Verses from stories by Jason Farago, Katie Mettler, and Roxanne Roberts.

WHEN IS A BANANA NOT A BANANA?

@jsf

Bananas are symbolic

of so many things in life;

they represent all starchiness

and sexiness, and strife.

So when they're put upon display

for art patrons to adore,

it's only right some goomba

eats 'em up like stevedore.

Next time that an artist

wants to tape up something rare,

I suggest considering a pointed prickly pear.

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

SMACKING BUTTS ON LIVE TV

@kemettler

Smacking butts on live TV

is a sort of infamy.

Now reporters will not dare

take along their derriere,

fearful that some redneck Grinch

will give them a slap or pinch.

"Meet the Press" becomes inferior,

cuz who can sit without posterior?

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

THE TRUMPS DON'T SOCIALIZE NO MORE

@_RoxanneRoberts

The Trumps don't socialize no more;

they'd rather stay at home and snore.

So humble and so quiet, they

stay indoors the live-long day.

The Beltway with its lights so bright

does not lure them them out at night

(plus Trump's tuxedo is too tight.)

They don't like crowds or ceremonies

(unless it's their own kind of cronies.)

Photo Essay: Haiku Memories. Vol. 6

Reflections --

are just clearer

shadows.

Leaning --

into nothing

but existence.

Patterns --

don't lie.

They don't do anything.

The boy or the clown --

which one

stays real longest?

Discarded --

but not

peeled.

Starch and grease --

Start great empires.

And fatten slaves.

Joy comes from Christ

D. Todd Christofferson

Joy comes from keeping Christ’s commandments, from overcoming sorrow and weakness through Him, and from serving as He served.
D. Todd Christofferson

Steady on, my headstrong soul;

to Christ alone I cede control.

To learn submissiveness I need

obedience in word and deed.

When sorrow weakens my belief,

to Him I turn for whole relief.

I'll strive forevermore to serve

as did He with love and verve.

Sometimes I quail before the task;

have patience, Lord, is all I ask.

Profitless as servant, surely;

still, I'll strive both late and early!

Verses from stories by Johnny Diaz, Michelle Yee Hee Lee, Mike DeBonis, Anu Narayanswamy, and Thomas Heath.

TOILET TRAUMA

@johnnydiaz__

The President is worried

that we're flushing way too much;

he says that water's running

like someone let out the clutch.

Of course he also said that rain

comes down from little clouds,

and there might be too much of it --

which could explain the crowds

that often walk around in storms

just drinking Adam's ale;

they want to get a head start

before all the spigots fail.

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

REPUBLICANS SPEND FORTUNE FOR ADS

ACCUSING DEMOCRATS OF TREASON

@myhlee  @mikedebonis  @anu_narayan

Republicans are spending big

to label Democrats

as wolfs in sheepish clothing

and just all around bad hats.

Millions from their coffers

go for TV ads that show

Democratic senators

are fishier than roe.

I didn't know the Democrats

were too broke to reply;

I guess they're spending money

on a simple hemp necktie.

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

YOUR PUPPY NEEDS A PILL

@addedvalueth

Pet supplements are all the rage

in this doggy/catty age.

Ev'ryone has got a pet,

and cannot afford a vet.

So they give 'em little pills

for their aches and pains and ills.

Do they work or are they spoof --

will they help your dog go 'woof?'

After taking careful stock,

I think it is mostly schlock.

(And I'm keeping my pet rock.)

Christ at the center

Jeffrey R. Holland


"Sisters and brothers, through the incessant din and drumbeat of our day, may we strive to see Christ at the center of our lives, of our faith, and of our service."
Jeffrey R. Holland

No matter the configuration,

only Christ is adoration.

Service seems a lesser duty,

and our lives are lacking beauty,

if the Lord no center finds

in our faith and in our minds.

Savior, give me resolution

to serve Thee despite confusion!

Assurance of Hope

Ulisses Soares.

"I want to assure you that there is always hope in God the Father and in His plan of happiness, in Jesus Christ and His atoning sacrifice, and in living Their loving commandments."

Ulisses Soarez

When I place my hope in God

and in his loving Son,

my life is washed away in joy,

my sorrow's on the run.

A loving Father shows the way,

a mighty Son repairs

the folly I have wrought sometimes

amidst sharp worldly cares.

Hope is all a Christian has

when fiendish storms explode.

It steadies my existence

and will keep my head unbowed.

Le karma de l'entrepreneuriat

L'influenceur, auteur et célèbre entrepreneur de YouTube, Sri Akarshana, affirme n'avoir que trois règles simples pour son succès sur YouTube et sur la liste des best-sellers indiens. Le gourou de l'entraide affirme qu'il a d'abord raffiné ces trois lignes directrices lors d'une retraite au Népal, au cours de laquelle il a utilisé le jeûne et la méditation pour acquérir un niveau de conscience plus élevé qui a déchiré le brouillard du mercantilisme et du matérialisme qui l'avait empêché de se sentir épanoui. . Sa première règle est de se concentrer sur la valeur et l'impact, en ignorant les considérations financières et les programmes publicitaires. Akarshana estime que lorsqu'un entrepreneur accorde la priorité à ses clients et résiste à la tentation de se vanter de ses produits et services, il en résulte une inversion karmique de l'état d'esprit traditionnel de la concurrence chien-manger-chien, et les ressources financières nécessaires seront automatiquement disponibles. Sa deuxième règle ne poursuit pas la richesse, laissez-la vous poursuivre. Il respecte cette règle en se débarrassant de tout l'argent et du plastique chaque jour avant de se rendre à son bureau. Il dit que dépenser un tout sans argent est un moyen rafraîchissant d'apprendre à contrôler ses finances, et aussi une bonne leçon pour rester humble. Sa troisième règle est de se mettre au défi chaque jour de faire quelque chose en dehors de sa zone de confort. Cela renforce la confiance, combat les burn-out et force l'intellect à rester ouvert à de nouvelles idées.

Postcards to my President.

The Storyteller.

Oh I am full of stories this evening, children -- stories that end in good things for good people and stories that end with bad things for bad people, and stories that don't end at all but just keep repeating themselves over and over again down through the ages. Which kind of story would you like to hear first, hmmm? 
Bad things for bad people, eh? Very good.

In the very long ago there lived a miser who kept all his money in an iron box with a magic lock on it. The lock could only be opened by repeating very quickly a dozen times the words "toy boat." The miser knew the trick to this -- you had to say the two words very slowly and distinctly, otherwise the words came out as 'toy boy' and the lock would never open. 
One evening a wizened old man, almost bent double with age and gout and other assorted blessings of too many years, hobbled into the miser's courtyard and asked for a crust of bread.
The miser, of course, told the ancient relic to begone -- there were no handouts for lazy slugs like him -- all must work for their bread, or perish! The wizened old man told the miser very well, what work have you for me to do? The miser smiled a mean smile and told the very old man to draw water from the well and wash all the window panes, both downstairs and upstairs, of his house. That might earn him a crust of moldy bread, with some axle grease smeared on it. 
The very old man managed to bring up a bucket of water from the well, then had to rest a while to get his breath back.
The miser yelled at him to hurry up -- no use in dawdling when there was a job to be done. 
At that, the very old man began picking up cobble stones and hurling them through each window pane in the miser's house. The tinkle of glass mixed with the enraged roars of the miser, who tried to catch the wizened old man -- but now that ancient of days dropped his disguise and showed his true self. He was Panukuken, the demi-god of mischief! Oh how that miser tried to catch him! But Panukuken was too fast for him, and soon the miser's house became unlivable with the cold wind whistling through it like a hurricane. 
And what do you suppose became of that magic iron lock box? Nothing, nothing at all. The miser scooped it up and fled to a different city where he bought a brand new house and opened a gravel pit next to the town cemetery. He still lives there, and if you two over in the corner don't stop dropping peanut shells on my carpet I shall have the miser come get you to lock up in his box!

That's better. 

Now not too far away from that miser there lived a calico cat named Dennis. This calico cat was so lazy that it refused to get up and walk over to its bowl of food -- the bowl had to be brought to it. That calico cat finally grew so fat and inert that it couldn't even bother to stand up to eat out of its bowl -- someone had to spoon feed each morsel of cat food into its mouth, and then work its jaws to chew it up!
The mice ran riot around Dennis the calico cat -- using its dirty white belly as a trampoline. Dennis didn't care -- all that jumping helped to digest the food in its stomach and make room for more. 
One day a man dressed in pied jacket and pants and carrying a large blue sack over his shoulders stopped at the house where Dennis the calico cat lived, looking for beetroot wax. When he saw the huge furry lump that Dennis had become he offered the householder a bag of silver pins for the cat. Then he stuffed Dennis into his sack and walked away.
No one ever saw the man in the pied pants and jacket, or Dennis the calico cat, ever again. But the householder set up a stall outside his front door selling silver needles. Soon he had enough money to start selling gold thimbles. And then he managed to open a stall in the village market where he sold glass eyes and brass knuckles. He soon became the richest merchant in town and was taken to the palace, where the king made him Secretary of the Treasury. The king told him that if he didn't fill the treasury with treasure in the next day or two he would be forced to have his head chopped off. This is what is known as the gig economy. 
The poor householder was at his wits end to know what to do. Until he remembered he still had one silver needle left. He used that silver needle to dig a tunnel out of the palace and down to the river, where he commandeered a boat and sailed so far to the East that he came out in the West. And that's where he stayed until Jack Onionhead took him to the Marmalade Fields. If you don't believe me you can ask Oprah.

 Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Little Penny had fallen into the abandoned cistern and couldn't climb out. Her cries and sobs went unheard, and she fell asleep against one of the mildewed walls dreaming of being rescued by a German-speaking duck. When she woke up she found her condition to be unchanged, so she took loose stones out of the cistern wall and piled them up until she could climb out and run back home. Where her parents gave her a bath and a lecture, and then sent her to bed without dental floss.
That very night the Door Knob Man came into her bedroom and offered to take her to Door County Michigan for the Tulip Festival. She wisely turned him down, opting instead to go with a twinkling pixel to the job fair in Silicon Valley. And there she was offered a position with a new startup that laundered bitcoins into starched white pinafores. 
But Little Penny was a bad penny, and began chewing gum at work and leaving orange peels on the table in the break room. She did not prosper at her work and even put rouge on her knees. She only managed to work at that startup for twenty-nine years before she was asked to retire with a full pension. Then she went from bad to worse. She sold bottles of plain tap water as 'hydrogen enhanced oxygen' to unsuspecting customers out of the back of a truck. When the police finally caught up with her she was sent to Paris to work in the croissant mines for the rest of her life.
And that's why you should never trust a duck that speaks German.

Now, which one of you brats undid my back suspenders and snapped them onto the dog?

Measuring Dead Birds.

The birds were probably shrinking long before we began measuring dead ones at the museum.
We did mostly finches and sparrows -- those were the two most common birds that flew headlong into the glass atrium walls and killed themselves. I gathered them up once a day and then measured them before sending them to the NOAA. Don't ask me what the weather people wanted with them -- I have no idea. It was just part of my job description from the get-go.
My assistant Jennifer was the one who suggested we start going back and looking at the records to compare annual size. She was very big on graphs and pie charts, and had to be actively discouraged from producing power point presentations about things like fire blight and wind socks. 
And yes, we discovered that the finches and sparrows were, on average, shrinking by 2 centimeters each year. After we had collected data for ten consecutive years Jennifer and I went before the Chicago Board of Trade to discuss our findings -- but they called us worry warts and refused to validate our parking passes. We next presented our information to various Rotary Clubs around Illinois, to varying responses. Several clubs, especially in the northern half of the state, took our work seriously and donated dozens of pairs of used eye glasses to us. Southern Illinois was another matter altogether. We were arrested several times for jaywalking and given heavy fines. Those folks just did not want to know about abbreviated birds. 
When Jennifer got married and left the museum to become an astronaut I stopped trying to warn people of what was happening. I simply sat back and observed it all. Taking copious notes, of course.
By this time all the birds were noticeably smaller than people remembered them being. Robins were the size of humming birds, and humming birds were the size of bumble bees. Pigeons were affected worst of all. They flocked together inside discarded plastic  cups, like ants. And by the time I retired from the museum I could watch a special on PBS about condors in the Andes that came together at mating season and looked like a cloud of gnats. 
Each presidential administration had its own explanation as to why this was happening:

• The Ukrainians were behind it.
• All the birds had somehow gotten on opioids.
• China was hoarding bird seed.
• Birds were not getting smaller; people were getting bigger.

I'm an old man now, and the birds, the beautiful warbling winging birds, have turned into dust motes. All over the world, children are told of the wondrous pelicans that once filled the skies and the chickens that once gave us delicious fried eggs. Santa Claus has been replaced with Birdy Claus, who flies down the chimney on Christmas Eve bringing bags of millet and sunflower seeds to good little boys and girls. 

The only positive outcome I can think of happened early on, when birds were still visible and kept crashing into glass patio doors and plate glass windows. Laws were passed banning the use of windows in any building larger than a tool shed. Windows were bricked up with a vengeance, until every home and office was pitch black and had to be illuminated with phosphorescent cattails. That was a very good thing, I thought -- mostly because I had invested heavily in phosphorescent cattails when they first came on the market. So I made a killing and am now stinking rich.
Now I hear that men are consistently losing height while women are growing taller and taller. This doesn't bode well for the survival of mankind as we know it. But then again, a bad workman blames his tools.