned that latex dentures
were just an urban myth.
The State Department was
very interested in my information,
I can tell you that.
But my professional detachment
began to crumble a few years ago --
and my resignation caused few ripples
in Foggy Bottom;
I slipped away as quietly as
smoke drifting through a picket fence.
Now, with Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos,
and Warren Buffet,
I'm investigating the possibilities
of duckweed.
It thrives in polluted water,
absorbing heavy metals.
It's been used as livestock fodder
for centuries.
Compressed into bricks, it
burns much cleaner and hotter
than coal.
And the thread-like roots
can be spun into a durable
green fabric.
Like that used in my socks
from Jiang Zemin.
Joe Biden wants in, big time.
He's ponied up several trillion dollars
for our startup.
And to top it off,
Oprah is interested in starting
her own Duckweed Culinary Institute
to discover nutritious applications of
duckweed in urban food deserts . . .
If only God were still alive
to see me now!
Today's Timericks.
My contact with cash is remote/the virus has left me afloat/drifting sans wages/with increasing stages/of not having one single groat.
***********************
Even though we are desirous
to be rid of this darn virus
it mutates so very quick
that it still makes us quite sick --
so we still deal with Osiris . . .
******************************
When I'm gone, remember me
as one without much gravity;
I took my chances, blew a wad,
made mistakes, and sought for God.
Do not ask "What was the point?"
'Twas bringing laughter to the joint!
Photo Essay: Postcard Triptych on the Demise of Mr. Potato Head.
Much thanks to Johnny Diaz, whose article in the New York Times skillfully limns the sad demise of the traditional Mr. Potato Head, and other unwanted childhood tropes. This triptych is dedicated to him, and mailed to him in 3 separate pieces.
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