The wind blew in gusts
strong; they made springtime gasp for
air; her teeth chattered.

He spoke cumbrously
when telling a story
to the point where
people dozed languorously.
Every word was
uttered painstakingly
in greatest detail
to the point where
people lost the train of thought,
thinking their thoughts
thoughtlessly.
When he finished,
everyone rose up,
cleared their throats
stentoriously
and offered deep
appreciation
unctuously —
another evening’s reading
concluding
most successfully.

Emily, oh, Emily, they
took your poem,
interpreted it,
poked it
and prodded it,
then dissected it,
consumed it,
terminally tortured it,
and finally regurgitated
every word of it
till your sweet,
ungrammatical poem was
rendered lifeless except
for the musicians and
actors and poets
inspired to
pontificate upon
each and every
piece of it
and felt so very erudite
about it
and quite satiated
with all of it,
you might conclude
that they, not you,
actually wrote it.
Well, I guess it’s
kind of nice
just having
some attention
paid to it.

The outstanding, office administrator of the last
interim I served before retirement sent me the
following poem. I am proud to post it:

I met a man who owned a collar
But seldom wore it,
Yet, he ministered everywhere he went.
He was a kind man
Soft spoken
Yet he could be loud if he wanted to.
He has a love for labs
And the feeling is reciprocal.
He rallies for the rights of others
While standing amongst his peers.
His wisdom is beyond anything I will ever achieve
And still has a wonderful sense of humor.
Some jokes I admittedly don’t understand,
But they still make me smile.
He treats everyone the same
No matter their circumstance,
And would give the shirt off his back
To anyone that needed it.
Although he’s experienced much pain,
He’s able to love abundantly.
I am privileged to have met a man
Who had a collar,
Yet seldom wore it.

“You’re used to it, aren’t you,
girl?” he hopefully, rhetorically
asked the five-year-old Chocolate

Lab who joined the couple two
week’s ago making another family
after their last Lab died six-months-

ago. She slept on the big, red chair
in the great room in the aftermath
of a family disagreement (read

fight) about something that went
wrong with springtime cleaning the
backyard pond. After reading page

197 of the latest mystery, he look-
ed up and stared into her closed
eyes and said, mostly to himself,

“I’m so sorry you had to hear me
shouting, girl. I know you need
peace and quiet after undergoing

giving birth to a litter, traveling
north, being spayed and staying
in two foster homes before com-

ing here to the praise and laud-
ation of Lab rescue workers.”
He looked down at the book, flip-

ped the page and looked forward
to the denouement of the mystery
hoping he hadn’t done too much

more damage to the girl who slept
apparently peacefully on the big,
red chair in the great room.

He once told his daughter,
as a way of confessing
his sins with which she was
more than cognizant simply
because she was around
the house, that every re-
grettable word was uttered
under the influence. The
confession came over the
phone so he couldn’t see
her physical response ( read
reaction) and then she
just “hmmed.” It wasn’t
exactly expiation, perhaps
more like partial propitiation,
like a wet blanket unable
to give off warmth to the
one who sat shivering
beneath. One day, by the
grace of God, he may wrap
a warm, soft, dry, non-
scratchy, wool blanket of
forgiveness around his
shoulders and stop asking
his daughter for the blanket
forgiveness that isn’t her’s
to give.

This idea came about when an acquaintance mentioned in an e-mail
that his wife was working her way through a package of granola
obtained at a wonderful, local restaurant named Dutch Brothers’.
The acquaintance commented on my previous poem on peanut butter
and jelly and opined on a poem about granola. He also had questioned
my use of the word peradventure in a previous poem, for which I was
appreciative because I had forgotten to qualify “peradventure” with
the word “beyond.”

For better or worse, here is my spontaneous, “off the cuff” effort:

Look at granola —
unity in diversity, inclusivity, variety.
That’s a big, beautiful,
bowl of democracy.
Drink it in; milk it for what it’s worth;
now, there is something to chew on —
Without a peradventure —
a taste for everyone.

He wanted to do
something of deep profundity,
something dealing with
all the sorrow and grief
and disharmony —
the blood-letting
and greedy getting,
continuing hour after hour,
but he kept thinking
about organic cherry preserves
and organic peanut butter
and bread made with
organic flour
toasted just right
and decided that
for such a sandwich
he would be willing
to fight
and maybe even
lay down his life.
Then he heard his wife,
in the cause of the social right
ever steady,
“Honey, before we head
to the protest march, your
sandwich of peanut
butter and jelly is ready.”
He rose from the computer,
headed to the kitchen
for sustenance, nourishment and courage
and then in a righteous posture,
out the door, wife in hand,
to march in another cause
celebre and beyond peradventure.

Did he just use the
word
effulgence
in a love poem?
Really? Seriously?
Sounds like flatulence
spoiling passionate, love scents.
Not good for romance.
Where was his sense?
A corny, poetic indulgence?
Three drunk gents
walk into a bar
letting fly with
their combustible,
putrid
effluence.
The bartender said,
“Noxious gents,
you need some
Frankincense.
Your stench
is a
capital offense
and you are probably
without any moral sense
just like this (p)-resident.
Oh, such repugnance.
Who’d give
two cents
for any three cabinet stooges’
without ethical elements
and
a lack of magniloquence —
or the (p)-resident’s
third-grade
vocabulary so dense
and his obnoxious, verbose,
multiloquence
and
ego so immense
and
HUGE,
narcissistic
malevolence
raised to new
heights of
anti-eloquence —
his creepy
presence
like so much
efflorescence
creeping through
and coating
the essence
of any presents
a lover would
give his
love — bright
with effulgence.
And there is
that word again —
like
something
icky, sticky and
glutinous.
Like, perchance,
the (p)-resident?
And why does the
(p)-resident always
have this damnable,
ubiquitous, uninvited
presence?
Is it inevitable
that when he thinks of
flatulence,
he’ll automatically
think of the (p)-resident?
The (p)-resident wasn’t asked
to be in any of
these words or sentences.
Did he just use
the word perchance?
Really? Seriously?

As I thought of you,
your effulgence
blinded my eye

so much brighter
than the sun in the
clear, early spring sky.