Seemingly, as usual only the
residents of Haiti cared when
Matthew clobbered them — a
brief news blurb now and then
with all the attention being
given to two adults acting
like petulant adolescents,
and then when Matthew was
about to “BLAM!” through the
Bahamas, the ever diligent,
money driven media, started
to get their undies scrunched —
WARNING! Matthew is coming!
As he creeps closer to the
shores of the good, old,
primarily, white, very rich
US of A the media is in panic
mode. Matthew is coming!
Matthew is coming! Evacuate!
This storm will kill you! This
storm will kill us! Protect your
assets! Liquidate and carry
your riches with you into an
underground shelter! By the
way, anyone have any idea
what happened to Haiti?
Say what? Say where?
Oh, don’t worry. Some
youth group will make
the trip to lend a
hand in due time after
a few car washes to
raise the money to
make the trip.

Up and out of forests and
swamps, cold, damp places,
descendants of those who
came out of Africa and

Asia, skin lightened by
the need for the warmth of
the Sun, grew smug in the
rapidity of their progress

and instead of benevolently
sharing with others the gift
they were given, and humbly
learning the wisdom of the

East, went back, back, back
to conquer descendants of
far removed ancestors with
greed and avarice in mind

and hubris of heart. Tired
of fighting with each other,
they chose the middle and
far East to plunder, and so

they did with ferocity and
brutality and today the West
wonders why there is so much
hostility and animosity. The

winds of war blow back upon
the fair-skinned, blue-eyed
brothers and sisters of the
same ancient mothers who

wail in eternity. There is
no hate as the hate that
smothers and smolders when
brothers fall out with each

other. So now hubris, greed,
arrogance and pride have
crumbled like citadels of
capitalism and up from the

ashes have arisen false
bravado, fear and hearts in
terror, much, much worse
than the terror they see

attacking from the East.
Lightening strikes many
times before death by
terrorist, but stats

don’t matter when scared
stiff, knows the sick man.
The blowback is a zephyr
wind of acrid oil and putrid

bodies and the wolf says,
“I’ll huff and puff and
blow your house down,”
and the little piggies

of the West tremble behind
their house of cards. And
rattling sabers completely
rattle those who have lost

their soul to the god of
greed — accumulate, accumu-
late, dissipate, dissipate.
But is it too late for

diplomacy not to mention
repentance for sins done
against brothers and sisters?
Only time will tell as ancient

mothers wail in eternity.

The day dawned cool and crisp
and the sun had yet to appear.
Would rain be in the forecast
or would the sun bring forth a cheer?
The luncheon was food, fellowship and fun;
on the street they welcomed the sun.

Back home, he Googled the weather
and saw that clear skies prevailed
for at least two days or better
so he suggested camping be availed;
“We need to go somewhere local,”
his wife advised in no uncertain terms vocal.

“It wouldn’t take long the camper to hitch
and I’ll take you to a nearby town for dinner.
We’ll drive a mere twenty-five miles,” was his pitch.
But it was the offer of dinner that proved the winner.

So they hitched the camper and started out
when the clouds did burst and thunder did shout.
The dog started to howl from the back seat,
and his wife said that dinner out would still be very sweet.

“The child is father to the man….”
— William Wordsworth

He read a meditation on
the instantaneousness of
fatherhood, the mother
having approximately
nine months, of carrying
around her offspring, to
get accustomed to mother-
hood. His mind flashed
back forty-eight years
as he stood on the other
side of the window and
watched the final grunt
and saw four limbs
flailing, an umbilical
cord, a flopping, little
penis and two tiny test-
icles — oh, my, a boy,
thrust unceremoniously
from Eden, but still —
a man-child in the
promised land.

They joked in some embarrassment
about publishing books at their own
expense even though they are in the
vast majority now — 77 percent of
all books published. He has an out.
He tells people when they ask, which
they invariably do, which publisher
published his two books, that a very
selective, boutique poetry book pub-
lisher in Phoenix, Arizona publishes
his books. At this point, they seem
to be satisfied not knowing that the
very selective, boutique publisher
of poetry books is his daughter, who,
because of the two books they have
published together, is now a very
selective, boutique publisher of
poetry books and children’s books,
if you wish, illustrations by the
publisher, of course, who also
happens to be a starving artist.

Three days in a row
of sun and the moonlight’s glow.
Camping they would go.

Oh no, tooth fell out;
kayaking, running are out —
tooth fixed fast no doubt;

camping is too late;
cycling instead would be great;
They could face worse fate.

Outside my window
ran the chipmunk fast,
up and down the bush;
I thought he’d crash.

But such dexterity
he easily did show;
gobbling up red berries
and then off he did go.

As I sit here, I know
he’ll be right back;
as soon as he has a
red berry hunger attack.

Voracious is a word
that comes to mind,
I’m sure this omnivore
a tasty morsel will find.

Perhaps, I should look
around the pond and yard
shouting, “Jump, my friends.”
alerting frogs to be on guard.

It’s survival of the fittest;
“dog eat dog” is a fact;
My stomach is grumbling;
This omnivore is having
a Big Mac Attack.

The centrifugal force pulled him
out of himself, into himself,

around himself until there was
a much smaller self in harmony

with the pull of the Sun, the spin
of the earth, the light and dark

of the moon, the ragged, jagged
mountains, the churning, yearning

seas, the glorious deciduous and
evergreen trees but then there was

the pull back, push back in reaction
to the disconcerting, dizzying swirl

in and out and round about cosmos,
creation, relational elation moving

into oneness with all. Let go; go
with the eternal flow of justice,

mercy, peace, self-sacrificial
love — just let go, embrace

the echo, echo, echo. Goodbye
and hello.

He folded his hands in prayer;
he did just sit and stare
thinking about this and that care.
He stood up from the chair
wondering if Jesus had a dime to spare
for each and every care
people tossed his way here, there
and everywhere.
“Hey, Jesus, got a dime to spare
for each and every care
people toss here, there and everywhere?
Sorry, I forgot.
You don’t deal in Caesar’s fare.
Well, you take care,
until the next time
I ask you to pull up a chair
and listen to more and more things
about which I do care.
Even if you don’t have a dime,
I know you’ll take the time
to read my mind
as I just sit and stare
as if I didn’t have a care.