Photo Essay: Koan Stones. "A stone can be cracked but not broken."

A stone can be cracked

but not broken.

Even when it is opened

it is still shut.

Put one stone on top of another.

Then another stone on top of that.

Then another one on top of that.

This is not wisdom;

it is piling up stones. 

A man picked up a stone.

He looked at it long enough

to know it could give him

everything.

Then he picked up another stone.

So he had nothing.

Light Verse Inspired from stories by Ben Casselman, Nelson D. Schwartz, Julie Cresswell, and Heather Long.

How Bad Is Unemployment? ‘Literally Off the Charts’
@bencasselman  @NelsonSchwartz  

Lost your job? Come join the club!

No use in settin' round to blub.

The Great Deepreshun's here again;

nobody's got the gelt or yen.

So pull your belt in one notch tighter

and do like me -- become a writer!

Staying at home has caused many people to

 change their makeup,

 hair-care and skin-care routines. 

Companies are feeling the effects.

@julie_creswell

Who needs lipstick when there ain't

anyone to see your paint?

Goodbye Revlon, Estee Lauder;

I'll just use a paper blotter

and allow my hair to spring

up like some ferocious thing.

Maybelline can kiss my spine;

I'll spend my coin on good French wine.

The coronavirus economy is exposing how easy 

it is to fall from the middle class into 

poverty

@byHeatherLong

Welcome to my world, you guys --

hope it's not a big surprise

that you can't afford new cars

and must lunch on candy bars.

I've been doing so for years;

still I'm deeply in arrears.

Poverty is not so bad

if you label it a fad.

Photo Essay: Postcards to my President. Vol 29

The Wondrous Story

"The Restoration belongs to the world, and its message is especially urgent today."

D. Todd Christofferson

There is no other message

efficacious yet benign

to heal the wounded planet

and reveal God's one design;

a boy in rustic garments

was commanded to restore

the true and living gospel

that would last forevermore.

We bear our testimony

that that boy was Joseph Smith.

God the Father and the Son

were not to him a myth.

He saw Them and he heard Them,

and the time is now at hand

to take this wondrous story

to each nation and each land!

Photo Essay: Koan Stones. "there is a purpose for everything, but not an explanation."

There is a purpose

for everything,

but not

an explanation.

What is time to a stone?

A sigh in a hurricane.

The wing of a fly.

Fading essence.

Kick a stone

in your bare feet

to find out how

insignificant they are.

Verses from stories by reporters Abha Bhattarai, Robyn Dixon, Patricia Cohen, and Tiffany Hsu.

Neiman Marcus files for Chapter 11 bankruptcy

@abhabhattarai

another great department store/has gone and dropped right through the floor/I never shopped there anyways/I didn't need to buy a chaise/or monocle or cloth of gold/so moth eaten is my billfold/But it was fun to dream awhile/that Neiman Marcus was my style.

Putin knows how to rule Russia as an autocrat. But he seems on the sidelines amid coronavirus crisis.

@RobynDixon__

Putin never acts too odd/

when around a firing squad/

He will bare his chest with ease/

but doesn't do well with disease/

He remains a bit too vague/

when it comes to treating plague/

The only virus he can grasp/

are the ones his hackers clasp.

For Workers, No Sign of ‘What Normal Is Going

 to Look Like’

@PatcohenNYT   @tiffkhsu

What good's a mask upon my face/

when there's no work around the place?/

I'd shine my shoes, but what's the use?/

I feel just like an old caboose/

No Zoom for me; computer screens/

are empty -- I eat pork & beans.

So don't tell me we're on the mend/

(but could a few bucks you please lend?)

My patched soul

"The Savior is the perfect engineer, builder, and interior designer. His project is the perfection and eternal joy of our souls."

L. Whitney Clayton

I've patched my soul, but still threadbare

it sags with too much wear and tear.

So gray and dull it seems to me;

a project of futility.

O Savior, snatch me from despair

and help my shabby soul repair!

Help me to follow thy guidelines

so my soul as a palace shines!

Photo Essay: Postcards from my Kids. " . . . mom never talks bad about you."

Daisy was a delightful little girl, what little I remember of her before being hurled out of her life for eighteen years. Her postcard here, I remember, just tickled me beyond pink -- and, I'm ashamed to admit it, I raged uncontrollably for several minutes in the privacy of my room about the idiotic unfairness of it all; cursing and weeping at the mortal tragedy of being separated from my own children. And yet today Daisy, without any input from me, has turned out to be a wonderful and beautiful young woman with a marvelous future ahead of her. She is one of those who early on grasped her own destiny and is riding it to glory.
I love how Madel refers to the denizens of North Dakota during the winter as 'meat popsicles.' No better description exists!
Well, time to go feed the old ladies -- today is shredded chicken in bbq sauce and ziti with cheese sauce. Plus grape jello with a can of fruit cocktail in it. Bon appetite?  

My latest poem in the New York Times.

Your comment has been approved! Thank you for sharing your thoughts with The New York Times community. tim torkildson | utah when working from home have a care/your boss can get right in your hair/so look live and sharp/then use a good tarp/to cover a nap in your chair. View your comment If you're having trouble viewing your comment, please copy and paste this link in your browser: https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/06/technology/employee-monitoring-work-from-home-virus.html#commentsContainer&permid=106896574:106896574 All of our comments are moderated for civility. Have feedback? Let us know. If you would like your comment to be considered for publication as a letter to the editor, please email a copy of your comment to letters@nytimes.com – along with your name, city/town and phone number (the latter for verification only).

Photo Essay: Postcards from my Kids. "Still planning on Mexico this summer?"

I'm noticing another theme as I photograph and comment on these cards from my kids -- the constant travel. None of them, including Amy, seems able to settle down anywhere for very long.
They move to North Dakota, then back to Utah, then to Idaho, then the older kids move out to Colorado, back to Utah, to Minnesota -- Virginia joins the Air Force; Adam goes on his mission; Daisy goes to Minnesota to work; Ed joins the Navy. While in North Dakota they live in Tioga, in Ray, in Crosby, in Williston, and in Minot.  
I have always felt guilty that it was my constant circus travel that pulled the family apart -- and in large part it was. But by the time I was out of the picture, the family's dynamic, with Amy at the head, was to never linger in any place too long. Like gypsies (oh, how politically incorrect!) or Bedouins (even worse!), their tendencies were to pull up stakes and steal silently away with very little rhyme or reason.
A month ago Amy moved out to Washington State, to live among complete strangers at an airbnb. The kids and I had been working with her to find her a subsidized Section Eight apartment here in Utah County, and she told us that she had been accepted for one and would move in within a week. Then the next morning she was gone -- left a cryptic Facebook message that explained nothing and just said she knew we wouldn't let her do as she wanted, so she had left in the middle of the night. As I said, just like a gypsy.
 I am determined to never ever move again -- God willing, I'll spend the rest of my life in this apartment at Valley Villa, 650 West 100 North Apartment 115, Provo, Utah. I have no desire to hit the sawdust trail again or go sightseeing or even go as far as Salt Lake for a Swedish meatball lunch at Ikea. Provo is my home, and I'm hoping that this area will be home to all of my children. Sarah and Adam are already settled here. Daisy works here. Madel says she'd like to move out here, but her hubby Donald doesn't want to leave his extended family out in Virginia. Poor little Irvin is buried in Pleasant Grove. This area seems to me to be about the sanest, safest, and most temperate area in the United States. So why wouldn't the rest of the kids want to live here?
Now it's time to eat a pecan fudge brownie and take a nap. When I wake up I hope to God I'm still in Provo, and that these past seven years have not been a dream . . .