Do we need moonbeams or black, female prosecutors
Who will whip the bigger than big butt of the occupant
Of the White House? It’s a black, female, powerhouse
Prosecutor who will cause the occupant to scrunch up
His double X shorts, go into apoplexy as he did in Detroit
When the black, female minister said, “Excuse me,” and
The future occupant started to pant and back step and say,
“Who, what, when and where and how high?” And in that
Moment every one who watched the then candidate clutch and
Such, knew it would be the smart, quick, black, female,
Prosecutorial candidate (who brought down the house)
And would bring down the occupant of the White
House as Ms. Flighty Moonbeam said profoundly and rightly
But without any particular plan (Say what?), “Love will
Bring you down.”

He knows in his heart he was as good as it gets in the pulpit,
but other clergy friends never heard him or just heard him
once or twice and thought his preaching was nice, which is
what clergy are prone to say about other clergy — it was nice
(not great), nice, a damning compliment because it is just too
threatening and personal and so he was voted just okay by
peers and while some parishioners jumped up and down with
praise, that praise echoed from relatively small congregations
and not big city, tall steeple churches and now in retirement
he gets mail from the denomination to the right address but
the wrong first name. His wife says, “This is for you, Michael.”
The good news is that he knows how good he was and he,
on occasion, gives himself a fist pump.

They just can’t think outside the box
and the box is old experiences with
race relations. The box is opening
and justice and reparations and
catching up and doing the right
thing are bouncing out all over
and the old, white, male, profess-
ional journalists just don’t get
it. They keep trying to put things
back in the box, which is a black
box in a supersonic plane flying
at the speed of light, and the
box keeps opening and black and
brown and yellow and red young
people keep popping out, high
fiving, jiving and shouting that
justice is arriving for everyone,
even old, white, male professional
journalists that just can’t think
outside of the box — anymore.

Marianne will not win the nomination,
(she hasn’t got a Holy Ghost of
a chance), but Marianne speaks
the truth of love to power;
that’s the truth of love
not just truth, the
thing that
ultimately
will win
in spite
of the
fact
that
on
the
stage,
she looked a bit out of touch,
a little bit like an aging
hippy dippy except 
she is
from eternity and speaks

TRUTH OF LOVE TO POWER,

with loving,
eternal
power.

“That was a mischaracterization of what I said,”
Said the contender followed by the interviewer
Saying we have the quote which got lost along
With the next few comments, because the crowd
Was clapping loudly; unfortunately, what got lost
Was what was the truth about whether or not
It really was a mischaracterization or the truth.
And that seems to sum things up pretty nicely.

God said, “You had better pullulate
before it is too late.”
Abraham said,
“I’m too old to pullulate.”
Sarah laughed,
“I might as well be dead.”
Along came Isaac,
and God had the last laugh,
“See, you’re not dead;
you’re now parents instead.
So, instead
of trusting me
you assumed you were dead.”
Well, now, Abraham,
I want you to sacrifice Isaac;
your promised son will be dead.”
So, Abraham didn’t laugh;
he took Isaac up to the ledge;
he dutifully followed that path
with dread
and an angel of the Lord
held back the knife
and that put an end to the dread
practice of child sacrifice.
Over the next years
there would be laughter and tears
but the children of God
never again thought they were too late
to be fruitful and pullulate.

The news media just doesn’t do the horror
justice. There are children on the border
who are living in sub-human conditions
(no toilets, no showers, no hygiene, no
clean penises, vaginas, anuses); did I say
that this is happening in the good old US
of A? But all the money has to go to the
defense department to protect our wonderful
world and way of life, like all the white
actors in From Here to Eternity except now
it is from here to hell. How many beautiful,
lovely, little children have to die before
the powers that be stop the horror in its
tracks, open the concentration camps,
embrace the children, hand them over
to their mothers and fathers and then
stand in the shower provided for the
immigrants, to wash away the shame
and guilt, clean their souls and begin
the hard but wonderful work of fulfill-
ing the poem on the base of the Statue
of Liberty?

It has been said
that the man traveled
no more than fifty

miles from his place
of birth during his
thirty-some years,

yet countless millions
upon millions hang
on his every word

spoken on the
mountain and down
in the valley of both

blessings and curses.
Much, much older
and having traveled

much farther in
relation to the thirty-
some-year-old, but

not much in relation
to many others, he
believes a slow jog

along the trails near-
by would now suffice
along with a TV trip

somewhere hosted
by one of several
travel writers on

PBS, especially dur-
ing fundraising
season which now

seems to extend to
all four seasons.
He will continue

meditating along
with countless
millions of others,

on the words of the
one who, it is said,
never traveled more

than fifty miles from
the backwater town
where he was born.

Next to waterfall,
Mexican rocks make a cairn
pointing to the pond.

We sit on the balcony
with the smell of all the
new wood beneath our
feet and along the top
of the railing down and
around the walkway to
the front of the house.
Thirty-five years the old
wood lasted and now
it feels so good to have
such a firm foundation
which will last another
thirty-five or forty years,
long after we have left
the balcony and have
placed our feet on even
firmer foundations.