Here’s two percent of me –
Asian Indian. Seriously? Really?
Take me for free.
Here’s thirty-two percent of me –
British. That’s why there’s Indian in me.
Take me for free.
Here’s eighteen percent of me –
Western European — so much for fifty-percent Dutch in me.
Take me for free.
Here’s forty-two percent of me –
Scandinavian – The Vikings put out to sea.
Take me for free.
Here’s four percent of me –
Fin. The Vikings traveled to Finland, I see.
Take me for free.
Here’s two percent of me –
Northwest Russian. The Vikings traveled to Russia, too, I see,
or did the Russians invade via the Baltic Sea?
Putin says, “Only two percent!
You can have him for a small fee.”
All in all, I’m just happy to be me —
originally out of Africa, part of
the human family.

This morning I went to the worship service
Hoping the guest preacher’s sermon would move me like a Whirling Dervish.
It was supposed to be about opening blind eyes,
But I dozed often, my gaping mouth catching flies.
I swallowed a fly, coughed and turned around to see,
If anyone in the congregation had heard me;
But with open eyes, all I would behold
Were sleeping parishioners, the sermon having put them out cold.
When the preacher finally said amen,
The sanctuary looked like an opium den.
The organist let out all the stops
And to our feet we all did hop
Cheering and clapping and having such fun
Because we all realized the preacher was finally done.

The desert glowed with flowers galore;
the winter rains came in a downpour
of more and more than any time before
they could remember in their winters west.
They were sure this winter was the best
for canals and as much as aquifers could ingest,
but as with every up-side there is a down-side, too.
As the summer days came and flew
right by,
the foliage in the desert began to dry.
The fires came and the mountains began to cry
for help from the ever blue but cloudless sky,
and so with life itself,
we all need a little help
to appreciate the beauty
and endure when that life lands a kick and kelp
that leave a vicissitude’s
welt
as it surely will
till spring flowers bloom again galore
and you find hope once more
and sing praises still to fill
your heart with gratitude.

He’s been reading about
trinitarian things, ternary

vs. binary things and the
“third way,” kind of like

thesis, antithesis and
synthesis from Hegel

only in religious term-
inology to work things

out without a lot of
either/or conflict and

he understands that
synthesis is good and

that there is far too
little of it around

America these days, but
at some point in time

someone has to rise to
the occasion, massage

his kahunas or massage
her huevos and say, “No,”

and let the chips fall
where they may and they

may fall all over his
or her head, but to

take a stand simply
has to be taken when

it seems everyone else
is saying no for all

the wrong, horrible,
insensitive, unethical,

selfish reasons. Then
among friends be sure

to practice the “third
way,” the synthesis, the

“compassionately ob-
jective way” as one

religious person put it
in a meditation he re-

ceived over the internet
and yes, it should be

tried with the opposition
but, to be quite frank

about it, didn’t President
Obama bend over backwards

and try that over and
over and over and over

and over ad nauseam?
Okay, he gets the point

not to be so argument-
ative but he wonders

if you get the other
point, right or do

you really want to
argue about this

bloody thing?

Yesterday’s post, “The Prophet’s Music to His Ears” has been added to the reading during worship this Sunday at First Congregational United Church of Christ, Phoenix, AZ. I’m deeply appreciative to James Pennington, Senior Minister, for asking me to do this public reading.

She said her son’s name is Malachi,
as in the Old Testament prophet,
but no one calls him that. Everyone,
including teachers, pronounce it
Mal-A-Chi as in Mariachi, so they
don’t use his first name anymore.
It had been forever since he read
the last book in the Old Testament,
but at only four chapters, he thought
what the heck and then he read in
chapter three: I (the Lord) will draw
near to you…. I will be swift to bear
witness against…those who oppress
hired workers for their wages, the
widow and the orphan, against those
who thrust aside the alien….” She
told him everyone uses her son’s
middle name – Music. Seriously?
Malachi Music? He thought but
didn’t say, Well, you could change
his name to Mariachi Music. Every-
one would get that. Whatever,
it was all music to his ear
here in the Valley of the Sun.

It always comes down to mammon.
You cannot serve both God and mammon.
Everybody is out to get mammon.
You cannot serve both God and mammon.
All the corruption around the world
is always about getting the mammon.
You cannot serve both God and mammon.
Those who say they serve God while
making much mammon don’t know
that you can’t serve both God and mammon.
They think that God ordained that they
make mammon and then decide with the
power they have because of mammon
what will happen, but they don’t know
that you can’t serve both God and mammon.
God influences; mammon seduces; so
you can choose whom to serve, but
you can’t serve both God and that devilishly
seductive, corrosive, corruptive mammon,
but, sadly, just about everybody does.

Oh, Sean, Sean,
you seem like such a nice guy.
How can you stand there
and defend lie after lie
with legitimate journalists
in the press room?
You’re digging a hole,
which could be your
professional doom and tomb.
Wise up, guy.
If this job doesn’t work out,
perhaps you could apply
to be one more hapless
but super wealthy Russian spy
with more of the Donald’s lies
and Putin’s protection.
At least you no longer would
have to defend him
at the time of a possible coming
national insurrection,
Comrade Spicer.

At the invitation of James Pennington, Senior Minister, First Congregational United Church of Christ, Phoenix, AZ, I will read one of my poems this Sunday, March 26 during worship in the part of the liturgy called “A Contemporary Word.”

I wrote and have since revised the poem titled “There Is a Season and a Time to Every Purpose,” which was posted at this site on March 19, 2017 (scroll to read).

He lives in a morass
of litigation. It is just
his way of life. Out
go the invitations:
“Have at me, if you will;
I then will sue you,
my coffers to fill.
I am your new leader;
sue me if you wish;
and like a bug, you
will go squish
under the feet of my
smarmy army of attorneys
who keep me safe
on my sleazy journeys.
I will treat you
with utter disdain
and blow you away
like a single, little,
insignificant speck of grain.
Look to me, all you
miserable, tail-ends
of an ass.
I tell you America will be
great again, but
I will sink you
in a slimy morass
from which you
will not be able
to extricate your
big, dumb, unwashed bottom.
You see I am quite awesome.
I don’t drink
and I don’t chew
and I don’t go
with girls who do.
I don’t curse
and I don’t lie
and if I do,
I hope to die.
Just kidding.
I really don’t
know what to do except
play golf at Mar-A-Lago
every week
and send out
mindless tweet after tweet
after tweet.
I’m just so bored
and at night in the
White House alone
I’m so scared.
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
I want the comfort
of Mr. Sandman
and if not him,
I will tweet sweet,
sweet Steve Bannon.”