His Dutch Reformed mother
immersed him in guilt —
even over milk spilt.
His shame raised, Swedish father
scripted him in shame;
he was always to blame.
And so he’s ashamed that he has guilt,
and guilty about all the shame.
It’s a double whammy, self-blame game.
For all the guilt and shame,
there’s not much space
for God’s grace,
but given just an inch
and a very small pinch,
God’s grace
will fill the space
in
vacated by
the now fleeing
guilt and shame —
He’s on his way from playing the double
whammy, self-blame game.

He watches the blades of dune grass
shudder in the cold, east wind —
a universe of shuddering, blade upon blade;
he looks up at the newly emerging leaves
shuddering in the trees,
a universe of shuddering, leaf upon leaf;
he thinks of the whitecaps on the inland lake
shuddering in the wind —
a universe of shuddering, wave upon wave;
he thinks of the waves moving out into
the Big Lake, gaining speed, gaining strength,
crashing against the shore in Racine, Wisconsin —
the wind moving ever faster and faster, swirling,
twisting, tearing, devastating —
a universe of dune grass shuddering,
a universe of leaves shuddering,
a universe of waves crashing,
a universe of wind blowing, blowing,
blowing your house down.

When he was learning to drive as a teen,
his father, his own personal driver’s ed.
teacher as there was no driver’s ed.,
said two things, “Always drive defensively,”
and “Remember, when you are behind the
wheel, you are driving a potential instrument
of death. So, be careful.” He sees the
craziness on the road, the rudeness, the
selfishness — the danger that all those
pose and in righteous indignation, he
rails against the drivers, by blowing his
horn and on occasion yelling at them to
be more careful all the while creating
a more dangerous situation than was there
in the first place and then he read:

The Spirit of God is like our breath.
God’s spirit is more intimate to us
than we are to ourselves. We might
not often be aware of it, but without
it we cannot live a “spiritual life.”
It is the Holy Spirit of God who prays
in us, who offers us the gifts of love,
forgiveness, kindness, goodness, gentle-
ness, peace, and joy. It is the Holy
Spirit who offers us the life that
death cannot destroy. Let us always
pray: “Come, Holy Spirit, come.”*

And so the next time he feels the urge to
lay-on-the-horn and give a driver “what for,”
he simply will pray, “Come, Holy Spirit,
come, and give that stupid ass driver ‘what
for,'” and when the tailgating lunatic speeds
by, he simply will smile his most devilishly
pious grin, look straight ahead and be on his
merry way.

*from a meditation by Henri Nouwen

He watched a commercial where a middle-school
Basketball player looks into the stands to see his
Parents. In that moment the man recalled walking
The aisle and mounting the stairs and standing on
The stage when his name was called for induction
Into the National Honor Society and he scoured the
Thousand plus visitors in the stands and saw his
Parents, especially his dad, sitting way up in the
Stands and remembered all the days his dad spent
Going over homework when the man was a fifth
Grader and the teacher was recommending that
The man be put back into fourth grade because
As a transfer student from the city he was way
Behind and his dad, who as an immigrant kid
Had been put back in school, pleaded with the
Teacher not tho put his son back. The son
Couldn’t have been any more proud that his dad
Was there and that went for his dad, too.

When it comes time for him
to depart this life,
he hopes it is without malice,
rancor or strife
and that he will say something better than
what his dear mother, upon parting, tossed,
which was a simple, heartfelt
and earnest, “Get lost.”

He reads mysteries mostly;
They help sharpen his mind.
He doesn’t recall names
But clues he often finds.

There is this lead and that
And he considers them all
Before making a decision
Wherever the pages fall.

Some accumulate facts
Of classics Greek and Roman
And posture superior knowledge
Even of Norse Thor and Odin.

But he scours the pulp fiction tracks;
He’s one sticky gumshoe —
Hopefully solving the crime,
Before the mystery is through.

So, mam, just give him the facts.
He’s a wannabe detective of paperbacks.

Ivanka looked lovely, smiling at the unveiling of the new embassy;
Jared actually spoke for a while, this time about peace upon peace;
The prisoners in Gaza, cut off in all directions, without anything
To lose, ran to the border with Israel and yelled, screamed, threw
Whatever was handy and were cut down, cut down, cut down at the
Border of their own prison, but fifty miles away, it was all smiles and
Peace, peace, peace ad nauseum and they cried peace when there was
No peace and the looney-tune, white evangelical Christians in power
Were smiling because they decided that Jesus would be coming that
Much sooner summoned by the control-freak Dominionists and Christian
Reconstructionists. Sweet Jesus, meek and mild, has no choice but
To follow directions and hurry up and descend on the Rock of the Dome,
Kill all the Muslims, abortionists, gays and thank Cyrus, the pagan pussy
Grabber, for protecting all white, evangelical Christians from blacks,
Browns, reds and yellows and all other heretics and public school students
And teachers, especially those of apostate, sacrilegious sex education.

The garden, brown for so long,
Beams bright green
Anticipating colors’ love song;
Welcoming such a tardy spring.

Forsythia’s yellow pokes through
With Rhododenbrun’s red
Hesitant along with others — the few
Who brave icy cold’s dread.

Jonquils and Croci, first upon the scene,
Were nipped in the bud,
But spring being what it has been —
Colors in the garden soon will flood,

Complimenting varietal fish in the clear pond
And trees — flowering deciduous and evergreen
Connecting all in a beautiful bond —
A testimony to the persistence of spring.

Our fourth Chocolate Lab,
our third rescue, on the first
night we had him, heard the
thunder and all 105 pounds

pounced on the bed, squeezed
between me and my wife like
corned beef on a Reuben from
a New York deli and trembled

for two hours with my arm
around his furry hide. Had he
been on his own along the
mean streets when lightning

cracked, thunder roared and
rain dumped buckets on him?
He never said. We all shudder
and flinch at the closing

cracks and roars. Did our
ancestors run for the cave?
Are the gods angry? Is that
Thor’s roar? Our fifth

Chocolate, will listen to the
thunder, wince, give it a shrug
and go out to do her business,
come in, eat and head for the

comfort of her overstuffed,
security chair. She has more
disdain for the rain that she
must endure than the thunder

that rings in her ears. Is
she braver, just a foolish
old dog trying to impress
her newly adopted parents,

or, perhaps, was never on
the mean streets in a storm?
She’s not telling either.
Doctor Doolittle, where are

you? They do keep their secrets,
but they do seem to be glad
that we are there, especially
during a storm.

I know the love that’s in your heart for him;
the two of you traveled through tough times;
together you both loved to see a grin,
on the face of husband and father, ofttimes.

But disease has a way of stepping in —
an intruder oblivious to time.
For three years you two cared for him
and endured the steepest of climbs.

The deepest sorrow and grief cling long
and weigh down the spirit’s love of life
even after all these years have gone,
but both you and your son’s love is rife.

He is such a fortunate boy this day
for the steadfast mother’s love that will stay.