It has been said that sin is banal
And surely that will do
The theme isn’t simplify
But rather simplistic —
Through and through.
Everyone is waiting for the
Labyrinth to be exposed
But “follow the money”
Plays out like a stupid side-show.
The president wanted a Russian tower
But couldn’t get the money
While the sanctions were in place.
Putin just wanted the sanctions gone
So he and Russia could have more elbow space
To dominate Europe and beyond.
If Russia helped Trump get elected
So the sanctions could be lifted,
Trump would get his tower
And Russian domination would grow
And the Russian spring would flower.
However, the lies are adding up
Like a Siberian, snow-capped mount
And the culprits are giving up;
Their egos no more to flaunt.
And the selfish scheme
Cooked up in the dark
Is soon to face the high beam
And be seen for what it would tell —
A stupid, simplistic, banal plan
Of treason — all for a tall Trump hotel.

There was a cute Dutch gal from Holland, Mich
Who everyone thought was quite a dish.
She kicked up her wooden shoes
To throw out those West Michigan blues
While the boys just wanted to give her a big kiss.

Religion gets
a bad name
and carries
all the blame.
Organized religion plays
the culprit.
Religious groups
just split and split
Over this and that
and tit for tat.
Irony just smiles
and shakes her head.
True religion is about
the opposite instead.
Root religare means
to bind, come together
and attach with
the light tether
of God’s grace.
So what to do
in the mean time?
Find kindred spirits —
let your little light shine
until you split, too.
Then sing the Kyrie
and continue to pray.
The results are not
up to you.
So just be one
of the faithful
to do the job,
of “doing justice,
loving mercy
and walking humbly
with your God.”

the last of the fall’s
birch leaves floated sleepily
onto icy pond.

the gold-fish floated
in place two feet under ice,
which begs the question,

“is it going to be a long winter?”

If something is false, is it there?
If one lies constantly, if one’s life
is a lie in its essence and totality,
is there the essence of life in its
totality? We look at a person who
lies all the time — lie upon lie upon
lie. Is he there with his pants on
fire? Is there substance? Is he a
figment of our imagination? Is he
like a mirage in the desert — the
promise of an oasis of lush green-
ery and flowing, refreshing water
only to be just that — a mirage, un-
real, not existing and the truth of
what is there is dry, hot, burning
grains of sand? When he lies are we
looking at just more and more dry,
hot, burning grains of sand? Is such
a person really just a mirage, not
really there? Is evil non-existent
as one religious group sees it? Or
is wanting the liar to be a simple
mirage vanishing before our very
eyes just wishful thinking?

Wouldn’t you think, given the brevity of
     Human life and what could be thought
Of as its relative insignificance, all things
     Considered, that we, short of span and
Of little import, would do something
     Of significant time and much import like
Giving, listening, offering compassion,
     Justice and sacrificial love — wouldn’t
You think or feel or both instead of not
     At all, wouldn’t you? Wasn’t Jesus’ life
Short of span and didn’t he come from
     A place of little significance and thought
To be of little significance, yet, who do
     We remember? Yes, the one who gave,
Listened, offered compassion, justice
     And sacrificial love. Is it Ozymandias
Or the Cosmic Christ who lives in the
     Hearts of humanity? So let us learn
How short life is, “count the number
     Of our days and so gain wisdom of
Heart.”

He sat watching his grandchildren
stare at their phones. When he
was a kid he went on Sunday
evening with his parents to his

grandparents’ house where all
the relatives would gather for
supper. He would play games
with his cousins while the

grownups talked; The Ed
Sullivan Show was watched,
the TV turned off, his grand-
father would tell stories to

the kids which they didn’t
quite understand, his mother’s
brothers who thought they
were really funny would tell

terrible jokes and his father
would sit and shake his head
and mutter under his breath,
“Oh, my god.” The man was

grateful for the memories and
then he went back to watch-
ing his grandchildren watching
their phones. He tried to get

their attention and tell a story
to the kids like his grandfather
used to do, but they just ignored
him while staring at their phones.

He watched a movie about a poet
who couldn’t stop his fans from
praising him. Apparently, he was

addicted to the attention. It didn’t
work out real well for the poet.
After a long period of “writer’s

block,” he produced a poem that
sent his fans into a frenzy. Mobs
upon mobs descended on the poet’s

house resulting in mayhem, murder
and conflagration. He, the watcher
and a poet, concluded that the

medium was the message: the writer
had the idea and wrote the book,
the script-writer wrote the script,

the producers paid for the production,
the director directed, the actors
acted, the film was produced, the

DVD made, the horror entered his
house through the TV connected to
the DVD player for all of the

cinematic horror (the equivalent
of hell) to enter his brain and
send his wife out of the room,

for relief in the bathroom, all
of which told him two things:
1. the media probably is to

blame for the rise of demagoguery
around the world and 2. that he
should be grateful for only a

very few fans (and not hoards)
who read his poems at his blog
through the internet (that Al

Gore took some credit for invent-
ing {actually he didn’t.} and
believed it because it was seen

on the news which was watched on
TV) (back to the fans) on their
computers on their desks or on

their I-Pads or their I-Phones
anywhere which were the logical
extension of the creative work

of Apple’s founder Steve Jobs
who has been turned into a god
through media exposure with

millions of devoted followers
awaiting his return to earth to
save them from the mayhem, murder

and conflagration about to envelop
all because minorities are starting
to take over and white people will

be sent to barren, Sub-Saharan
Africa in a reversal of slavery and
poeple believe it because they see it

over and over and over when they
aren’t watching sports on the
TVs, which take up most of the wall.

The man has been thinking about experiences —
Maybe, in hindsight, missed opportunities —
Third and fourth grades in the city and his
Best friend with whom he played all recess and
In the neighborhood after school — a black
Boy. He loved that young man, his best friend —
A kid, after the family moved, he never saw again.
And then in fifth grade in the suburbs, a Hispanic
Boy, so big he didn’t fit sitting at the desk. He had
Mild peppers he shared. The two couldn’t speak
Each other’s language but they communicated care.
Then one day the Hispanic boy who had to be lost
In the class where no one, including the teacher,
Could speak Spanish, disappeared and the man
Had no idea where his friend went. What could he
Do? He was just a little white boy who loved his
Black and Hispanic friends. Now an old man, he
wonders what he could have done, maybe what
He should have done for little white boys and little
Black boys and a not so little Hispanic boy who
Couldn’t speak the language. He still wonders.

They call it interracial marriage
like crossing different species
therefore, some think of it as wrong,
but that’s a misnomer;
and that is all wrong;
there is no such thing
to see.
Inter-ethnic marriage is strong
and the real thing,
to see.
There is only one race,
one species,
and that’s the human race
to which we all belong
and ethnicity makes unity in diversity
interesting and shatters our
shallow definition of this race and that
and right and wrong.
So, let’s mix it up, folks
ethnic bigots to coax
into an appreciation
of God’s One Great Racial
Rainbow Coalition.