As a kid in the fifties, my
faith was informed by the
powerbrokers reeling from
Roosevelt’s form of faith
informed, perhaps, by com-
passion or, at least, an
understanding of the preamble
where it mentions the common
welfare — the seemingly lost
half to the much more popular
“common defense.” But the
beasty boys cunningly appeal-
ed to the vanity of politicians
and preachers who yearned for
recognition, fame and power
and so, were seduced by the
god of mammon and the gospel
of prosperity kicked into
high gear. In our tribal
god we trusted and under our
tribal God we lived our bless-
ed, capitalist lives. My dad
thought they were twins
and, for a time, I did, too.
Everybody in my lily-white
suburb did. I think back then
only blacks got Jesus. But
I had a really good Sunday
School teacher, who, surely
unbeknownst to herself, taught
revolution — the Sermon on the
Mount, and Jesus, the swarthy-
skinned, kinky-haired, short
guy eventually entered my “lily-
white” heart and I’ve been at
odds with most of my relatives
ever since.

I am here with you, loving you,
praying for you. You need not speak at all.
If it’s alright to put my hand on yours,
just nod and I will gently let hand fall

on top of your still hand resting on sheets
ever so white, ironed ever so straight.
I touch your dry, cold hand unlike the heat
of your brow with a fever so great.

Your eyes are closed and so I, too, close mine
and offer silent prayer unto the sky
that Christ will visit you with love divine
and bring you the peace that passes closely by.

The fever breaks; you open your eyes and grin
seeing the tears of joy running down my chin.

We both laugh; your wink is understood.
Our laughter joins with Jesus in gratitude.

The classical radio station fades in and out
no matter what she does with the tuner and
antennae after the two-year old grandson
played with all the dials the previous even-
ing. She nibbles an oatmeal cookie and
sips the coffee as the Chocolate Lab sits
in front of her drooling from both sides
of his mouth onto the throw rug which
covers the new carpet. The fan moves counter-
clockwise to push air downward to help cool
the woman and the dog. The spring days are
warming quickly in the desert — above average
for this time of year, boding an even hotter
summer. People ask her when she will be leav-
ing for the cool, spring days of home. She
hadn’t thought about the remaining three
weeks until she listened to the dog’s in-
creased panting even in the morning. It’s
ten a.m. She gets ready to head to church.
She knows it will be too hot in the car
and there will be no shade in the parking
lot of the church, so she says, “You have to
stay home, Bud.” He drops his head and
heads to his bed in the bedroom. She closes
the door feeling a twinge of guilt. He made
his point. She trusts he will jump for joy
when she returns. As she walks down the
stairs, the dog goes to the window and
watches for her to pass. He will be
awaiting eagerly when she returns.
She knows she can count on that.

The oil painting bought at a
second-hand store to be used
in decorating the condo was

full of desert colors and the
blue of shallow water brightly
reflecting the ever present sun.

Someone said it looked like
Page. He didn’t know if he
would ever get to Page so he

walked into the painting wear-
ing his old hiking boots. At
the water’s edge, he removed

his boots and socks and walked
in up to his knees. The water
was clear and cold. Feeling

the tingle before numbness he
walked back out, picked up his
boots and socks and left Page

behind. His wife asked him if
he wanted a cup of freshly
brewed, morning coffee. Won-

dering why he had his boots
and socks in his hand, she
asked him if he were going

for a hike. “No. Been there,
done that,” he said as he
sat at the table.

When I die
I will not be put in a
box and lowered in the ground.
I know, I won’t know a thing, but
I know now and I even dread
having to submit
to a MRI,
and I think
when I die
perhaps I’ll hover
all claustrophobic over the
grave unable to breathe
as I look down at the body placed
in the box buried six feet
under in a real tight space.
So, just burn me up fast and
cast my ashes to the wind
in the sand dunes
where I have loved to run
with
Chocolate Labs
and where I have
breathed deeply of the
breeze off the Big Lake.
Toss the dogs’ ashes with mine
when I die
so all those ashes can
breathe deeply of
the breeze off the Big Lake
when I die.

The man saw the line in a poem:
“When fish are fools,” and
he thought that in his
experience he had never seen
a foolish fish.
He can’t remember the poem
and his wish
is that he could look it up
to read the reason the poet
had opined about when fish are
fools. Not even his son,
who catches four fish
to the man’s one,
thinks fish are fools,
especially Colorado fish,
where he gets to fish
his every wish.
His son is quite wise
and a wise
person wouldn’t wish
to spend time with fools
let alone foolish fish
and he spends every
free moment with
sly, smart, sneaky fish —
in rivers, ponds, lakes
and creeks —
full of fish any fish lover
would love to catch
and release.
And then he got it.
“The fish is a fool
when my son casts
a home-made fly
into the pool,
which the fish would spy
out the corner of its eye.
Even a riffle smart brookie,
who has fooled people
near and far
is not a trout
but an Artic Gar
and
becomes a rookie
before the magic
of my son’s cast
and that’s when a
fish is a fool.”
Then the man wondered,
does that poet know
my son?

It’s warming fast in the desert.
The bedroom window is open

and he listens to the spring
winds blowing through the

valley. The comforter is scrun-
ched in the middle, only the

sheet covering them. The sky
starts to lighten; he rests

his hand on her backside as
she lies in a fetal position

facing the window. Stirring,
she asks apologetically, “Was

I snoring?” “No,” he replies.
Giving her a pat, he turns

toward the door, assumes his
own fetal position, sighs and

thinks about the dream. Soon
the dog will lick his hand as

it hangs over the bed signaling
that is time to take him out.

I hear that
everything is
securely in place,
that all systems
are go and
there is security
in the space
that you occupy
and the space
upon which
you rely,
but the fact
of the matter
is that in
cyberspace
nothing is
safe.
Drone on.

My P.E. teacher
caught me in
a lie
in wrestling class
in high school.
I said I was
sorry and he
nailed me to
the mat.
Having done that,
he asked,
“Did you apologize
because you were
sincerely sorry
or just caught
in the act?”
And isn’t that
always the
question?

If I take umbrage
in anything more,
it’s that
I’m not the
police chief
in Ferguson, MO,
that’s
for sure,
or the city manager
and the few others,
when the whole
gang should have been
ex-communicated
by all the numbers.
The feds’ message is
clear:
clean house and
say emphatically, in
this country
racism is dead;
there is nothing
to fear.
Wouldn’t that
be nice?