He endured the pomposity
for just so long and then
asked, “Have you had a bowel
movement today?” The pompous
person reeled back in shock,
sputtering, “What did you say!”
He said, “I just wanted to
level the playing field. I
could have recited for you
one of my mother’s favorite
scatological poems, which
starts out, ‘Here I sit broken
hearted; came to shit….’ but
I thought that would have been
a bit crude for your sensitive,
sophisticated ears; still, it’s
kind of a catchy rhyme. Be my
guest at finishing the poem for
yourself, if you’d like. I’m
sure you know it.”

Do you feel like you are on the losing 
     side of every issue — human rights for all, 
justice for all, inclusivity, non-violent action, 
     peace, environmentalism, you name it? You are. 
Does it get frustrating? It does. Do you get 
     tired? Of course. Do you lose heart? Sometimes. 
Does it seem like things are getting worse? Yes. 
     Will you win? Ask the martyrs and prophets. 
Ask the Buddha. Ask Lao Tzu. Ask Jesus. Will 
     you save the world? No, not by yourself and not 
in your lifetime. What do you face? Principalities 
     and powers. Are you a principality or power? No, 
not those. Is the fight right? Yes. Will you stay 
     the course? Yes. Why? Because all that is asked 
is faithfulness and you are granted an eternal 
     abundance of that.

The wind blew through trees,
sound of drum brush on the drums —
shush, shush — quietly.

He muttered
and then went mute.
He sat in the
meditative silence.
In the distance
he heard a flute
playing plaintively,
sadly, hopefully
for all those
who have tasted
of bitter fruit —
honoring them
for their suffering.
Then he quietly
took a knee
for racial and
gender justice
and harmony.
He said a prayer
and then stood
and joined
the march for
peace and
tranquility.

The fish rots from the guts, literally;
the fish rots from the head down, metaphorically.

Turks get credit for coining the phrase,
meaning that if a servant goes bad
the owner is not to be praised.
It is a situation ever so sad.

Well, by and large,
we are beyond owners and slaves
except we have been barraged
by many rotting government knaves.

And from whence do the knaves
take their cues?
From the accidental leader —
hoping elections not to lose.

Well, the head stinks to hell so low
and also to heaven so high.
The naves, about the leader, do crow
while all the rotting head does is lie.

Isn’t it time for the political compost pile?
As the smell fades, heads, guts and flesh will boil
Still for the smell to go, it will take quite a while,
providing time for rot to transform to rich, good political soil.

Red, red wine
tasted so fine
but over time
too much wine
could lead to crime
and Buddy, Have you got a dime?”
Got to keep my liver benign
and my mind so fine;
got to give up
red, red wine
and spirits and beer.
Beer?
Drinking beer
I have nothing
to fear,
‘cause I’m
feelin’ fine.
“I liked beer;
the boys
and girls liked beer.
I like beer.”
“Did you ever black out?”
“Did you, senator?”
“Please just answer the question.”
Red, red wine
tasted so fine.

In high school biology, his teacher
told him that what he didn’t have in
brains he made up for in personality.

His high school business teacher
told the class that if they were B
students in high school, they
could count on being C students
in college.

The mother of a friend told her
that she didn’t deserve to be in
advanced classes. She believed
the mother of her friend rather
than her parents.

Some uppity person told him
he had a second-rate mind.

And, as the King of Siam
said, “Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”

Not necessarily huge deficits,
maybe even little things in the
big picture but enough to weigh
them down.

One little pebble on the road
can send you flying face down.

The die was cast;
the mold had hardened;
fate fixed in time;
the Rubicon had been crossed;
there was no going back.

For a while they bought into the
judgment of such dubious
authority figures,

(“Why would my friend’s mother lie?”
she had asked.)

and became “prophecy self-fulfilled” —
in self-esteem, in grades, in sports,
in everything or so it was thought.

And there really was no going back,
but there was a going forward.

They emerged from the cocoon
for reasons undetermined —
more pluses than minuses?
more parental positives than negatives?
an inherent, underlying confidence?
Genes?
Environment?
Nature?
Nurture?
Both?
Who knows?

Perhaps, it is as simple as having had
the book “The Little Engine That Could”
read to you at bedtime by a loving
parent — something like that — something
more significant than a TED talk.

Who knows?

But they did emerge and
they endured vicissitudes and
succeeded in meeting their goals
and feeling, oh, so good about it all,

and then they took
a philosophical view of life:

second-rate meant bargains galore, if
one knew where to look; bargain basement
shopping;

second class was much better than first;
going first class was way too costly
and you arrive at the same time
and have money to spare to spend
at the bargain basements and
consignment shops.

And then they celebrated with what had been
termed by the sommeliers as second-rate/class wine
which cost much less and tasted just as fine.

And in the end, which is
always a beginning of sorts,
they are very, very nice people
who are quite modest about
their accomplishments — unassuming about
themselves and others
and they always pat others
on the back.

The King of Siam laughed and said that Moses’ story
of creation was laughable. Anna acknowledged that

it was laughable when she told him that the biblical
account of creation was not a scientific account of

the creation as much as a faith testimony of an
ancient people and that science is not in competition

with faith but they are flip sides of the same coin,
supportive of each other. The king furrowed his brow

and wondered about such things as similes and metaphors.
The man read this account of the 1944 book about the

1860’s life of “Anna and the King of Siam,” and wondered
why he spent four years in pursuit of his ordination

degree and three more in pursuit of his doctorate,
when all it would have taken was a reading of the book.

The good theological doctor recalled a high school
student, a member of his first church youth group

and son of the revered town physician, asking why
the good Reverend Doctor spent so many years in

school when all that was needed was the gift of gab.
The good parson took a deep breath and admitted that

he had wondered the same thing a time or two but
then said to himself, wait a minute, it’s not that simple.

The man just got word that his newly minted
fifty-year-old son, an all-American athlete
in college and a long distance trail runner

was shocked to learn that he takes after
his mother, the man’s late wife who died
at forty-nine and took after her father

(the son’s grandfather) whose family all
suffered from heart disease. The son learned
that he has a partially blocked artery lead-

ing to the heart. When the man heard the
news it hit him like a fist in the solar
plexus but he kept his cool until he got

off the phone. He knew (or so he hoped)
that his super athlete (swimmer, runner,
triathlete) son would be all right with

the proper medical treatment but, still,
after the man told his wife, he sat scared
to death and cried like he hadn’t —

since his late wife died.

It has been said that poetry is basically
a work in progress and that a poem is

seldom completed until the printed word
goes to press. Perhaps, he thinks to

himself, that is why he was so attracted
to writing in that genre. He loves to play

with words, write, reflect, rewrite, excise,
add, subtract, delete, eliminate redundancy

(what?), play with rhymes, meters, free verse
and jailed (what?) all in the name of poetic

progress — better progress than regress,
better “Steady Eddie” progress than distant,

unattainable perfection. And then he
realizes that for all that, it probably has

more to do with the fact that often in his
life he has been told that he also is a

work in progress. Often, he wonders if those
were compliments (what?). Revision: like he

just did for the third time. Steady, steady,
steady as she blows, Eddie (what?).