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:

 

I will be selling tin foil hats at the Provo Farmer's Market Today Starting At 9 A.M. July 1. 2023.

 

I will be selling tin foil hats at the Provo Farmer's Market today, starting at 9:00 A.M.

To prevent mind control.

A dollar each.  While supplies last.

Supreme Court Follies. (Dedicated to Jason DeRusha.)

 

when the high court of the land

gets to feeling mighty grand

they tell Biden go and jump

into lake or ishy dump.

so when our dear President

wants to erase student debt,

 he is flattened, willy nilly,

as the high court rules him silly.

students shackled with great loans

must continue with their groans.

all because some black-robed dudes

are in one of their grinch moods.

The Legend of Dickendoof. A Fantasy Novel. Chapter Four. by Tim Torkildson.

 

                                          Arthur Pennyroyal

Chapter Four.  Cold Beans.

Now that the blue goblins are taken care of, we turn back to the war on the wizards.

Heavily persecuted, they curiously neglected to use their magic to defend themselves. Instead they hired a hack named Turdleson to write soliloquies for them to perform on market days in all the villages of Dickendoof. Here is a sample, culled from a pair of ancient vellum long johns:

(Enter Woodruff, stage left, a bedraggled wizard of immeasurable years, stirring an oversized cauldron.)

Ah, good folk, you’ve stumbled upon me in my sanctum of culinary concoctions, my haven of heated repasts, my - ahem - kitchen. I, Woodruff the Wizard, do hereby bear witness to the joy and frustrations of magical cookery. You see, the creation of a delectable meal is an art akin to the casting of spells. After all, they say the quickest way to someone’s heart is through their stomach, and who am I to challenge this age-old wisdom?

It's wonderfully easy, you see. With a pinch of Fire Salamander's spice, the stove alights without the cumbersome task of lighting a match. The enchantment of my cauldron gives it the dexterity of a Parisian sous-chef, chopping, stirring, tasting—though I do worry it might develop a superiority complex.

A sprinkling of pixie sugar, and any dish sweetens just to the taster's liking. Yet, never, and I mean never, add any troll's vinegar, unless you fancy your stew stomping around, grumbling and demanding a toll.

But the charm, the pièce de résistance, lies in the mustard seeds of Howzaland. More elusive than a moonbeam's whisper, rarer than a dragon's hiccups. They possess a flavor so distinct, so profound, it would make a basilisk weep.

Gaining those precious seeds requires a trip through the floating meadows of Uplandia, down the rapids of Runamuck River, and past the ever-irritable moss grump of Grendle's Glen. Many a young wizard has embarked upon the quest, only to return with frayed nerves, singed robes, and worst of all, the wrong type of seeds. Damnable Dijon! The horror!

(He clasps his chest dramatically, seemingly reliving a traumatic memory.)

Indeed, the journey is perilous, as dangerous as a harpy's hair salon or a gorgon's optometry appointment. But, oh, the reward! That singular pop of flavour, the way it melds with the dragon egg yolk, or dances with the unicorn cream, is worth every ghoul-infested swamp I’ve had to cross.

And yet, despite my culinary escapades, what do folks envision when they think of wizards? Hunched figures of nefarious intentions, brewing malevolent spells in obsidian towers, cackling to the moon's shadow. Sigh...

All I've ever cackled at is a particularly cheeky manticore who had the nerve to suggest he could out-cook me. The gall! And my most devious plot? Sneaking an extra helping of celestial scones before the cauldron notices.

Sure, I've had my share of explosions, of soufflés taking flight, and pies developing a taste for human, but hey, every artist has their off days. But, does society see the delicate symphony of flavors I orchestrate? The cosmic ballet of textures I choreograph? No, they see only the misfired spells and the slightly singed eyebrows. How deeply unfair!

The truth, my dear audience, is far less exciting than the tales spun. I, like many of my wand-wielding compatriots, merely wish to be left alone with our spice jars and spatulas. We are simple souls, treading the delicate balance of gastronomic grandeur, one enchanted pot and pan at a time.

I suppose there's nothing for it but to embrace the role. Woodruff, the culinary conjurer, the

 gastronomic mage, the wizard of the...oh, blast it, my doughnuts are levitating again!

(Exit Woodruff, stage right, chasing a rogue doughnut.)

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

At this point in our narrative we’ve decided the reader should have some more detailed historical background. After all, there’s not much use in getting you all het up about battles and enchantments without a firm grounding in the nuts and bolts of everyday life during this ancient epoch. So we wrote the following to help keep things in perspective. And if you think it dull and pedantic, we can only say – “Gey veyk deyn kop!”

Title: The Unique History of Vellum Long Johns: Stage Plays and Liver Pill Advertisements

Vellum Long Johns, with their distinctive history, have had a pivotal role in some intriguingly specific facets of our cultural past. This essay explores the evolution of these unique garments, with an emphasis on their use in recording stage plays and liver pill advertisements.

Originating in the Middle Ages, vellum, a fine parchment made from calfskin, was often used for recording important documents due to its durability. At some point, an enterprising individual had the innovative idea of using this material to create a type of thermal underwear known as Long Johns. This oddity of history then gained a surprising secondary use as a medium for communication, particularly in advertising and stage plays.

The use of Vellum Long Johns in stage plays primarily came about as a result of their inherent properties. Vellum's hardy nature lent itself well to the rough and tumble world of the theater, where costumes underwent regular abuse from constant use. Actors found that they could endure the physical rigors of performing while wearing Vellum Long Johns. Simultaneously, the bright surface of the vellum provided an excellent backdrop for noting down lines, stage directions, and other necessary play-related information.

As these garments were frequently worn during rehearsals, they naturally became a convenient space for jotting down notes. Over time, these notes transformed from being mere scribbles into comprehensive recordings of the play, including dialogue, stage directions, and even elements of stage design. The use of these garments as a "walking script" allowed actors and stagehands to have immediate access to the play's essential details without needing additional materials.

But why did Vellum Long Johns also become associated with liver pill advertisements? The answer lies in the vibrant history of early advertising. With newspapers and magazines being the primary mediums for print advertising in the 19th and early 20th centuries, ad space was often costly. It led businesses to seek alternative, cheaper means of promoting their products. Enter the Vellum Long Johns.

Liver pills, popular health supplements of the time, were often marketed using innovative and unconventional methods due to limited advertising budgets. The use of Vellum Long Johns as a walking billboard was an ingenious solution. Liver pill manufacturers would pay actors to wear these garments adorned with their advertisements. This method ensured the constant presence of their product in the public eye and provided a unique way for the actors to supplement their often meager incomes.

The intriguing marriage between Vellum Long Johns, stage plays, and liver pill advertisements marked an interesting point in our cultural history. It demonstrated the adaptability of simple materials like vellum, used in ways far beyond their original intention. While the practice may seem outlandish by today's standards, it provides a valuable lens through which we can examine our past.

In conclusion, the use of Vellum Long Johns in recording stage plays and liver pill advertisements is a testament to human ingenuity and the lengths to which people would go to overcome challenges. The sturdy, adaptable vellum was repurposed from merely protecting its wearers against the cold to becoming an essential tool in the world of theater and a unique medium for advertising. The historical journey of Vellum Long Johns is a fascinating example of how creativity can push the limits of what is possible with simple materials, leading to unexpected but highly effective solutions.

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

Weren’t there any witches to worry about back then in Dickendoof?

There were!

In the time of King Donald Trunk, the peculiar realm of Dickendoof bristled with an ethereal charm, a charm meticulously woven by the seductive allure of witches. These enchantresses, shrouded in an aurora of mystery and panache, twirled their magic like the loom of destiny, entwining the court and the king in an intoxicating dance of sorcery and seduction.

King Donald Trunk, a robust, ruddy-faced monarch with a sparkle in his eye that mirrored the unabashed glint of the mischievous stars overhead, held a bizarre fascination for these elusive dames. They were his soft obsession, his dangerous liaisons in a kingdom of orthodoxy and order. His throne, while a symbol of brute power, was but a vantage point from which he could indulge in his thrilling dalliances with the witchy wenches, their allure impossible to resist.

These witches, draped in midnight black gowns adorned with silver moonstones and threaded enchantments, glittered like the cosmos themselves under the dappled palace light. Their hair, a wild cascade of raven waves, flowed freely, reflecting the rebellious spirit that they personified. Beneath their alabaster brows sparkled eyes as profound as the deepest ocean trenches, revealing a wisdom beyond the ages and a cunning that could mesmerize the staunchest hearts.

Each had an allure distinctly her own. Some carried a tune that could charm the birds from the trees; others painted with colors borrowed from sunsets and dreams. Some concocted potions that would cast an iron man into a delicate stupor; others whispered prophecies that could make a brave knight shudder. Yet, they all shared a characteristic magnetism, an otherworldly beauty that ensnared the senses and held them hostage.

As King Trunk reveled in this world of arcane arts, somewhere in the bowels of the sprawling castle, the Queen found solace in the royal pantry, an otherwise mundane chamber, which under her royal presence transformed into a haven of solitariness. Within these cold stone walls, she savored her isolation, a stark contrast to the labyrinth of royal obligations outside. Her solitary companions were jars of preserved summer fruits, sacks of grain, wheels of hard cheese, and a pot of cold beans.

A stately woman, with a regal poise that defied her humble surroundings, the queen embraced the rustic simplicity of her cold beans. She would sit for hours, the moonlight filtering through the narrow window to cast an ethereal glow on her velvet gown. A silver spoon would rhythmically clink against the porcelain bowl as she savored each morsel, the rich, earthy flavor a poignant reminder of the country's heartlands.

The king's dalliances and the queen's retreat were an open secret in the palace, a hushed tale that added another thread to the kingdom's vibrant tapestry. It was a spectacle of the king's passions and the queen's resignation, a balance of eccentricity and quiet resilience that shaped the character of the realm of Dickendoof.

And so it went, the curious dance of King Trunk and his witchy wenches, and the quiet defiance of a queen in her pantry. The kingdom of Dickendoof, under the spell of its unconventional rulers, thrived in this peculiar balance. For all its whimsicality, this was a realm that embraced its idiosyncrasies, a place where witches spun their enchantments under starry skies, a king reveled in the thrill of the forbidden, and a queen found solace in the comfort of her beans. In its unique way, Dickendoof was a testament to the beauty of embracing the unconventional, the magic that unfurls when one dares to wander off the beaten path.

Underlip the Scribe records a rollicking little ditty that made the round of taverns at the time, alluding to the King’s infatuation with hexens:

There once was a king of great might,

In robes of velvet and jewels so bright.

Yet, by his own decree, he was made a fool,

By a wily witch who thought him a tool.

Said the witch with a wink and a lopsided grin,

"Your Majesty, shall we let the games begin?"

With spells and potions, she started her trick,

Her laughter echoed, her voice thick.

She conjured an image of a damsel fair,

And the king, he was caught in her snare.

He danced and he pranced, his heart aflame,

Unaware it was all a deceptive game.

The witch laughed aloud as he swooned and crooned,

Serenading a maiden as full as the moon.

He praised her beauty, her eyes so blue,

Unaware it was the witch's brew.

Oh, how the court roared with laughter,

The echo ringing in the rafters.

The king, in his folly, continued his pursuit,

Blind to the witch and her cunning fruit.

So, remember this tale of royal jest,

When a king was made to look less than best.

A reminder to all, both near and far,

Not everything is as it appears, no matter who you are.