The outstanding, office administrator of the last
interim I served before retirement sent me the
following poem. I am proud to post it:

I met a man who owned a collar
But seldom wore it,
Yet, he ministered everywhere he went.
He was a kind man
Soft spoken
Yet he could be loud if he wanted to.
He has a love for labs
And the feeling is reciprocal.
He rallies for the rights of others
While standing amongst his peers.
His wisdom is beyond anything I will ever achieve
And still has a wonderful sense of humor.
Some jokes I admittedly don’t understand,
But they still make me smile.
He treats everyone the same
No matter their circumstance,
And would give the shirt off his back
To anyone that needed it.
Although he’s experienced much pain,
He’s able to love abundantly.
I am privileged to have met a man
Who had a collar,
Yet seldom wore it.

“You’re used to it, aren’t you,
girl?” he hopefully, rhetorically
asked the five-year-old Chocolate

Lab who joined the couple two
week’s ago making another family
after their last Lab died six-months-

ago. She slept on the big, red chair
in the great room in the aftermath
of a family disagreement (read

fight) about something that went
wrong with springtime cleaning the
backyard pond. After reading page

197 of the latest mystery, he look-
ed up and stared into her closed
eyes and said, mostly to himself,

“I’m so sorry you had to hear me
shouting, girl. I know you need
peace and quiet after undergoing

giving birth to a litter, traveling
north, being spayed and staying
in two foster homes before com-

ing here to the praise and laud-
ation of Lab rescue workers.”
He looked down at the book, flip-

ped the page and looked forward
to the denouement of the mystery
hoping he hadn’t done too much

more damage to the girl who slept
apparently peacefully on the big,
red chair in the great room.

He once told his daughter,
as a way of confessing
his sins with which she was
more than cognizant simply
because she was around
the house, that every re-
grettable word was uttered
under the influence. The
confession came over the
phone so he couldn’t see
her physical response ( read
reaction) and then she
just “hmmed.” It wasn’t
exactly expiation, perhaps
more like partial propitiation,
like a wet blanket unable
to give off warmth to the
one who sat shivering
beneath. One day, by the
grace of God, he may wrap
a warm, soft, dry, non-
scratchy, wool blanket of
forgiveness around his
shoulders and stop asking
his daughter for the blanket
forgiveness that isn’t her’s
to give.

This idea came about when an acquaintance mentioned in an e-mail
that his wife was working her way through a package of granola
obtained at a wonderful, local restaurant named Dutch Brothers’.
The acquaintance commented on my previous poem on peanut butter
and jelly and opined on a poem about granola. He also had questioned
my use of the word peradventure in a previous poem, for which I was
appreciative because I had forgotten to qualify “peradventure” with
the word “beyond.”

For better or worse, here is my spontaneous, “off the cuff” effort:

Look at granola —
unity in diversity, inclusivity, variety.
That’s a big, beautiful,
bowl of democracy.
Drink it in; milk it for what it’s worth;
now, there is something to chew on —
Without a peradventure —
a taste for everyone.

He wanted to do
something of deep profundity,
something dealing with
all the sorrow and grief
and disharmony —
the blood-letting
and greedy getting,
continuing hour after hour,
but he kept thinking
about organic cherry preserves
and organic peanut butter
and bread made with
organic flour
toasted just right
and decided that
for such a sandwich
he would be willing
to fight
and maybe even
lay down his life.
Then he heard his wife,
in the cause of the social right
ever steady,
“Honey, before we head
to the protest march, your
sandwich of peanut
butter and jelly is ready.”
He rose from the computer,
headed to the kitchen
for sustenance, nourishment and courage
and then in a righteous posture,
out the door, wife in hand,
to march in another cause
celebre and beyond peradventure.

Did he just use the
word
effulgence
in a love poem?
Really? Seriously?
Sounds like flatulence
spoiling passionate, love scents.
Not good for romance.
Where was his sense?
A corny, poetic indulgence?
Three drunk gents
walk into a bar
letting fly with
their combustible,
putrid
effluence.
The bartender said,
“Noxious gents,
you need some
Frankincense.
Your stench
is a
capital offense
and you are probably
without any moral sense
just like this (p)-resident.
Oh, such repugnance.
Who’d give
two cents
for any three cabinet stooges’
without ethical elements
and
a lack of magniloquence —
or the (p)-resident’s
third-grade
vocabulary so dense
and his obnoxious, verbose,
multiloquence
and
ego so immense
and
HUGE,
narcissistic
malevolence
raised to new
heights of
anti-eloquence —
his creepy
presence
like so much
efflorescence
creeping through
and coating
the essence
of any presents
a lover would
give his
love — bright
with effulgence.
And there is
that word again —
like
something
icky, sticky and
glutinous.
Like, perchance,
the (p)-resident?
And why does the
(p)-resident always
have this damnable,
ubiquitous, uninvited
presence?
Is it inevitable
that when he thinks of
flatulence,
he’ll automatically
think of the (p)-resident?
The (p)-resident wasn’t asked
to be in any of
these words or sentences.
Did he just use
the word perchance?
Really? Seriously?

As I thought of you,
your effulgence
blinded my eye

so much brighter
than the sun in the
clear, early spring sky.

The fish in the pond
are still — the water
being below forty-
five degrees. They
are protected by
a blanket of leaves
held in place by
a net. Once in a
while, when the
fickle, early, spring
temperature rises,
one or two of
the fish sneak
around the net
swim above the
blanket and look
things over. When
the temperature
and snow flakes
fall, the fish beat
a retreat to their
cozy place, just
like we do as we
look out the
window in anti-
cipation and a
bit of frustration.

He jogged along a well-known trail
he had jogged upon before,
but as the shadows lengthened,
alarmed, he sensed a dark horror.

He stopped and listened to the wind
ripping strongly through the trees.
He looked both ways at shadows stark.
He wanted to run but could only freeze.

A dark cloud, so ominous
looked like a rattle snake’s shape
diving down from high above
it was then he jumped awake.

Are these dreams to awaken the soul
toward things in life to reconcile
or are they there to scare us blind
but open eyes to avoid life’s guile?

Are bad dreams a vehicle of grace
helping us do salvation’s task
turning us toward eternity’s face
of peace, justice, mercy that lasts?

It is his hope that God will turn
his bad dreams to mercy plans.
It is for sweet dreams that he yearns.
and yet, if it be God’s will,
he’ll gladly return to the trail
upon which he ran.

while eyebrows were raised,
the leader claimed excellence.
his base affirmed him.
the vast majority cringed
at plans deemed purely ersatz.

to put it nicely…
ersatz — a euphemism
for nature’s refuse:

    they stand Strong
in opposition wHile
      the constItution 
      suffers aTtack.