The pre-winter, swirling, snowy wind

beat against the house as they watched

on T.V. the professional golfer who had-

n’t been seen around much in several

years, drive the ball right down the mid-

dle of the fairway of a tournament during

the off-season in the golfer’s home country

on the other side of the world. He looked

old, really old, prematurely old, but what

can you expect? He did watch, in utter, un-

adulterated horror as his young, beautiful

wife was crushed between two vehicles as

the couple was unpacking luggage at a

swank hotel in a major American city

hosting a really, really big PGA tourn-

ament years ago. But, as they say,

golf goes on.

Moved by the muses,

the time of night

and by the fates,

I’m going to throw

my glass

into the fireplace.

Oh, no I’m not;

the fireplace is

fake;

and the CD of a

crackling hearth,

make no mistake,

is also fake.

I’ve gained my

senses, after a

time-out brake;

the glass goes in

the sink

with last dredges

of wine down

the drink

and tomorrow

morning, I’ll

be sober and

cast off the last

vestiges of

demon drink.

I think.

I love the images Word Press provides;

they are so Zen and besides,

I don’t have to choose pictures;

I can just write with wonderful fixtures

provided for my readers to imbibe.

The poet of the day

has won big, really big prizes

for her years and years

of self-psychoanalysis;

some would say exhibitionism,

through free verse,

some stanzas, truncated lines

but always a certain rhythm method.

She is particularly vivid when

it comes to sex,

which surely is one of her

polarizing traits.

But, hey, to be perfectly

(can we be perfectly?) honest,

the rest of us

who put pen to paper or

words in the processor and

either use standard letter, word, sentence, paragraph

transition sentence, introduction, body, conclusion

or the cadence of word, line, maybe

rhyme, and hopefully, always rhythm,

are working out all those relationships,

aren’t we? But

mostly (and perhaps most regrettably)

without the particularly vivid,

even raw,

images when it comes to sex.

He’s a fine chap, really – salt of the earth. This guy gives you quality work for an honest price. In fact, while doing a plumbing job, he will stop occasionally to let you decide which part to choose. When asked which he would choose, he always says, “This one costs half as much and does just as good a job as this other one,” and because of things like that, I keep calling him to do work for me when needed. He is always there. He’s good as gold.

Same with my car mechanic. He’s been caring for my cars for twenty-seven years. One time when I was out of town, two thousand miles out of town, something went wrong with the car. The quote I got was exactly how far I was out of town – 2,000. I called my mechanic. He said don’t worry about the clanking noise just drive it home and I’ll take care of it.

Sure enough, two thousand miles later, he had to tighten a loose bolt, which, if it had fallen out anywhere along those two thousand miles, wouldn’t have hurt anything. I had to trust my mechanic. He’s good as gold.

My plumber and my auto mechanic live in the same town and belong to the same church. There’s one thing I won’t do with them – discuss religion. And I’m a preacher.

Once, I had a landscaper from the same town who went to a different church but same denomination. There are a lot of churches in this town. He wanted to know how, in the sweet name of Jesus, I could believe in universal salvation. I’m not even sure how he knew that.

“There is a literal heaven and there is a literal hell and unless you believe in Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, the latter is exactly where you are going; the Bible says it; I believe it, and that settles it. How can you call yourself a Christian minister?”

I just shrugged and avoided the conversation as much as I could. After all, he was a good landscaper. He finished trimming my trees, got in his truck and left without saying goodbye. That was the last time I saw him. A week later I got an outrageously big bill.

See?

Now a landscaper is one thing, but a good plumber and auto mechanic? Priceless. I just might be willing to believe in a literal heaven and a literal hell to keep those guys. Next Sunday I think I’ll give an altar call.

Lifeless leaves flutter in the bitter November wind.

Snow blows back and forth at the whim of the wind.

Snow swirls up and down like a Whirling Dervish.

He watches out the window at the howling wind.

His heart feels cold as a winter’s windblown birch.

His heart feels like a leaf against a fierce wind,

which blows off the Big Lake into the valley.

Life tries to cast his heart down and to the wind,

but the love of his life strengthens his heart like

an oak leaf swaying in a summer, zephyr wind.

The author wrote, “Currently,

we’re unable even to articulate

how profoundly Calvinism is

different from prosperity-gospel

theology….” My, my, said one who

lives in the geography of prosperity-

gospel theology masquerading as

THE CALVINISM; it’s so hard to

counter all the money that flows here,

there and everywhere the pretenders

toss their filthy lucre. The adminis-

trators of distinguished institutions

of higher education, so dependent

on finances to keep the doors of their

ivy-covered halls open, close their

eyes and hold their noses as they affix

another mega bucks name to a really

nice, new building on their campus

even if that building was erected to

the gory vain-glory of an ever so sick

eschatology that looks forward to

Jesus’ militaristic, hyper-violent return

to kill everyone but the predestined,

elected, covenant kids with blond hair

and blue eyes and some Jews, too;

my, my how unlike and more

compassionate than HItler’s

Arian view.

Lord, have mercy.

Old witchy, white women

and old, bitchy, gay men

team up to create the haze,

the confusion of peace at any price

and rise in the murky waters as

big fish in a very small stream.

Symbiotic swim anyone?

What a team!

Old, angry women, tugging coattails no more,

secure the power they have been looking for

and scared, insecure, old men just want

everything to be so nice if just a bore.

The pond is poisoned; there is room for all no more;

all accepted, no exceptions – Really? Please!

The little congregation

is not the ship on the stormy seas,

but a fumy farm pond full of dis-ease

as fishy fish tails swish

and toxic bubbles rise

in the breeze.

“Stand for the Call to Worship,”

the smug, leader calls

with a smirky,

smile. The congregation

stands, oh, so self-pleased.

but oh, so self-deceived.

And Jesus peers in through

a broken, stained

glass window pane

and says, “Father,

forgive them for they

know not what they

do.”

The pacifist Lab

forgot himself.

In an instant,

from the comfort

of the great room,

a snowflake caught

the corner of his eye

and he cried

out and

fur stood tall

on his sturdy hide.

His ancient brain

would subside

and he rose

to a new height –

his heart would soar —

no more fight

or flight,

make love

not war.

Good boy.

There are tracks

in the snow.

My dog walks

up to them,

Sticks his nose

in the snow,

lifts his head,

backs from them,

blows his nose,

runs away.

He’ll return

to sniff tracks

another day —

proving the cliche,

He who fights and

runs away,

may live to fight

another day,

or

according to the

wisdom of the

Chocolate Lab,

“Why bother to

fight anyway?”