The deadliest day
was the day
they (the ubiquitous enemies)
they
didn’t do it my
way (!)
was the way 
the Occupant
did say
(on an otherwise
now normally anxious day)
when someone
needed to say,
“Stop it! You are
responsible for all
the virus deaths
from the beginning
to this day.”
Oops, that is something
someone did say
today.
It is the courageous
Nancy Pelosi.

A doddering old fool turned to his more youthful but
sometimes just as forgetful bride and asked, “It’s Steve,
right?” “Who?” “Phil’s friend.” “Hmmm. Something
like that.” “Does he call him Steve or Stephen with
a ‘ph’ but pronounced as in an ‘f’ or Steven as in a ‘v’?”
“Got me there.” “I’m going to be embarrassed if it is Joe
or maybe Joseph as in a ‘ph’ but pronounced as if an ‘f’.”
“Well, don’t forget that it could be Josef with an ‘f’ but
pronounced as a ‘v.’” “I suppose we should just ask him.”
“Good idea there, you handsome man with a smaller than
elephant’s size memory. Or should I say, ‘You elephant-
sized man with a memory about as good as that of a dod-
dering old fool’?” So they asked their friend Phil and the
phone answer came back, “Ah…..your sixth sense is working
here: …the man was actually christened STEPHEN JOSEPH (!),
but answers simply to Steve. Another tidbit for the memory
bank.” And so they thought, we will write it down, because,
according to an old Chinese proverb, “The faintest ink is
better than the best memory.” “Now,” the doddering old fool
asked, “was that Josef with an ‘f’ but pronounced as a ‘v’
or Joseph with a ‘ph’ but pronounced as an ‘f’?” To which
his wife wearily responded, “Don’t worry about it, dear. Just
call him Darrell.” “How do you spell that — two r’s and
two l’s or one of each or one r and two l’s or two r’s and
one l? And now I can’t find a pen that works and I’m forget-
ting who we were talking about.” The next day, Phil called
to talk about his friend Daryl. “How do you spell that?” he
asked Phil. “Daryl.” The old codger called to his wife,
“Honey, how would you pronounce D-A-R-Y-L?” “Don’t
even go there.”

It’s a cold, damp, windy day
this overcast pre-May.

The neighbor sits around the fire pit,
a bloody butcher knife off his lap does slip.

He rises and starts to dig
in the pit with a shovel.
What he’s doing is a puzzle.

He digs — making a deep hole and high mound.
Over the next few days,
we’ll have to watch if his wife Sharon

is seen or makes a sound.
And we’ll watch if back in the pit suddenly
goes the mound.

We’re running out of body bags;
it might as well be spring,
I’d say that I had spring fever
But I know it isn’t spring
I am starry-eyed and vaguely discontented
Like a nightingale without a song to sing
Oh, why should I have spring fever
When it isn’t even spring?
We’re running out of body bags,
it might as well be spring.
Maybe you have COVID-19 fever
while you know it isn’t even spring.
You are starry-eyed with a persistent cough
like a nightingale without a voice to sing;
maybe you have COVID-19 fever
while it might as well be spring,
and it is and the cry for air is just the same
while it might as well be spring,
which it is and I’m no longer
starry-eyed and vaguely discontented,
I’m about to be intubated this spring
in the distant hope of life being incubated this spring.
And we are short on body bags;
be sure mine to bring.

More and more
she wants
less and less
of what
is this mess.

Less and less
she wants
more and more
of what
is this mess.

More and more
against
and
less and less
for
this deadly,
miss-managed,
could have been
avoided, never
should have been
experienced,
causing unnecessary
loss of life —
mess

He read a poem about
seeing the baby in the
womb via ultrasound. He

didn’t have that vantage
point when his two were
growing in the womb. The

poet used expressive lang-
uage to describe the baby —
a shrimp in her mother’s

sea, a comma punctuating,
a star for a heart. What
he saw was a baby flipped

onto his mother’s lap: “Oh
my, it’s a boy,” when he had
been expecting a girl.

Surprise. He just got a warm,
loving e-mail from that man-
child. And then, of all things,

with the second, he wasn’t al-
lowed to see the birth, but he
caught a glimpse of her and

heard her screaming down the
hall into the nursery. “It’s
a girl and she looks just like

your mother. It’s little Alice,”
he said to his wife. She is
now a beautiful, quiet artist

just like her deceased mother
used to be. Surprise. Every
day, they surprise him. He

never saw them in the womb,
but every day he placed his
ear on his wife’s stomach

and heard the heart and
felt the foot’s kick and saw
stars that turned to tears.

THINE IS THE GLORY

Gently, gently snow descends
Afresh in April, when is its end?
Within our church we praise this Eastertide
As world became a snow globe outside
Drifting down like mercy that we praised
Jesus resurrected, from cruel death was raised

This is how our Peninsula acclimatizes
Psalm 150’s mandate all the world must actualize
Praising Holy Parent, Spirit, Son
The work Resurrection’s just begun.
We are in a strange rendition, the
Snow globe of the world’s condition

Recalling childhood, we have a childlike fascination
Of that shaken–not stirred–toy of transition
May we be reminded of God’s Hands safekeeping all
Our universe, endlessly blest, follow Jesus’s love call.
Birds, sea, music, dance, trees, instruments praise greatness of God
Lover of anyone wrought, bought at great price: all honor Creator, and laud.

Easter 2014

He called and asked her, “What are you
going to do for Easter? Got any big plans?”
She wondered what planet he was on.
“What about you?”she asked. “Oh, not
much. I’ll take some nice lamb chops
out of the freezer and fix them; clean up
my office desk a little and watch some TV.”
“Ditto, something like that,” she said. “Did
you really just ask me if I had any big plans
for Easter?” “Oh, I forgot, or perhaps just
wanted to forget.” “Oh, yeah, I’m going to
take the Chocolate Lab for a walk like I will
today, Good Friday and Easter Saturday.”
“That sounds nice.” “The dog gets excited
about going for walks. If I could get out and
about, I might try to find Jesus. Last year,
it was documented in an obituary that a
man went home to be with Jesus at Apple-
dorn North. I imagine Jesus has moved on
since then. It would be like an Easter egg
hunt only it would be a Jesus hunt. The
women saw him; two guys on the road saw
him and had supper with him; he mysteri-
ously appeared in an upper room and then,
of all things, he actually prepared breakfast
for some of the disciples who had been fishing.
I don’t think he’s going to be in church. In fact,
I don’t think Jesus has been seen in any church
around here in quite some time. I think I saw
him on TV at one of those faux coronavirus up-
dates. He was about to ask Dr. Fauci a quest-
ion about an untested pharmaceutical when
he was cut off by the Cutoff in Chief who
I am told has a financial interest in a com-
pany manufacturing the drug.” “Okay, well,
have a good day. Goodbye.” “Say, let me know
what you are going to do on Monday. Bye.”

He saw something in the dune grass.
He walked over from the driveway,

looked down and saw what looked
like baby squirrels. It was two baby

bunnies. It’s Easter and two baby
bunnies, soft, brown and beige

bunnies were cuddled up against
each other in the cold, stillness of

death; it was as if they slept in
each other’s arms. He reached

down and picked up one. While
cold to the touch it was still soft,

not hard, not too stiff. Did they
belong to the bunny in the back

yard who the Chocolate Lab sniffs
out each morning and afternoon

and evening on outings? If so, would
momma be sad and, if so, for long?

They died but were not eaten. The
neighbor said that is is the way of

nature. They will be nourishment
for some creature. The man looked

out the window to the spot where
the two entwined bodies lay on the

grass. They were gone. It wasn’t a
resurrection even though it is Easter.

It is the way of all flesh. Maybe
hope is in the sadness of the heart.

He stands at the podium
and moves his hands in and
out like he is squeezing an

accordion and sings about
the virtues of some snake
oil because he is a snake

oil salesman. He moves
his hands round and round
like he is stirring the pot

of snake oil. It is what he
does; he sells snake oil; he
can’t help himself and we

listen because he is on TV
during prime time and during
this time, there is nothing

else to do. We say he can’t
be a snake oil salesperson
because he is speaking on

our behalf and this thing
that he is hawking will
save us. What we don’t

know is that he really is
a snake oil salesman
because he has interest

in some of the companies
making the snake oil and
he really doesn’t know if

the snake oil will help
us or not but that isn’t
his concern. His concern

is selling the product
and behind the snake oil
is the snake tempting

Adam and Eve. But none
of the fresh-faced jour-
nalists sitting six-feet

apart dare ask. And
the old-folks watching
look at each other and

ask “I’m not old enough
to know personally, but
wasn’t there a time snake

oil was really good for
what ails you? Hey, if
it was good then, it’s

got to be good now. Right?
Honey, did you hear me?
Honey?” “Yes.”