At the Farmer’s
Market, we pur-
chased fresh
off the farm
organic Vidalia onions, yellow beets, celery
stalks, purple and white carrots, purple and
white fingerling potatoes, asparagus, pink
radishes, red and orange bell peppers, mixed
greens, heart of Romaine lettuce, pink cauli-
flower, deep green broccoli, bok choy, brussels
sprouts, arugula (as recommended by the First
Lady who grows it in the White House garden)
and kale (which is starting to go out of style
according to the top chefs in Phoenix, Arizona
but still makes great chips),
but not before
chowing down
two huge, pulled
pork sandwiches
oozing juice
and dripping
sauce with
napkins and
two free bags
of chips
purchased
from the
street vendor
right there
on our healthy
eating Farmer’s
Market trip.

the older i get is such a cliché
but, it is what it is. the older
i get, the less tolerant i am of
all the hubris and puffed up
pomposity of our elected offi-
cials who make disastrous dec-
isions of war that cost, let’s
see, since the end of ww2, mill-
ions of lives in totally un-
necessary conflicts. what the
hell were they thinking? they
weren’t thinking. were they feel-
ing insecure in their masculin-
ity, wondering and worrying about
size, length, thickness, how
often they could get it up, how
flaccid the flesh felt in the
frantic hand, how far they could
shoot a wad or perhaps that it
just ended in a dribble? good
god, millions have died because
of a few dribbles?

We think our lives are so unique —
no one else has gone through
what we have
but along comes an early stage
dementia, toothless woman
whose loving son took her
to a genealogist and she
found out her mother, who
died shortly after the woman
was born, was madly in love
with the woman’s father.
The early stage dementia woman
was her mother’s love child,
but her mother couldn’t ever
hold, caress, kiss and
tell her baby. The woman’s
tears of gratitude dropped into
her toothless, laughing mouth —
the salty sea washing away the
unknown — tears telling her
she was, indeed, loved.
We, too, toothless and
not knowing much at the
beginning as the woman
was toward the end,
were
loved into life.

The poet took to the outdoors
saying she hated buildings.
Her dreams gave her away —
horrors galore. Where are
you going to hide, little girl?
A dark, dank cellar? A
dusty, dry attic? Would
you? How about open
fields, mountain preserves,
winding creeks, desert
dunes? How about
a halcyon view of what
critters see as the geography
of struggle, fight, flight,
death and drama — nature?
Maybe that’s why so many
there want to crawl in the
wall, hide in the building’s
attic and hunker down in the
dungeon cellar. I guess it
all depends on where you
were violated, which deter-
mines what and where you
hated. So, we now benefit
from the poet’s escape and
explorations of God’s creations
while we wait for critters to
comment on the safety found
in plumbing.

The sun is bright
in the February sky.
Few clouds are
in its way and
the brisk wind
takes care of
any problems
in that arena.

Shadows are elongated
on the dune and
beach grass has
been tucked in by
the snow that survives
the radiation,
because
the cold temperature
supersedes
the gentle warmth
I would normally expect.

These are dog days though,
and my expectations
are usually squelched
or excused by
the low-grade depression
of my inner spirit.
I have not been executed
but feel the line
to that end
is shortening
in a manner
not perceived before.

This will end,
this down feeling,
before long.
I am halfway through
the discontent of winter.
Then my path
back to the soil,
the fragrance
of the woods,
to the sound
of nature in spring
will be at hand.
I will wait solemnly,
sometimes stoically,
keeping my focus on
what I can do,
want to do
or should do.
I am fortunate
in that
I carry my own
measuring stick and
that only I know
if I am measuring up
to the expectancies
I have of myself.

No one else need to know.
I am sure
they have enough
on their plate,
piling up,
to take much
notice of others.

The wheel will
keep turning,
the trauma and
drama of
downheartedness
will pass.
My recession
will be over and
like the crocus and
daffodils of spring,
I will make my way
up through
the bed of
midwinter melancholy.

Steve Haarman
February 5, 2015 ^

The pastoral theologian spoke
of gentleness in the midst of
our rough and tumble world.

That priest was a gentle spirit,
so it must have been easy for
him to live as he advised.

However, there are those of
us males who have been rais-
ed on fight cereal in the morn-

ing and flight sandwiches at
noon and steamed anger for
dinner and a nightcap of res-

entment, only to repeat it all
the next day. As Caesar Cha-
vez said, “I’m a violent man

learning to be non-violent.”
And so many of us seek
a better diet having grown

weak and weary with the
dysentery from the bitter
herbs of fear.

The poet used the word “incarnadine,”
a word pronounced dine or dean,
a word I don’t think I had ever seen,
so I looked it up in the dictionary
to learn it is the color of a cherry —
I said that, not the dictionary.
It said crimson red, the
scholastic color of my seminary —
a color I wore at graduation
when I walked the chancel
by all to be seen
in my doctoral hood
of incarnadine;
that’s dine or dean;
either way it’s a fine
color in which to be seen
even while out and about to dine.

One didn’t integrate the star fruit sufficiently;
the salad was underdone; the vinaigrette proved thin;
the winner said his parents helped his proficiency.
The judges smiled at his offering and handed a check to him.

The world rocks with explosions prepared just right;
the chest worn bombs were of exquisite ingredients
blended with the perfect touch, proportions just right,
not too much, and not prepared with expedience.

The chefs thought of themselves as connoisseurs,
one up from the street, the other from the sewers.
One simply wished in a restaurant to invest,
the other to play with seventy-two virgins’ breasts.

One got applause and from the judges a nod;
the other — smithereens, nothing left, not even a clod.
And so young men, if you wish a career in baking,
get on the show Chopped and avoid bomb making.

With social unrest
whirling all around
and terror striking breast
with resound,

The social media
swirling, faux profound,
the news comedia
booming with loud sound,

it is beyond the time
to unfurl Sophia found
and display her fine
attributes truly profound.

So let us then gather
not hurling epithets,
and not voicing blather
but praying peace’s benefits

with non-violent efforts —
the consequences no matter.

The meditations say,
“Slow down,
meditate,
contemplate,
don’t hesitate,
but not in a
hurry — slowly, very
slow…ly.”
The world is rushing
to where?
You don’t
want to go there.
So, go slow.
Breathe the spirit in;
breathe out the sin.
Where?
Everywhere.
Just stare
at what is going on
around you and
don’t let it in
to begin
the deterioration.
Jesus spent time
alone
in his spiritual home.
Where are you
goin’?
“Goin’ home,
goin’ home. Lord, I’m
goin’ home.”
Right here,
right now.
Breathe the Spirit in;
breathe out the sin.
Be alive;
be energized;
be God’s child —
ever and always prized.