They went through a million dollar plus building program
     in addition to bringing the organ up to date, all built,
remodeled and reconstructed to the glory of God except
     they somehow forgot about Jesus and the ministry of
the Sermon on the Mount, the beatitudes and the 25th
     chapter of Matthew’s Gospel where Jesus talks about
how if you visited the prisoners and cared for the sick
     and clothed the naked, and fed the hungry, in so doing
you did it to Jesus; I’m thinking that somehow got lost
     but to the congregation’s credit, the music program was
better than ever, at least, in recent history and, at
     least, that’s what everyone said, so why in the name of
God and in the world wouldn’t the congregation get serious
     about who they really are and just say they are a recently
renovated music hall and leave it at that and if you have
     to, to save face, say it is to the glory of God, whatever
god that is? Wouldn’t you think that would be a whole lot
     more honest? I mean, really good music halls with a first
rate organ don’t just grow on trees. As with anything, it
     takes money and lots of it. Apparently, they are really
happy to have a place for perfect pitch singers and in-
     credible acoustics all, and get this, in the name of Jesus
to boot.  Does anyone know if Jesus was a tenor, baritone
     or bass? Being Jesus, probably he was all three, even at
the same time — Trinity’s harmony within himself. Should
     we call ourselves Trinity Church? Daddy sang bass. Mama
sang tenor. Me and little brother would join right in....
     That's four. Well, four and no more. Jesus would
understand a little mix up in math but never in music.

My mother’s humor was scatological.
She would tell bathroom jokes and curse up a storm.
My father was just the opposite.
He never swore and clean jokes were always the norm.
I’m the child of both those folks
and I came out somewhere in between
when it came to cursing and to telling jokes.
One of her favorite ditties,
“Here I sit broken-hearted,
came to…”
wasn’t her best
but then off to another ditty she would flit;
and probably you can guess the rest,
and my dad would tell her,
“Jeanette, give it a rest.”
To which she would give a ribald, and bawdy retort
and they were off to the races of a sort.
On second thought, I have to revise what I said;
In jokes and language, I’m really more my mother’s cohort,
which has been a problem for me, a minister.
Most often I would manage,
to watch my tongue not to create a stir.
but I have to say,
since retirement, my tongue
has often gotten in the way.
“I can’t believe you are a minister
when you talk that way,”
they would say,
and I would say, “Retired today,
tomorrow and everyday,”
with a few expletives thrown in along the way.

I’m going for an eye exam today;
I’ve got glaucoma in one eye,
but the treatment has been optimal
so I’m optimistic about what the
ophthalmologist will say.
It’s also Election Day
and I’m voting today.
I have to say
that I have been listening to pundits
who have a lot to say
(Nervous Nellies, they)
about Election Day.
And for what its worth,
this is what I have to say,
“Ultimately, everything is going to be okay.
It may
not be a perfect outcome today,
but, we aren’t going to let fascism steal the day.
This isn’t Germany back in the day.
We are a glorious, young, multi-ethnic country
struggling to find our way,
but we are struggling and that tells me
that we will find the way
reinforcing our glorious representative
democracy along the way.
“What’s that you say?
I’m not seeing twenty-twenty?
Which vision is it you say —
literal eyesight or politics of the day?
May…be, may…be not.
We will just have to watch the results
at the end of the day.”

My grandfather died one hundred years ago at the ripe old age of around thirty-eight. I’m really not sure of his exact age at death, because, obviously, I never knew him and my father wasn’t real keen on details which has left a gaping hole in the history of the Swedes in my family. Anyway, he had served in the Swedish army before he immigrated to the states with his wife and two sons, one of whom was my father. Shortly thereafter, in Rockford, IL, I think, my grandmother died giving birth to a stillborn girl. My uncle, who must have been around five at the time, was sent back to Sweden never to return to  the states. My dad, who was probably around eight at that time, and my grandfather then attempted to eke out a living in Gary, IN or East Chicago, IL where my grandfather was a foreman in a steel mill. When soldiers of WWI came back to the states and settled in the Chicago vicinity, some must have gone to work at the mill. My grandfather fell victim to the Spanish Influenza pandemic which the soldiers brought home with them, the irony being that the pandemic actually got its start in the states, traveled overseas where it got the misnamed moniker. My father was around thirteen when he was orphaned. My dad died at fifty-six, my Swedish uncle, who I never met, died in his mid-eighties (again, I think) and in ten days, I’ll be seventy-four and most things, herein, are subject to correction except my birthday anniversary, of which I’m pretty sure.

I don’t have to look too far down.
It’s about five and a half feet from
my eyes to the ground.

However, if I look toward the sky,
the distance seems infinite
to there from my eye.

I have to look down
to see where I’m going
and not stumble all around

But if I stand still
and look to the sky,
there is a universe to fill
and I often say, “Oh, my.”

Jogging, cycling and walking along,
I have to look down and all around —
backward and forward
so I don’t fall headlong.

But if I stand perfectly still
with my feet somewhat apart,
I can look up and sing
over the highest hill.

So I guess it’s all good,
this looking up, down and all around
for both star-gazing and navigating
the neighborhood.

Fall burned quietly, softly
singeing leaves to yellow,
beige, brown — not fiery
red, not quite yet dead
while a tingly, cold wetness
washed over the canvas
muting the colors even more.
The leaves clung longer
than usual creating a
painting of peace, patience,
quiet, stillness before
the last big blast and blow
leaving skeletons in their
wake asking for whom
the bells toll and a
blackness awaiting the
coming white of a
sarcophagus’ pall.

The pundit spoke of “evolving men”
And suburban women voting —
Evolving from and toward what?
I thought of Neanderthals with
Clubs in their hands. Actually,
He might be referring to men
Who belong to clubs — golf,
Tennis, athletic, Good Old
Boys — modern day places
For wealthy, old, white men
With Neanderthal minds
Who sit around sipping
Martinis and wine, reading the
Wall Street Journal and grunting
Ofttimes. Maybe they actually are
Devolving from Neanderthals,
Aka the old, white guys in Congress.

We keep going on as if nothing is wrong
and pretending that we are “America Strong”
knowing that just about everything is wrong.
For how long can we just go along?
Supposedly (and a surprise to the Pentagon)
fifteen-thousand troops are to be sent
to the southern border just to stand around
by the (p)-resident who has lost control
and looks more and more like a deranged, carrot-topped clown.
Apparently, he’s pulling these racist stunts because
he is petrified of being indicted
and of Republicans losing Congressional ground,
which could lead to his impeachment
and then he’ll never get to wear a king’s crown.
Let’s just hope when he goes completely bonkers
and moves to hit the big, red button,
rational minds abound
and there will be strong arms
to hold him down,
place him in a straight jacket
and speed him out-of-town.