English is Murder

Grass (British)
Posse
Possessed
Pose
Postal

Cemetery Improvements.

Tumble, tumble, trees come down
Beside the graves, on and around.
The aging pines were fit no more
To grace the cemetery shore.
Undulating hills now bright
And shorn of shade and bathed in light
Are somehow bare, though marked by stones,
Are somehow bald, though filled with bones.

Blabber and Haikus

Oy, life with two kids instead of one, while trying to exercise, read books, and overthrow the local soil and water commissionar....  Well, I've lost track of responsibilities.... like the occasional haiku.

So over at Mr. D's we were blabbing about something or another and I asked him an innocent question, "What do you think about lawn games?"  Now what I was expecting was an enthusiastic espousal of a particular lawn game, such as the following, "I would sell my first born child to play a good game of Kub on a proper lawn with good quality hard wood."

But no.  He says that he's against them.  Communist.  But I responded with tact:

The Jarts of Justice 

Raining down on Mr. D. 

Incorrect answer.

He replied that he thought the haiku was somewhat forceful, not to say violent, coming from a minister of the cloth.  I didn't think so at all.  I asserted as much with the following:

Bocce balls will creep 

Like angry iron ninjas 

To kiss your sweet sleep.

Delicate.  Picturesque.  Entirely in keeping with my calling.

I still can't believe he doesn't like lawn games, though.  Crazy.

The Future

To understand the future intellectually is beyond us.  

To understand it systematically is further yet beyond our ken.  

But to have suspicions?  Now that's right in the wheelhouse of man.  

And I've got suspicions.

A No Darn Snow Limerick

There once was a place without snow.
To some other place it would go.
It left us all brown;
The whole landscape frowned.
Did I like it? No, no, no, no, NO.

The Nuances of Winter

The deep blue sky speaks hopeful words
And shows the scene of flying birds.
The shadows creep on melting snow
While gray depression starts to go.

Have a New Year

The sky and the ground are all white.
But the color is missing its light.
Dark at the noon of the day.
In spirit, the palette is gray.

Extreme Christmas Doggerel (part one)

The blowing snow and cold hold sway
In the fields of Ioway
When the winter settles in
And autumn skies are turned to gray.

People wear a second layer,
Then a third; then they feel gayer.
Muffled 'neath a mountainous garb
If people stare, well, who's to care?

Christmas comes with carols jolly,
Poinsettias, mistletoe and holly.
Cookies coming out your ears
And reaching to the point of folly.

Gather friends and family near
And share a bit of Christmas cheer.
Raise a song to chase the chill
And wait for carolers to appear.

Chet the Squirrel (with a Bob Costas subtext)

Chet was a normal kind of squirrel.
He ate nuts.
He chattered.
That is, until one day,
His life was shattered.
A demon-possessed gun
Desiring some fun
Possessed him.
And made him smoke.
And shoot stuff.
The moral of the story?
The 2nd Amendment is less equal.

Juxtaposition

Lets go surfin' now.
Everybodys learning how.
Come on and safari with me.
(come on and safari with...)

At Huntington and Malibu
They're shooting the pier.
At Rincon they're walking the nose.
We're going on safari to the islands this year;
So if you're coming get ready to go.

The Foolish Knights

Sir Bill is riding on a horse
Sir Jedediah too.
They each have sticks of sharpened wood
So what d'ya think they'll do?
Show caution lest they cause a wound?
Be circumspect and wise?
Alas, but no, these dimbulb knights
Are aiming at each other's eyes!
No doubt there's one who'll rue the day
And cry to his own mommy dearest,
"Twas fun and games, the merest play!"
And her, "A fool thou dost appearest."

The Secret Lives of Monks

.
..
...
Medieval ergonomics being what they were
Monks would get terrible backaches.
They'd sit slouched under arches in order to incur
This pain, and after lie awake
The night through, except when they rose to chant sweetly,
Or were they, (be it not so!) fakes?!
Such cynical thoughts might be par for the course lately,
But should be left to fools and rakes.
No, they sang through the pain at all hours of the night
They grimaced under cowls til the dawn's first light.
And said not a word of those knots in their backs
Except for the occasional spasmodic attacks.
...
..
.

Catharsis

The pestle is the stick, you see,
The mortar is the bowl.
Put some grain inside and "Whee!"
You're ready now to roll.

Crush the grain with vigor
Give it all you've got
Grind it into powder, man,
As you surely ought.

Think of doing justice!
Think of righting wrong!
Think of rank iniquity
And crush it with a song!

My Wife - The Not-Nun

My wife is not a nun
She isn't in the habit
Of abbeys she knows none
Though Abby and her rabbit
Are both there on her lap
And singing baby rap.

My wife is not a sister
But has a little Patience
For living with a ginger
As one of your relations
Is trying for religious too
But she'll press on and make it through.

Art Garfunkel's Hair

Have you ever thought about Art Garfunkel's hair?
Is he balding, do you think?
Or is his hairline receding?
My wife swears it's the latter,
Though it doesn't really matter.
At least, that's what I was conceding
When I left to fill her drink.
Have you ever thought about Art Garfunkel's hair?

Byzantine Slang Talkin'

The sainted fellow, at the meeting,
Raised his hands in sacred greeting,
"What is up my homey fellow?"
Lamb said, "Feelin' kinda mellow."

Ancient

I love gorgeous Byzantine things.
I love knicked-up golden rings.
I love blue that stirs the heart.
I love tears before they start.
I love saints from days gone by
Though I don't have reasons why.
I love things with layered dust.
I love things that have some rust.
I love melancholy flame.
I love saying Jesus' name.
Sadness comes and broods by me,
But Jesus comes and sets me free.

Four More Years! (a political aphorism)

If at first you don't succeed, fail, fail again.

A Lament

Oh, what have we done?
Perhaps our race is finally run?
Perhaps we're near the end?
Or is it just another bend?

The Little Cough

There's a cough, little cough,
who is trying to say,
"I wish I could stay here.
I wish I could stay!
But there is a lady
Who's sitting right there;
To camp out with you,
Well, it wouldn't be fair."

"Ok, little cough,
I give you permission.
Go to the lady
For whom you've been wishin'.
But when you are gone
You'd best not return
For you and your kind
I am aiming to spurn."

Abigail Speaks

I have a small baby who farts.
Her "wisdom" she freely imparts.
She lets loose a toot,
That cute little coot,
From a onesie all covered with hearts.

The Slow March of Suicide

My ol' uncle refuses even to consider the idea.
Something is wrong; he's coughing blood
But he just lights up another heater,
Saying, "Never killed me before.
I'll have a couple more fingers of bourbon, barkeep."

He is dying.
It doesn't mean he will actually die.
No, there's no reason for it.
But somehow it seems, all joviality aside,
That he's had his run and doesn't care much
But to have another and another and tell jokes
And make believe and throw his arms up,
"Nobody could have done better,
But sometimes you hit the end of the road."
As if dull platitudes absolved him of suicide.
"Bourbon, Sam?"  "Yeah, sure, make it a double."

Evil Once Begun

I'm really not too fond of Muhammed;
Though I'll admit to not knowing him personally.
He's been dead for rather a long time.
Quite dead.
And yet he lives on
One of the most influential people 'round these days.
And people keep dying.
"No fair," you say, "It's rather unjust to pin it all on him."
What began in violence continues in violence.
He's no innocent bystander, no.
He's a dead tyrant for whom people murder.
There is no millstone too large.

"The Future Bishop" or "An Essai at Speaking Well of an Enemy"

He was a boy once too and took it all in,
The pious expressions and necessities
That his parents staked their lives on.
He saw the earnest desire to be good.

But in those days so many things were changing
And moving and catching his eye.
The piety of his elders hardly alive
Except in reference to itself.

And so he struck out to blaze a new trail,
To know the truth, yes, always that,
But to live for others no matter the cost,
To be bold, to be new, to shake off the dust.

On Texting

Tiny type is irritating
Demands of one some concentrating
But if one has largish thumbs
It's best to eat a couple Tums.

God the Persistent

I closed up the curtains
And covered my eyes
I ran to the basement
And to my surprise
The light of the day
Had just followed me there
Shining so bright
That I started to stare
"What in the world
Are you trying to do?
Surely you know
That I don't believe you"
Thus did I talk
To the one I thought myth.

He just replied
With considerable pith,
"Whine if you like
And run far away
Like it or leave it
I'm here to stay.
So get with the program
Or screw it up more
Go be creative
Or just be a bore.
Sooner or later
You will know with precision
That you are my son and I've made my decision."

Impregnable Obliviousness

Truth: A blind ostrich
Doesn't need to stuff his head
In the ground at all.

Fly-ku

Window-relaxing
Leads inexorably to....
Splattered guts and death.

Abby Limerick

My daughter is named for a monk place.

Thank God she hasn't a monk face.

No, hers is quite chubby,

And cutely so grubby,

While monks, theirs are saved just by grace.

Abbey Limerick

There once was an abbot in Spain.

A planter of monastic grain.

He planted his seeds

And tore out the weeds

While wearing his cassock so plain.

My Boy on the Beach

Little Boy Benjamin showing off his gut.

Shorts fall down and out pops his butt.

Squeal of delight and smile so big.

Shame 'cause he's nakey? He don't give a fig.

Dr. Snoose

Dr. Snoose is just plain silly.
He rhymes words with facitilly.
He is like a big, brown brame (insert picture of large, dumb-looking animal)
Cuddly? Yes.  But also lame.

Drought

The earth all around is cracked clay
Held together by weeds and dying soybeans,
Water a memory.

In Memory of Stella Hult (1923-2012)

Life began and early you heard

Words beyond your tender comprehension:

"I baptize you," he said.

"See there, you're dead.

Now,...

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit

Rise, Stella, rise."

....

What a surprise!

Somehow clinging to fickle water,

Was a promise.

"You are my daughter."

Life has now ended and still you will hear

Words that defy every measure:

"Come now, Beloved,

My promise is sure,

Sealed against tarnish and age.

Now raised again you will see at long last

The one in whose image you were made."

DOOM!!!!

Damocles is long retired.
No doubt too the sons he sired.
Yet his sword remains as e'er
Dangling wicked in the air.
Doom is but a breath away
Watch your neck!  Get away!
Ah, if only t'were so easy
Don't read news that makes you queasy.
But it's coming after you
Damocles' wicked crew!!!

The State and Us

I sometimes take part in poetry contests over at the blog, Lutheran Surrealism.  The topic this time around is "The State."  The thought that occurred to me is that for people like me it is very easy to see the state as an almost foreign entity. The state is something that is done to me; it's not my fault!  But there is something problematic about that. It's too easy.  It's dodging responsibility.  And it denies that a democratic state is a reflection of its citizens.


But how can I affect what the state is?  Do I really have any control over it?  The obvious answer is that I can vote.  And I can participate in politics in some fashion.  Sure, that's true.  But I don't think that's the ultimate answer; it's just the obvious one.  


I think that I participate in the state, and particularly its reform, by accepting responsibility for it on the one hand, and on the other by living independently of it, insofar as I am able.  There is no purity in insisting upon my innocence, but there the solution lies in living one's independence, not just thinking about it or bemoaning its loss.


He removed the mirror from his bathroom
In hope that its daily revelation
Would prove untrue.


He perceived words of poetry
That cut into him
As mostly for you.


And the state that he lived with
But could live without
Just grew and grew.


It was his reflection,
Both warts and apathy.
But still he knew...


He knew that the ugliness
And what he couldn't bear to see
Must be you.


Unloveliness, unjustice, untruth...
Inactive, insolvent, indelible...
The state and us.

Memorial Day

I saw a field of rippling flags
With tombstones 'ranged beneath.
It gave me cause for gratitude
And sorrow too, and grief.

Bad Pickup Lines

• "I would pick you up, but you're too heavy."
• "I'd buy you a drink, but I can't a Ford to."

Luckily, I am married.  Otherwise, I would be a lonely, lonely man.

Household Wisdom

In thinking on the facts of life
I think it's best to have a wife.

The 50 Yard Dash

When I regard the stately tree
I think, "I'm faster, sure, than thee."

A Quick Look (as I turn a prime number)

With kidlings and bride
I'm burstin' with pride.
So seven and thirty
Is lookin' right purdy.

The Forgetten

Down in my basement there's TV
With channels on it, two or three
Or maybe more?  It's hard to tell.
Beneath the dust that on it fell
Since early winter, months ago,
When men in tights ran to and fro.

Snakes

I say a prayer for shady snakes
That they too might be blessed.
And maybe stop their slithering
And give their hiss a rest.

Pass the Ammunition

In my room there's a fly
Which is why
I
Cry,
"Die!"

What to Do In Absence of Marital Love

Wife's gone to Minnesota
Oh dear, what shall I do?
I think I'll wander into town
And buy a steak or two.
I'll fire up the barbie
And kick back on the deck.
I may be saddened when she's gone,
But I needn't be a wreck.

The Characteristics of Branches

Branches leap from trees,
Hurling themselves to the ground,
Whenever strong winds make them afraid.
And then, forlorn, there they are... un-made,
Like Teamsters on lunch, lying around.
Til blown away by another breeze

Jog

Night was falling.

Air was cold.

Graves were sentries

Stark and old.

Still he ran.

What from? God knows.

Graveyard jogging's

Weird I suppose.

Leak

I used to know just about everything.
Must have bumped my head
Or sprung a leak.
We'll see about next week.

The Shrinking Pot

The coffee pot grew smaller every day
In reverse relation to child-induced
grogginess.  Not a half bad price to pay
For two such angels.  A nice little boost,
Still, but so quickly, quickly... oh my... gone.
"Need I necessarily be done?"
Not as a matter of definition.
Only by wisdom's volition.

Thank God For Naps

The morning of Easter is wonder and praise.
The nap later on could last for some days.

"Good Friday" (re-posted)

Why Do We Call it Good?
Of all days it’s the darkest by far.
Judas and Pharisees, soldiers and priests,
All of them coming with lanterns and spears,
Peter cutting off Malchus’s ear.
Why do we call it good?
In the night came a mob with vile intent.
In the night came a mob with vile intent.

Why do we call it good?
When a friend is possessed and betrays?
Judas, companion, disciple for years,
Overcome by the devil, betraying his Lord,
Leading this mob full of soldiers and swords.
Why do we call it good
When a friend is possessed and betrays?
When a friend is possessed and betrays.

Goodness?  What goodness?  I see only blood.
Injustice and hatred roll down like a flood.
Goodness?  What goodness?  I see only pain,
Wickedness pouring like rain.

Why do we call it good?
When they hustle him off for a trial?
In the depths of the night was no justice nor right.
Annas the priest was the first judge he saw
Soldiers were striking him hard on the jaw
Why do we call it good
When justice is lost in the darkness of night?
When justice is hidden for lack of the light.

Why do we call it good?
When a friend who is frightened denies?
Peter, impetuous, quick to make promises,
But when he’s confronted is quick to say “No,
I don’t even know him.  This man I don’t know!”
Why do we call it good
When a friend who is frightened denies?
Sits down in the corner and cries?

Goodness?  What goodness?  I see only lies.
While courage and justice are dropping like flies.
Goodness?  What goodness?  I see only hate,
The inexorable marching of fate.

Why do we call it good?
When soldiers were mocking our Lord?
They gave him a robe with derisive intent.
They fashioned a crown made of thorns
And made him the object of scorn.
Why do we call it good
That soldiers were mocking our Lord?
That soldiers were mocking our Lord.

Why do we call it good?
When the word, “Crucify!!” fills the air?
Clamoring priests all determined to kill.
“We have no king but Caesar,” they said.
“This man is a blasphemer and ought to be dead.”
Why do we call it good
When the word “Crucify!!” fills the air?
When the word “Crucify!!” fills the air.

Goodness?  What goodness?  I see only blood.
Injustice and hatred roll down like a flood.
Goodness?  What goodness?  I see only pain,
Wickedness pouring like rain.

Why do we call it good?
When they stretch him out on the cross?
They nail his hands and his feet to the wood.
Toss dice for his tunic un-torn,
While his mother stands there and mourns.
Why do we call it good
That our Lord is stretched out on the cross?
And his mother, dear Mary, watches.

Why do we call it good?
When he stopped breathing?
Nicodemus and Joseph took him down,
Dressed him with myrrh and a funeral gown,
Placed him in a tomb at the edge of town.
And walked away.

Goodness?  What goodness?  Our Savior is dead.
His body is broken and hangs there like lead.
Goodness is murdered and justice a joke
The world is in shambles, irreparably broken
And hope?  How can there be any hope?
Why do we call it good?

Lent

I'm not one to give things up for Lent.  It always seemed artificial to me.  I'm not speaking to anyone else's experience, just to my own.  But for some reason this year is different.  I'm using Lent as an opportunity to set things down that I value to see what happens, to see what God will do.  In the past year I've commented a number of times about how I can't understand how anyone can be bored; there are too many interesting, worthwhile, and fun things to do.  I'm curious about what it is that I'm not now doing which will arise in the space that Lent has pruned.  We shall see.

To see what God will do this Lent
I'm doing blog abandonment.  

Birth Control

Birth control is always cheap
In many and listable ways:

1. Brush your teeth but once a month
2. Or walk around and Tase.
3. Bad mouth kittens, push old widows
4. Pay with only nickels.
5. Don't have sex or get all frisky
6. Stuff your pants with pickles.

It really isn't very hard

And it's all up to you!

Any other sobbing story

Simply isn't true.

Guck

When the slush falls down
All the romance is gone from
Precipitation

Honeydew

She says, "I've got a tub for you
To take downstairs, you see."
I said, "Hmm-mm" and then I sat
And wrote this poem for thee.
In not too long I'll get on up
And do some "honeydew."
But for just a little bit
I'd rather write for you.

(and off I go...)

Fragments Undone

The world was fallen long ago,
Continues thus today.
Sinners do what sinners do
And so the fragments stay.
To tell as much, with broken words,
Might strike a man as wise.
Yet it is but a half-truth told
For Jesus did arise.
The world is broken, yea it is,
As once his body hung.
But now with eyes of faith we know
That new life has begun.

Fragments

Fragments - busted up pieces of what used to be something...
Some "thing."  But the thing is undone, broken.
It seems that the world is fragments these days.
A civic sense that held us together,
Is sick, just plain sick.
Who can trust the other?  Those others are vile, truly vile.
One mustn't listen to them, at all costs no.
And religion, well, that was supposed to be an internal matter
Now wasn't it?  But now it busts out in all the wrong places
Indignantly right and yet doing damage to itself.
Or it plays the complaisant fool, doing damage to itself.
Or it is altogether absent, doing damage to everyone else.
Whether by omission or commission, the whole thing is busted up in fragments.
And where is a person to turn amidst these heaps of shards?
It's easy to cut oneself.  It's easy to wail.  It's easy to stomp...
And bust everything up just a bit more.
Is there nothing that holds it together anymore?
Or are we condemned to live so separately, as fragments
So unlovely, so unkempt, so broken...


(Was it always so frail?  So irreparably compromised?)
Seems not, but.

History of the Day

Saint Valentine was quite a guy,
A martyr back in ancient Rome.
He sold his cards and made a mint
And hid it in a catacomb.
But then the greedy government
Took all his cash and sent him "home."

Scatology

When baby says, "Ah poo"
He means to say, "I'm pooping."
We anxiously await
The day when he'll be stooping
All by himself, above the bowl.
That is our happy baby goal.

Pace

Spazzes from another age
Moved slower than today,
Sniffed the roses, took a breath,
Didn't get all frayed.
Nowadays, of course, they fly
And scene cuts into scene.
Life as flashing strobe effect.
Spazzes gone obscene.

Bluster

Arise, my heart, and with a will
Sing songs to beat the night.
Say bollocks to the raving moon
And eulogize the light.
Timid hems and pansy haws
Will nothing put to flight,
But ego mixed with blustering
Will surely win the fight!

Ppbbbbb.

I'm tired as a tree stump
Fatigued like army green.
I'd like to lie like lumber lies
As still as e'er's been seen.