I _ad s_rger_ on t_e tip of
t_e i_dex fi ger of _ _ rig_t _a_d.
Fill i_ t_e bla_ks,
if _o_ ca_.

He swore he had made his last soup of the season
when his wife asked for a reason.
He said, “Enough is enough,”
And walked out of the kitchen in a big huff.
That evening his wife baked seasoned chicken
And the next morning, without warning
he got up saying, “I bet the left-over chicken
would make excellent soup,”
so he made for the kitchen.
His wife asked, “What is your reasoning?”
“My darling, nothing but the glory of your
unique, homemade seasoning.
“The pièces de résistance, it will be
like the glorious taste of new honey from the bee,
or my name is not Chef Boy Bobby.”
So he got the big pot
and went chop, chop, chop
with vegetables from the crisper.
He tossed in the seasoned chicken,
and then gave his wife a whisper.
“Thank you, darling, for making the
chicken richly seasoned.
It has given me a new soup-making reason.”
So he grabbed a full bottle of white wine
And his wife shouted, “Darling, it is too early. Look at the time.”
He poured into the pot all of the white wine
and said, “All will be just fine.
Darling, your love is my only reason
in and out of season.
You have inspired me to be
the great Chef Boy Bobby.”
With that she gave him a kiss
and left him to his soup making bliss.

It’s semantics — the way words are put
together; it’s all in the verbal inflection:
“Well, you know, he did sign up for it,”
as a note of condolence to a grieving widow?
Cold, uncaring, matter-of-fact, at a time
that matter-of-fact is the last thing needed.
And then there is “He was a hero to sign up
for it, for what may come, for what you hope
doesn’t but may and God forbid, did.” The (p)-
resident of the White House was coached by a
military father who lost a son to war, but
trusting anything to the (p)-resident is
always risky and given the (p)-resident’s
tin ear, we all need to fear what will come
out of his mouth, something none of us,
especially a grieving wife, wishes to hear.

Does every regret in life
Follow in nocturnal strife?
The softest pillow, it is said
Is a clear conscience instead.
Do the pearly gates creek loudly each night
With those waiting to contest every slight?
Is that why you toss and turn
Anticipating confrontations which burn?
Hell is now, so it is said.
Who knew it would be each night in your bed?
Is being unforgiven something pridefully to cherish
with the inevitable nightly result being to perish?
Admit it to one and accusers disarm
And make amends where it does no harm.
If accusers are long deceased,
conjure their spirits and ask
forgiveness to find sweet peace.
Either grace is sufficient for all
Or all each night re-experience the fall.
It is not so. Many sleep serene.
Salvation now is such a sweet thing.

In an explanation of a short poem,
the young poet said he tinkered
with the poem for nearly a decade.
Sorry, Charlie, I haven’t got a
decade to tinker. At this point,
a day or two for editing moves
faster than a speeding bullet
and with that I have given away
my age.

He offered to give me vocational
Preference tests following the Big
Grief because I didn’t know if I

Could stay in my job. After three
Such tests, he asked, sarcastically,
If I were lacking in self-confidence.

I responded, No. I didn’t mention
Shame and guilt. That would be for
The therapist’s couch. He said he

Would do anything he could to help
Me. He was funny. He made me
Laugh. And then at the Board of

Directors’ meeting he just flat-out
Betrayed me for the approval of the
Board. I stared at him. He never

Looked at me. Eventually, he went
To jail on an unrelated matter.
Vengeance is mine, saith the

Lord. I couldn’t help liking him,
Though. He had a great sense of
Humor. I still chuckle at the thought

Of him a quarter of a century later.
He was a charmer. Things worked
Out for me. I hope he’s okay.

We had the brand new neighbors
over for lunch of homemade
soup and cookies of cinnamon and nutmeg flavors.
My wife pointed to two deer in our woods.
City folk, they were surprised, but of country life,
they finally understood.
They saw Confucius and the
Buddha around the waterfall and pond.
The wife said that of Eastern
religions, she was very fond.
She looked at my droopy, Scandinavian lids and bald pate
and said a great Buddha I make.
Our backyard Buddha was great of waist
with a big smile upon his face.
I said that I hoped she referenced not my girth.
She laughed and said I offered great mirth.
I wondered why she focused on something so dearth
instead of enlightenment, human awareness and self-worth.
She said I was the Buddha’s spitting image.
The smile was disappearing from my visage.
Along with my eyelids, my spirits began to droop.
That was the last time the new neighbor
would be getting any of my delicious, homemade soup.

We get in the way,
And we go where ‘er we will.
Nature is not scared.

We throw things away.
We toss them where ‘er we wish.
Nature really cares.

We live by the shore.
We live in the dry desert.
We, now, are the scared.

Nature cried to us.
We offered cacophony.
She sought harmony.

Nature is not scared.
She has tolerated us.
Now she seeks revenge.

Fourteen billion years,
Four billion years,
Two million years,
Two hundred thousand years,
A few thousand years,
Two hundred fifty years,
Now.
Beat swords into plow-
Shares today.
Do justice.
Love mercy.
Play
Pray.
Hope.
Goodbyes to say.

I revel in the thought so dear
Of how fortunate that you are near.

I’ve not always been aware
Of how deeply you deeply care.

And day by day I will embrace
Your ever lovely, forgiving face.

And every sorrow of yours
Breaking as surely as water on shores,

I pray God will erase.