There's nothing more to write

Jarom 1:2 -- "For what could I write more than my fathers have written?"

There's nothing more to write; my life's complete the way it stands,
for I have always followed all the Lord's overt commands.
Ev'ry jot and tittle finished; ev'ry weighty matter closed.
All the business of mortality I have faithfully disposed. 
So why is it I feel as if the Lord still had a stroke
or two to send my way -- is it rebuke . . . or just a joke? 

The Chili Pepper

My mother kept Tabasco Sauce upon the kitchen table;
one bottle lasted 20 years (the stuff is very stable).
But when into the wide, wide world I sent my taste buds straying,
with peppers hot and sweet and strange they started bravely playing.
I ate 'em smoked and dried and canned, or straight off verdant vine;
I masticated Capsicum long pickled in hard brine. 
Their Scoville units held no meaning to my sated palate;
I added them to ev'rything as if they were mere shallot.
But fascination with these plants soon turned to an addiction,
and I could never be with others without causing friction.
My wife said that an ancho in her gravy was abuse;
and for Scottish bonnets my dear kiddies had no use.
My co-workers complained about the stench around my desk,
which reeked, they said, of something very jalapeno-esque.
Bereft of home, and jobless, to the gutter I soon crashed,
where I lived on nothing but serranos crudely mashed.
I managed, after years of woe, to spurn the chili's power
by turning to craft vinegars -- which are so very sour!
So nowadays I revel in Balsamic or Red Wine.
(Some Apple Cider from the Braggs goes very well with swine.)

Even Moonshine Is Going Upscale With Funky Flavors and Tasting Sessions

(Inspired by an article in the Wall Street Journal)

Ah yes, my little chickadee, a sip of this ambrosia
will turn your stomach inside out; your tonsils will not knows ya . . .
Made with finest corn and water from organic swamps,
it'll give you heebie jeebies and the screaming whomps.
 If you don't need your eye sight, then a glass or two won't hurt;
if your brain pan needs a shine then drink it in a spurt!
We offer many flavors to intrigue the bacchanalian;
our Old Rope extract turns the fiercest Muslim Episcopalian!
It puts the hair back on your chest, especially for wimin;
men will find a solid quart will give their guts a trimmin'.
Ah yes, my little kumquat, pour as much out as you please --
but do not spill it outdoors since it kills off all the trees!

Spikeawopski: Remembering Terry Parsons.

The first time I met Terry Parsons in the Ringling clown alley, he gave me a lopsided grin and said “Call me Spikeawopski!”

But I’ll just call him Spike in this, a memorandum of my friendship with this Appalachian Till Eulenspiegel.

He liked to project an aura of the tough guy who went his own way, impervious to flattery and threats alike. He sneered openly at my LDS faith, but often had me over for his wife Danuta’s ambrosial pickle soup. In fact, it was his very disdain for any and all organized religions that led to our first clown gag together.

Spike had constructed a life-size female foam rubber dummy, which clown alley nicknamed Ruby. She had yellow yarn hair and a ditzy smile stenciled onto her canvas face. She was the butt of many a crude and lascivious joke, naturally enough; when I expressed my disgust about this lewd behavior to Spike he immediately became Ruby’s super-zealous protector, beating off would-be ravishers with his trombone – which had a boxing glove attached to the slide end and could deliver a near knockout blow. Spike jokingly suggested I start preaching sermons to her to get her to mend her evil ways; I, in turn, suggested we do a gag together, wherein Spike is devilishly trying to tempt Ruby off the strait and narrow path and then I show up as an angel to beat the crap out of him.

That was how clown gags were born and bred on the Blue Unit back in the mid-70’s!

Spike made me a pair of foam rubber wings and I rustled up a high school graduation robe from a thrift store and made myself a halo out of tin foil and a coat hanger. Then we launched the gag on the track, disregarding whatever hoary old gag we had been assigned by the boss clown.

Through trial and error we found out that what the audience wanted more than anything else was to see me knock the stuffing, not only out of Spike, but also out of Ruby. So I obliged, with an oversized foam rubber hammer, a bucket of water, a shotgun that fired blanks, and, finally, picking up poor Ruby and tossing her bodily into the audience. With hysterical shrieks of laughter the crowd would pass her around like a mosh pit before tossing her back to Spike and I. The blow-off had Spike becoming extremely contrite, begging my forgiveness, and then slinking off in shame – at which point, finding myself alone with this alluring creature, I, an angel, began making passes at her. Enter Spike, who did a big take, and then chased me off while I hung on to Ruby with an unrepentant grin pasted on my angelic features.

This was not a circus classic, by any means – but it stirred the wrath of most of the older and traditional clowns in the alley, which suited both Spike and I just fine.

“What the hell is that all about?” Mark Anthony, the famous tramp clown, asked me several times.

“You two are #%&**&# meshuganah, you know that?” Prince Paul told us severely.

When the boss clown told us we had to go back to our original gags, we blithely ignored him. This led to Charlie Baumann, the fearsome Performance Director, becoming involved.

“I vill watch dis ting und decide vat to do” he told us, with a glare that suggested he would welcome the opportunity to send us both to a clown concentration camp.

With Baumann impassively staring at us, we pulled out all the stops, and not only threw Ruby into the audience but also hooked her up to a handy Spanish Web rope and hauled her to the top of the arena.

By the end of our performance Baumann could barely keep a straight face, going several shades past beet red in his efforts to suppress an unbecoming grin.

We never heard any more about it.

The Happy Danes

The Danes are cheerful and contented, merry as a grig.
From the Jug of Happiness they've taken quite a swig.
The Cantril Ladder finds them on the very topmost rung;
they are never paranoid or selfish or high-strung.
There's wealth and health abounding in the land of Hamlet, plus
support and trust unmeasured -- and they're charitable without fuss . . .
Until the refugees start knocking on their happy door;
then joyful Danes are not enthused to take them off the shore.
Don't spoil the upbeat tenor of the Danes' blissful lifestyle;
all you fleeing people ought to go the extra mile
and settle down in Sweden or in Germany instead --
so that the mirthful Danes remain determinedly inbred.

The Dream

Jacob 7:26 -- " . . .  our lives passed away like as it were unto us a dream . . . "

When shall I awake from dreams and fantasies despotic,
which cripple me at times like a cure that is narcotic?

Shaking off the dust of trance and weary reverie,
I dread the advent of a cold and cruel reality.
But all my fears are gossamer that drift away unmourned
when with hope and faith in Christ my true mind is adorned.
Yes! At the Resurrection mortal slumber dissipates
and God himself removes my transient and pressing weights. 

Poetical Thoughts on the Provo Municipal Council Meeting. March 15, 2016.

The room was very quiet as the councilors filed in;
they shook the hands of spectators and flashed a modest grin.
The delegates seemed anxious to make ev'rything express;
they even showed up right on time (I'm speaking more or less).
The items on agenda were quite few and far between;
it was as flavorless a meeting as I've ever seen.
In fact the meeting was so short that if you dared to blink
they would have brought the ice cream in with spoons all going 'clink'.
Not even thirty minutes was consumed by cogitation;
is that any way to run a County in our nation?
With meetings short as this I feel that I have been mislead -- 
without their melodrama I'll just read a book in bed!  

Flattery

Jacob 7:2 -- "And he preached many things which were flattering unto the people; and this he did that he might overthrow the doctrine of Christ."

My ears are always open to the flattery of men;
I lap it up like honeyed wine, no matter where or when.
It's good to get some input that is positive and bright;
criticism often sounds so negative and trite.
But if I am not careful Satan's lullaby of praise
will deafen me to words from Christ that lead to better ways.
Humility sits lightly on me, like a flock of birds
that takes to flight the minute I hear panegyric words.
I cannot always please myself when I am pleasing God;
and praise may have to wait until I've grasped the iron rod.

The Censor

The censor is a nasty man who reads your mail and your trash can;
he looks for things you say and do that don't fit in his mental view.
Behind him lies the State's decree that all must love conformity.
The past is not to be exhumed, though a thousand corpses bloom.
The present must be whitewashed so that it becomes a job of snow.
O wretched censor, tremble now; the future is not your milch cow.
The voices of the Internet are growing and will kill you yet.
In China, Russia, Myanmar, you may now be the info czar;
but like the czars of old, beware -- cuz public scorn will part your hair. 

Living with the Kids

I thought it was considerate, my son inviting me
to live with him and fam'ly in their split level tee pee.
I'd get to see the grandkids any time I wanted to,
and tell 'em lots of stories about Captain Kangaroo.
But when I unpacked my caboodle of skunk pelts, oy vay!
I found how easy any welcome is to overstay.
And so I took my meager stuff on to my daughter's house,
and cooked Limburger cheese souffle for her and her fine spouse.
Next thing I knew the door was slammed right in my poor old face;
the EPA destroyed my meal, and didn't leave a trace.
Now I'm in a high rise with the geriatric folk,
and on my balcony I'm raising lots of poison oak . . .