The Man with the Twisted Brain. Tuesday. August 29. 2023.

 

 

The man with the twisted brain. Tuesday. Aug 29. 2023.

In "The Man With the Twisted Lip," Sherlock Holmes is enlisted to help find the missing Neville St. Clair. The investigation leads Holmes to an opium den in a seedy part of London, where he encounters a disfigured beggar, Hugh Boone. Intriguingly, Boone is discovered to have possessions belonging to the missing man. As the story unfolds, it's revealed that St. Clair had assumed the identity of Boone as a lucrative ruse. Originally, St. Clair had dressed as Boone to track a man who owed him money. Still, when he realized how profitable begging in London could be, especially with Boone's convincing appearance, he continued the charade. Over time, St. Clair found that he was earning more as the beggar Boone than in his respectable profession. The transformation became his secret double life, enjoying the earnings of his deceit until his disappearance and the subsequent investigation by Holmes unveiled his secret.

So far, the great detective has not unmasked me on the streets of Provo; I continue to display my haiku in front of the Kolache bakery while sitting in a wheelchair, with a large tin can prominently displayed in front of me.


Amy and I started the day together at the Provo City Center Temple for the 6 a.m. endowment session. Meaning we got up at 4:15 a.m.
Amy's suggestion that I use the wheelchair finally percolated down into the conscious portion of what passes for my brain. Roomy, higher than the temple seats, I discovered there are privileges when you're in a wheelchair. Head of the line, and so on. In addition, I did not take any of my pills before the endowment session and wore an adult diaper. Meaning, my fine feathered friends, that I finally enjoyed the session as much as I used to before all the ills and embarrassments of old age set in ten years ago. So, I scheduled us to be at the 6 a.m. sessions Wednesday through Friday this week. I never feel like a failure or an outsider at the temple. It's better than any therapy for me.
Of course, this cut into my time at the Kolache place. I got there at 8:27 a.m.
Plus, I have discarded the artist's sketch pad in favor of a whiteboard to display my haku.
I was given my first and only kolache of the day at 9 a.m.
And my one and only contribution of the day came at 10:34 a.m. when a lady put one dollar in my can.
Otherwise . . . bupkis.
People ignored the whiteboard as much as they did my artist's sketchpad. Maybe even more. I only observed two persons who read my haiku and reacted. The first was a young lady who gushed: "Oh, how lovely!"
The second person was an ill-dressed honyocker, who came out of the pawnshop next to the bakery, gaped at my poem, and then guffawed like Pinto Colvig (who did the voice of Walt Disney's Goofy, as well as Bozo the clown.) As he walked away, he mumbled something unintelligible. I just gave him a nod and wished him in Hades.
Things got so boring for me that a little after 11 a.m. I erased my haiku and wrote, in all capitals, DO NOT READ THIS SIGN!
But nobody reacted.
In a final act of frustration, I resorted to doggerel:

Roses are red
Violets are green
Can you believe
I was once lean.
This gem didn't get any reactions from passersby, so I closed shop at 11:47 a.m. to go to Fresh Market to buy some bacon jam and a box of Entemann's chocolate donuts. Once home, I asked Amy to make me a prune and yogurt smoothie. Now I've written up my notes, it's time to siesta.


 

**Why I Choose Laughter Over Lament on Sundays: Finding Joy in Old Movie Comedies*

 

 

Each Sunday, as many engage in solemn reflection or religious worship, I find myself drawn to the likes of Bob Hope and Bing Crosby in "Road to Rio" or the satirical journey in "Sullivan's Travels." Why, you might ask? Because on the Sabbath, a day of rest and spiritual reprieve, I laugh about life rather than lament my sins. This choice is not made lightly but rather with the belief that laughter and joy can serve as forms of worship, leading one closer to a sense of spiritual wholeness.

It's not as though history's thinkers haven't touched upon the value of humor. Theologian Reinhold Niebuhr once remarked, "Humor is a prelude to faith, and laughter is the beginning of prayer." To chuckle at a well-timed comedic line or revel in the comedic misadventures of Sullivan isn't just about entertainment but an acknowledgment of the shared human experience of joy and folly.

Furthermore, famed philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche posited, "We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh." What Nietzsche suggests here is profound. A life devoid of joy, a day without laughter, seems incomplete, even in our pursuit of truth or understanding.

On Sundays, many turn to religious texts and traditions to find meaning. When Jesus spoke in the New Testament, he often did so with parables – stories meant to instruct and guide. While his tales were not comedic sketches, they often contained elements of the unexpected. They were rooted in the lived experiences of the people. Similarly, while certainly not parables, old movie comedies touch upon universal themes and human truths that resonate across time.

The great Christian author, C.S. Lewis, wrote in "The Weight of Glory," "Joy is the serious business of Heaven." If the divine realms prioritize joy, then surely there's no harm in us mortals seeking it out, particularly on a day dedicated to rest, reflection, and worship. To experience joy and laughter is to partake in a slice of the divine, to be momentarily lifted above the mundane concerns of the world and reminded of a greater connection.

Moreover, the Dalai Lama, a beacon of wisdom for Buddhists and non-Buddhists alike, has often spoken of the importance of happiness and compassion in our lives. "The purpose of our lives is to be happy," he has been quoted as saying. Suppose old movie comedies provide that happiness, even momentarily. In that case, it becomes a sacred act that fulfills a broader spiritual purpose.

In conclusion, while introspection, prayer, and seeking forgiveness for our transgressions are undeniably valuable spiritual exercises, embracing the moments that make us laugh and feel joy is equally essential. Watching old movie comedies like "Road to Rio" and "Sullivan's Travels" on Sundays serves this purpose. It's my way of celebrating life's absurdities, choosing joy over sorrow, and connecting with a profound truth that transcends time – that laughter, in its purest form, is a gift from the divine.

Who was Corrie Ten Boom?

 

**Corrie ten Boom: A Life of Resilience, Faith, and Love**

**Early Life**
Corrie ten Boom was born in Haarlem, Netherlands, on April 15, 1892. She was raised in a devoutly Christian family, and her faith played an integral part throughout her life. The ten Booms lived above their watch shop, which they owned and operated, creating a close-knit family environment where love, sacrifice, and service to others were deeply instilled.

**World War II and the Hiding Place**
As Nazism spread across Europe, the Ten Boom family became deeply concerned about the persecution of Jewish people. This concern translated into action when they turned their home into a refuge for Jews and resistance fighters, risking their own lives. The family created a secret room, later called "The Hiding Place," behind a false wall in Corrie's bedroom. They managed to save nearly 800 Jewish lives.

In 1944, the family's covert operations were discovered, leading to their arrest. Corrie and her sister Betsie were sent to the Ravensbrück concentration camp. Betsie, unfortunately, did not survive the ordeal, but before she passed away, she left Corrie with a powerful message: "There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still."

**Post-War Years and Ministry**
After her release due to a clerical error (just days before all women her age were executed), Corrie returned to the Netherlands and began sharing her experiences. Driven by her faith and Betsie's message, she wrote the bestselling memoir "The Hiding Place," which recounts their story of courage, faith, and survival amidst the horrors of the Holocaust. The book was later turned into a movie and stage play.

Corrie's post-war mission expanded globally, and she traveled extensively, sharing her message of God's love, forgiveness, and reconciliation. She founded rehabilitation centers for Holocaust survivors and even former Nazis, emphasizing the power of forgiveness.

**Philosophy**
Corrie ten Boom's life philosophy was deeply rooted in her Christian faith. Some central tenets include:

1. **Forgiveness:** Corrie believed in the power of forgiveness, even in the face of extreme cruelty. She famously said, "Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart."
2. **Love and Service:** The Ten Boom family's actions during WWII exemplified Jesus' teaching, "Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends."
3. **Faith in Adversity:** Corrie and her family believed that God was with them even in the darkest moments. Their faith did not waver, even when facing seemingly insurmountable challenges.

**Legacy**
Corrie ten Boom passed away on April 15, 1983, on her 91st birthday. Her legacy is one of resilience, faith, and unconditional love. Today, she is remembered not just as a Holocaust survivor but as an ambassador of hope, a testament to the strength of the human spirit, and an advocate for the power of faith and forgiveness.

Who was Mahatma Gandhi?

**Profile: Mahatma Gandhi**

**Name:** Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi  
**Born:** October 2, 1869  
**Died:** January 30, 1948  
**Nationality:** Indian  

**Early Life:**  
Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, universally known as Mahatma Gandhi ('Mahatma' meaning 'Great Soul'), was born in Porbandar, a coastal town in present-day Gujarat, India. As the son of the diwan (chief minister) of Porbandar, Gandhi hailed from a well-off family. He was married to Kasturba Gandhi at 13, as was the tradition in India at the time.

**Education and Early Experiences Abroad:**  
In 1888, Gandhi traveled to London to study law. He pledged to his mother that he would abstain from meat, alcohol, and women. He kept this pledge throughout his stay and was introduced to various religious philosophies, particularly the Bhagavad Gita, which would later influence his life and work.

After completing his law degree, he moved to South Africa in 1893. Here, he first encountered racial prejudice and began his work in civil rights. The discrimination against the Indian community in South Africa prompted him to develop the concept of "Satyagraha" (truth-force), a nonviolent resistance to tyranny.

**Return to India:**  
Gandhi returned to India in 1915. With his experience from South Africa, he became a leader in the Indian National Congress, advocating for India's independence from British rule using nonviolent civil disobedience.

**Philosophy:**  
1. **Non-Violence (Ahimsa):** Gandhi believed in the power of non-violence. For him, Ahimsa wasn't just a tool for political change but a way of life.
 
2. **Satyagraha:** A philosophy that promotes nonviolent resistance as a means of protest, Gandhi believed in standing firmly in truth and righteousness.

3. **Simplicity:** Gandhi led a Spartan life. He believed in the simplicity of living and the richness of being.

4. **Self-reliance (Swaraj):** Gandhi's concept of Swaraj, or self-rule, extended beyond political autonomy. He envisioned a decentralized India where villages would be self-reliant.

5. **Interfaith Harmony:** Gandhi, a devout Hindu, believed in respecting all religions. He often quoted from various religious texts and upheld the ideal of religious harmony.

**Major Achievements:**  
1. **Salt March:** In 1930, Gandhi led a 240-mile march to the Arabian Sea to produce salt, defying the British salt monopoly and tax.

2. **Fast Unto Death:** Gandhi used fasting as a means of protest. His most notable fasts protested communal violence and discrimination against the untouchables (Dalits).

3. **Role in Indian Independence:** Gandhi played a pivotal role in India's quest for independence through decades of struggle and nonviolent protests. The nation was finally granted independence on August 15, 1947.

**Death:**  
Gandhi was assassinated on January 30, 1948, in New Delhi by a Hindu extremist. As he was shot, his last words were said to be "Hey Ram" (Oh God).

**Legacy:**  
Mahatma Gandhi's philosophy and methods of nonviolent resistance inspired numerous civil rights movements and leaders worldwide, including Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in the USA and Nelson Mandela in South Africa. In India, he's commemorated as the "Father of the Nation," his birthday, October 2, is celebrated as the International Day of Non-Violence.

Who was Albert Schweitzer?

 

**Dr. Albert Schweitzer (1875-1965)**

**Early Life and Education**
Born on January 14, 1875, in Kaysersberg in the province of Alsace-Lorraine (then part of the German Empire), Albert Schweitzer grew up in an environment where music and religion played central roles. His family had a long line of pastors, and Schweitzer would later follow in these footsteps. He demonstrated prodigious talent in music, especially on the organ.

**Academic and Musical Pursuits**
Schweitzer was not only a theologian but also a musicologist and an accomplished musician. He studied theology and philosophy at the universities of Strasbourg, Paris, and Berlin. In addition to his theological work, he wrote extensively on music, particularly about the works of Johann Sebastian Bach. His book, "J.S. Bach," is a cornerstone of Bach scholarship. As an organist, Schweitzer performed across Europe, emphasizing the importance of historical accuracy in playing Baroque music.

**Medical Pursuits and Work in Africa**
In his 30s, Schweitzer was moved by accounts of the health crises in Africa. He decided that, despite his significant accomplishments in music and theology, he was called to serve humanity in a more direct manner. At 30, he began studying medicine to establish a hospital in Africa. In 1913, he and his wife, Helene, founded a hospital in Lambaréné, Gabon. Despite numerous challenges, including the two World Wars and bouts of illness, Schweitzer maintained his commitment to the hospital, which still operates today.

**Philosophy: Reverence for Life**
Beyond his tangible achievements, Schweitzer is perhaps best known for his philosophy of "Reverence for Life" ("Ehrfurcht vor dem Leben"). This ethical framework posits that all life is valuable and deserving of respect. It formed the bedrock of Schweitzer's philosophy and guided his work in Africa. He believed that by showing deep respect and care for even the simplest forms of life, we recognize a universal will-to-live, fostering a more compassionate and just world.

Schweitzer's philosophy influenced ethical considerations concerning human life and contributed to discourses on animal rights and environmental conservation.

**Honors and Later Life**
Schweitzer received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1952 for his humanitarian efforts and contributions to philosophy. He continued his medical work in Gabon until his passing in 1965. Throughout his life, Schweitzer emphasized the importance of service and personal sacrifice for the greater good. His life, an amalgamation of various pursuits, was a testament to his profound commitment to alleviating suffering in the world.

**Legacy**
Dr. Albert Schweitzer's legacy is multifaceted. As a theologian, musician, philosopher, and physician, he showcased the potential of dedicating one's life to intellectual pursuits and tangible service to humanity. His hospital in Gabon remains a symbol of his enduring commitment to those in need. His "Reverence for Life" philosophy continues to inspire individuals across various disciplines, urging us to recognize the inherent value in all life forms.

Forty Four Dollars and Found.

 

 

 

 

Forty-four dollars and found.

August 26. 2023.

I arrived at the kolache place at 7:05 a.m. The weather was cool and clear. The wasps have a nest in the Hruska’s sign above the door, and the sullen creatures were already busy hovering in front of and menacing passersby.

My garment bottoms extend past the end of all my summer shorts, so Amy is only happy when I wear long pants in public. Which is okay except when it gets above 90 degrees – which happened today. That makes me a little impatient for fall weather. Still, with global warming, greenhouse gas, and Trump running off his mouth ad nauseum, I believe the Wasatch Valley will likely not see comfortable fall temperatures until Halloween.

Trick or Treat!

Today’s haul is $44.00 in my #10 can and nine kolaches.

My haiku today:

Glance at a cloud once,

Then turn away for a bit –

Look back, and it’s gone.

Seven people stopped to tell me they liked my haiku. That pleased me enormously. I enjoy analog praise more than likes and emojis on digital social media.

Several people bought me bottles of Glaceau SmartWater. I never drink ‘em. They go to Amy. Since she says I already got a smart mouth . . .  (Henny Youngman, get outta town!)

No street construction work today. I guess those guys have a five-day workweek. So, I was spared an incipient migraine.

On one of my bathroom breaks, I left my can in front of the wheelchair and propped my haiku up against the backrest. Someone put a five-dollar bill in my can while I was gone. That was a happy surprise, and it triggered a flashback to my childhood – when Dad would drive the whole family down Larpenteur Avenue in Saint Paul in late October to search for suitable jack-o-lantern pumpkins. Back then, Larpenteur was studded with corn fields and truck farms. We always went on a Sunday, so no one manned the vegetable stands. They were all at church (or, more likely, inside, glued to their TVs watching football.) Each stand had a coffee can on a table, with a scrawled sign giving the prices of corn, squash, tomatoes, and pumpkins. The farmers trusted Sunday shoppers to drop in the right amount. That’s a warm memory I like to mull over when today’s world gets too chilly and distant.

There were no crazy people today during my shift in front of the Kolache place. No extended conversations with anyone, as a matter of fact. People came and went, dropping money in my can and bringing me kolaches with little to say.

Except for that age-old question that is beginning to bug the Skittles out of me – “Are you homeless?”

I must have gotten that question a half dozen times today. The next time somebody asks me that, I’m going to answer “Yes” and see what happens . . .

 

A visit with Rylee. Friday. August 25. 2023.

 

 

A visit with Rylee. Friday. Aug 25. 2023.

"Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, The proper study of mankind is Man." (Alexander Pope.)

I arrived in front of Hruska's Kolaches this morning at 6:49 a.m. with what I thought was a fine haiku:

"Mount Timpanogos –

Thrust up, in legend, to guard

Against the freeways."

 I was ready to study Man in all their shapes and moods.

I was given my first kolache, egg & bacon, at 7:38 a.m.

Then came an unsettling lull in reactions to my sign. No more kolaches. No dollar bills, or even coins. Lots of foot traffic, but very little notice of me.

Until a white-haired middle-aged woman read my haiku several times before demanding: "What is that? Is it anti-Mormon?"

"Certainly not!" I replied. "What makes you say such a thing?"

She did not deign to answer but huffed off.

Initially, I told myself she must be a priggish cretin, an unpleasant anomaly. But then I cooled down and thought, 'If that lady thinks it's anti-Mormon, then others are likely to think that way, too; that may explain the lull this morning.'

So I got off my high horse and hastily scribbled another haiku:

The morning shadows

Melt away in the warm sun –

Yet August weakens.

Within 5 minutes of displaying the new haiku, I got another kolache, and a dollar bill in my canister. Is there any correlation, any causation, here? If there is, I can't see it. One thing that might have made the first haiku this morning less attractive to passersby and bakery customers is that the first line – "Mount Timpanogos" – is a long and slightly difficult phrase to take in all at once. My panhandling experience teaches me that more people will read your first line if it's Dr. Seuss-simple, like "The cat in the Hat", and react more positively than if you start with something portentous, like "Mount Timpanogos." Go figure.

That first dollar bill had stamped on its back, 'FEDERAL ENDORSEMENT OF A DEITY OR RELIGION VIOLATES THE CONSTITUTION.'

But, hey, a buck's a buck. You can pencil in horns on George Washington – but I'm still gonna spend that dollar bill.

So today, I got a total of 8 kolaches. And twelve dollars.

I forgot to shave this morning. Amy and I went to the Provo Rec Center at 5:15 for a swim and a run on the treadmill. When we got home, I felt in a rush, so neglected to mow the chin spinach. I always feel scabby when I don't shave. As I write this, I run my fingers over the stubble, trying to decide whether to shave now or wait until tomorrow morning. Or grow a bushy beard that makes Amy leave me in a few weeks.

Most bakery customers don't make eye contact with me and don't stop to read my haiku, which takes, what, less than 30 seconds to scan? But I do not bear any malice towards these Philistines. None at all. Mainly because the sidewalk slab right in front of where I park my chair is tilted ever so slightly. Just enough so that people who are determined to be oblivious to my presence, usually by staring at their smartphone, often trip over the raised lip of the slab – stumbling away in hilarious disarray. Serves 'em right . . .

Another delicious diversion for me occurs when parents sit at one of the bakery picnic tables while their children monkey with the big overhead umbrella. The umbrellas each have a crank to open them and fold them shut. No child can resist a crank – they are hardwired to start turning it the moment they lay eyes on it. This results in the umbrella canvas collapsing on the whole family and threatening to smother them. It's a scenario that never grows stale to me.

About halfway through my shift, a young lady named Rylee bought me two kolaches, one savory and one sweet, and then sat down on the sidewalk next to me to chat. We had a pleasant ten-minute visit. She's a dental hygienist from St. George who only works four days a week. SHE WAS STUMPED when I asked her what she did with her 3-day weekends.

"Clean the apartment?" she replied doubtfully.

She clearly felt a more dynamic response was needed, so she added:

"Maybe go on a date or something?"

I decided not to press Rylee. If she wants to spend three days a week on the couch, sucking on a can of Cheez Whiz, while watching Hulu, that's none of my affair.

At 11:54 a.m., I was offered kolache #9 by a kindly-looking gent in a black t-shirt and shorts with the Nike logo on them both. I politely turned him down, explaining that people had been so generous that I didn't need any more. (Amy is making fettuccine with hamburger/tomato sauce for lunch today.)

And so I closed up business for the day on the stroke of noon. I put all eight of my kolaches out in the community kitchen here at Valley Villa for others to enjoy. Five minutes later, a lady from down the hall brings us the platter they were on and thanks us for the meal. Did she take all 8? I suspect she did. I'd like to knock on her door and ask. But as my Uncle Felbish used to say while stuffing dynamite down the garbage disposal: "Never trouble trouble unless trouble troubles you."

 

Poet Panhandler or Panhandler Poet?

 

 

Three weeks ago, I stationed myself by the Center Street entrance to Fresh Market's parking lot with my "Poet for Hire" sign. Heavy traffic meant a lot of people would see it.
But my hopes that people would stop to inquire about commissioning me didn't pan out. I just got a sunburn, that's all.
So I moved down Center Street to settle under a tree by Hruska's Kolache Bakery. The response was better; I got a few commissions for poems. The foot traffic is good between 6:30 a.m. and Noon.
But as I've shared earlier, ChatGPT can now write rhyming verses just as well as me – so there's no more fun doing it. Not for me. Besides, the Venmo account isn't working anymore.
I floundered around with writing out some long topical verses to display at the kolache place – but people either hurried mindlessly by or stopped to argue with me. All I wanted was some simple appreciation, not a debate.
So, last week, I switched to simple haiku verses. And that did the trick. No more arguments. It only takes 15 seconds to read one, so more people stop to read. And the more obscure I make my haiku, the more often people seem to appreciate it.
In addition, I placed an empty food storage can in front of my wheelchair (yes, I use a wheelchair – mainly because it's more comfortable than a folding chair and easier to transport) and was pleasantly surprised that even people who don't bother to read my haiku still put money in the can. They think I'm a homeless derelict, I guess. What I have come to think of myself as genuinely being is a poet panhandler or a panhandler poet. And please be forewarned that I will include all snarky email responses I receive from the four people I am sharing this with in future posts. So watch your mouse.

What follows is a daily account of how this stunt works out. Let's start with today – Thursday, August 24th. 2023.

I arrived in front of Hruska's Kolaches at 7:03 a.m. this morning. The weather was cool and cloudy.
Hruska's is sandwiched between two pawn shops. It's a tiny place. Not more than five people can get inside to order at one time. Luckily, they have six picnic tables on an asphalt lot adjacent to the bakery.

Today's haiku:
Ants on the sidewalk.
Just how many have I squished?
A jury awaits.

I also drew a cardboard sign: "DO NOT FEED THE POET."
That one was used only twice today. For brief intervals. Both times, it got a gaping, startled facial response. Nothing verbal. I'll play with it some more tomorrow.

My first donation of $2.00 came at 7:09 a.m.

At 7:26 a.m., a woman gives me a sausage & gravy kolache.

At 7:330 a.m., another lady gives me a twenty dollar bill, first asking anxiously: "Are you taking money?" To which I reply vigorously: "I sure am!"

It's interesting to see what people do with their brown paper bags after they've extracted their kolache. Some fold it up and keep it. Some crumple it into a ball to toss in the trash can. Nobody ever inflates it to pop. That's what I did with every single paper bag I ever got my hands on as a kid. From personal research, I'm happy to report that the Kolache place uses a good quality paper bag made by Duro Bags that can be inflated, shut, and smashed together for an altogether satisfying loud report.

The city is tearing up the street and sidewalks by the kolache place to make way for more parking space. It's a hellacious amount of noise on occasion. Construction lasts for two more weeks. After five hours or so of such din, I get the megrims. But all artists must suffer . . .


At 8:29 a.m., a man in a dark business suit puts a dollar in the can.

A young man, grinning like a gecko, comes up to ask: "How many have you squished?"
I tell him: "Over a lifetime, maybe a million."
He offers to fist-bump me. I oblige.

At 7:42 a.m., I take my first bathroom break. I'm on diuretic medication, so I need to pee a lot. It's a two-block walk over to Fresh Market. I barely made it without having an accident. Their men's room is ill, and the toilet stall is filled with monotonous graffiti of the '***k Biden' variety. And their toilet paper is thinner than graphene membrane.
                                                                                                                                           
I take another bathroom break at 9:01 a.m.
I'll try the Provo City Hall men's room in the lobby tomorrow. It's about a half block less of a walk.

At 9:30 a.m., a young girl gives me $5.00.

At 10:16 a.m., a young woman puts a dollar in my can and says, "Have a nice day." I don't think she bothered to read my haiku.

A man named Jacob stops by to share with me a poem he has written, entitled 'Yourself more than grasses and wood."  It's something about crickets and asphalt streets. I pretend to listen with great interest, hoping he'll feed the kitty—no such luck. I wish him good luck with his poetry, and he mercifully leaves without wanting to discuss the craft of poetry with me.

At 11:47 a.m., I'm ready to call it a day. But there are six white-shirted guys with neckties at one of the picnic tables – are they any good for a donation, I ask myself. They have all read my haiku and smiled at it. So, I gave them ten more minutes before taking off. They leave at 11:54 a.m.  No donations. The momsers. 

Where are the Philadelphia Office Workers? (Dedicated to Katie Mogg.)

 

 

In the heart of Philadelphia, tales are spun,
Of office workers, who've found a new kind of fun.
No longer confined to tall buildings of glass,
They’ve discovered a secret, and let the old ways pass.

“Why return?” they ask, sipping tea from a mug,
Wrapped in blankets, all snug as a bug.
For their pets now assist in the daily grind,
Dogs on keyboards, and cats who remind.

Once they’d rush through the streets, to catch a train,
Now they laugh at the thought, it’s clearly insane!
Why wear shoes, when socks will do?
Or trousers, when pajamas have the better view?

By the Liberty Bell, they’ve claimed a new right,
To work from the couch, both day and night.
The whispers speak of a magical chair,
That massages and warms, beyond compare.

Some say it’s the cheese steaks, so close at hand,
Others believe it's the allure of home-bands.
A guitar break here, a drum solo there,
Who could compete with such domestic flair?

Is it the sunlit corners, or gardens that bloom?
Or simply the solace of their own room?
Whatever the reason, in Philly they stay,
Home is where work is, come what may.

But if you ever find the answer, clear and true,
Please let us know, for we're curious too!
Till then, let them be, in their homebound glee,
For a happier worker, there may never be.

The Monarch Butterfly. (Dedicated to Kori Rumore Finley.)

 

 

In the realm of dancing sunlight beams,  
Where the meadow meets the sky,  
The monarch, in its golden dreams,  
Flits and floats and flutters by.

With wings kissed by tangerine hues,  
Veined in rivers of obsidian thread,  
Its majesty none could refuse,  
A floating tapestry widespread.

In migration’s mighty quest,  
Thousands journey to the sun,  
From the north, south, east, and west,  
A symphony, perfectly spun.

Its metamorphosis, a tale so old,  
From humble caterpillar, green and stout,  
In chrysalis, secrets begin to unfold,  
Till a monarch, in glory, comes out.

In gardens, where children play and laugh,  
Their delicate wings ignite youthful awe,  
Tracing paths on nature's behalf,  
An embodiment of nature's law.

The whisper of its fleeting flight,  
Echoes life's transient song,  
Yet in its short span shines so bright,  
Teaching us to be strong.

Hail to thee, Monarch of the day,  
Symbol of endurance, grace, and might,  
In your beauty, you lead the way,  
Guiding us from dawn to twilight.