This Little Light

Are we breathing a little bit more
freely with the end in sight, begin-
ning in sight, a little of both, some 

of each? Terrible things may still
happen. There is more than enough
time, of course, but isn’t that always

the case — time as the harbinger of
dread, as in, “Oh, my God, what now?”
Is it so much the dance between op-

timism and pessimism or something
deeper, much closer to the marrow of
the bones, the beating of the heart,

the deep, deep satisfaction of a deep
breath, the inner light dispelling a 
heart of darkness? There’s a glimmer, 

a crack in the closed door so we can 
see the sunshine and most often that 
minuscule ray saves the day and renews

our faith — “…the substance of things
hoped for, the evidence of things not
seen,” but it is still nice to see that

sliver of light at the end of the tunnel
touching that light in our hearts 
signaling hope.





					

Two and Two

Two and two equals four;
I don’t know why any more,
except I never did.
Was the answer always hid?
I had to leave that to the
mathematicians,
who said, “Trust the statisticians.”
Okay, I accept
but only with regret
because I’m now being told
that two and two is old
and that two and two
is anything that the Donald may brew.
Mathematics and science be darned;
that was an old, false yarn and alarm.
The Donald says that two plus two equals four
if the Donald falsely wins the score
while he’s on the course and we all shout, “Fore!!!”

Trump Ta Da

Trump ta da, trump ta da, trump
ta da, trump ta da, taaa da, trump
ta da, trump ta da, trump ta da,
trump ta da, taaa. “That’s
American beef on the hoof,”
say the cattle growers, music
by Aaron Copeland, an urban,
Jewish, gay guy capturing the
adolescent Wild West with a
timely tune upon which the cattle
people capitalized and to which the
Donald rides off into the sunset or
maybe that’s showing up in court
in New York to face multiple legal
charges — Trump ta da, trump ta
da, trump ta da, trump ta da, taaa
da — galloping past Copeland’s NY
apartment on his way to Rikers —
Rikers, ta da, rikers ta da, rikers,
taaa da…And I don’t think Cope-
land meant any of that stuff for
American beef or the beef America
has with Trump, which Copeland surely
would have if he were alive today
— ta da.

Svendonnie Succeeds Svengali

Svendonnie just hangs on and on
tweeting lies that he has won.
He has a third of America (not just Svengali’s singer) mesmerized
with all his 23,000 lies.
But what he doesn’t know
is that he has just a third of the show.
Two-thirds furrow their brows
asking, “It’s day 1400! Can’t we throw him out now?”
No, the Constitution is right.
On January 20, Svendonnie runs
(not for office in 2024 but) for his Svengali life.

After Nine-Months in the House

Reluctantly, he unspooled his secret life
before his long-suffering, faithful wife,
revealing things
with lots of entwined strings
exposing himself as a significant fool
to which she said, “It’s time to re-tool
my life and don’t let the door
knock you to the floor,
just hit you in the derriere.”
The open door brought in fresh air.
Finishing the honest task,
she graciously reminded him to wear a mask —
“Bye bye.”

now that’s a tragedy

it’s pretty disheartening
(oh, what a wonderful
but such a sad word —
something not of the
heart or against the
heart). excuse me
for wanting to
scream bloody
murder, but 250,
000 dead is a
statistic while
one dead is
a tragedy so
the cliche
goes and
if that isn’t
dis-heart-
ening, have
you heard
that cain
killed abel?
now, that’s
a tragedy
of mythic
proportions
for the
ages.

A Lifetime Ago

A lifetime ago
his father said,
“Make it under-
standable, kid.”
The kid, now a
senior, writes
poetry, which
he hopes is un-
derstandable
and not a dummy—
down exercise,
because he
reads so much
that isn’t under-                                                                                                                 standable in his
opinion and he
is no dummy
even though
he allows a
lot of poetry
to make him
feel that way
and he’s not
talking about
allusions to
and metaphors
of Greek, Norse
and Roman
myths. Hey,
he can read
about those
which he
does and
really likes
and finds that
he can use
some in some
of his own
poetry es-
pecially the
Norse stuff
because he
is mostly
Scandinavian.

Say What!

His joints hurt
to which he said,
“I’ve been thrown
out of better joints
than this.”
His butt hurt
to which he said,
“I quit smoking
years ago.”
His head hurt
to which he said,
“I’ve always wanted
to get ahead.”
His lungs hurt
to which he said,
“Breathe on me,
breath of God.”
His eye hurt
to which he said,
“I’ve got my eye
on you, doc.”
To which his
doc said,
“You only have
one eye.”
To which he
said,
“Oh, right.”
To which the
doc said,
“Correct,”
and then added,
“Happy 76th
birthday.”
To which he said,
“Do I hear trombones?”
To which
the doc said,
“I’ve ordered a hearing
test for you.”
“Say what!”

The Thief on the Cross Got It*

He, matter of factly, stated
that it had all been fraudulent,
that he, in fact, was that
fraud, spoken after every-
thing, all accouterments
like the clothes and the car
and the income had slidden
away and, such an admission,
in its own way, revealed a
set of core values that en-
abled him to see it and then
say it and as tragic as it had
become for him, how many
others never ever see the
seductive myth of the American
dream as simply a grifter’s
paradise?

*idea from an article in the New York Times by

Soothing Music/Scary Weather

The area classical music radio station
on-air personnel, at least once per
half-hour, give the weather report, not

as part of the news, just as part of
the regular programming, like, as
Copeland’s Fanfare for the Common

Man concludes with a sense of
musical triumph and affirmation, we
learn that the temperature for the

middle of November here in the
upper Midwest along the shores
of the Big Lake will be a high of

forty-two with a forty percent chance
of rain, overnight 32 with snow
showers and then for tomorrow,

seventy-two degrees and sun follow-
ed the next day by a hard frost and
balmy spring-like temperatures, gale

winds, further erosion of the dunes,
some homes falling into the lake
followed by a freaky Polar Vortex.

A listener says Michigan and some-
one else says global warming and
a third person pleads into the radio, 


could we please have Ralph Vaughan
Williams’ Lark Ascending or Cope-
land’s Our Town or Appalachian Spring,

something to take away the dread?
Do you think they give the weather
just so you will beg for soothing

classical music kind of like when
Saul implored David to play the lyre
to soothe Saul’s weary brow before

throwing the spear at David’s head?