Because by now
every progressive organization
has his number,
he receives e-mails galore
from more
than worthwhile
organizations,
either asking for money,
or to contact a
state or federal representative,
or both,
but he is not in the mood,
given that he has slipped
from enthusiasm for
the cause and protest
to the depressing
state of ennui
with the unfolding
horror of the presidential
election and the daily
news stories of how
much worse it is
than he ever could
have thought,
so he reluctantly
deletes them for now
in the hope he will
regain his enthusiasm
for the cause, but
even as a non-violent
protestor, he has no trouble
venting his spleen
at the countless ads that
barrage his e-mail in-box
all day long.
He scrolls down to
“If you wish to be
removed from our
mailing list, please go here.”
He hits here with
the vengeance of a
terrible swift sword
and cries loudly at the
computer screen, “
I’ll tell you where to
go. Take that,
you capitalist scavengers,”
but he still has to
enter his e-mail
address and click
remove
by which time
he, once again, has
slipped back into
ennui.

I wish not to speak
of darkness,
except in sleep,
where darkness
envelopes and
allows one to go deep
and wake refreshed,
but soon the darkness
does seep
into one’s wakened soul
for darkness envelopes
us whole;
we pray the darkness to lift;
in darkness,
our voices will not lift
us beyond the darkness;
it permeates the land,
which feels more
like quicksand.
And so, we, frightened
beings of the dark,
worship weapons
and embark on horrific
violence,
and then disembark
and the darkness
grows darker
and we cannot
see
where to flee
nor
can we sleep
anymore.

So, they may film art films
in such esoteric terms that

only the truly enlightened
could understand Ingmar

Bergman’s films, but that
is nothing next to the poems

esoteric, obscure, cryptic,
abstruse and recherché,

that grace the poetry page
day after day, laughing at

us to figure them out like
the most complicated cross-

word puzzles ever devised
to confuse humankind in the

NYT’s. And then there are
those who say, “Why and what

the hey? I just want to say
something fairly clever and

understandable come what may.”
And so they do and so do I,

and this little poem is
the result of asking “why.”

I’m taking a break from
writing poetry about Donald J. Trump.
It’s not worth the time
or energy to write about his
ego — a tennis shorts clad
big fat rump.

As the man sat at his desk,
his eye caught the movement
of a branch out the window in
the red berry bush. A female
Cardinal held tightly to the
branch while resting her tush.
She chirped and chirped. Was she
frantic; was she demanding;
was she lovingly calling to her
mate? Was he running late?
The man could hear here calling,
“It is going to be unseasonably
warm today; we have to make hay,
because winter is on its way.”
Enough with the silly anthropo-
morphizing he said to him-
self. He didn’t have a clue
what was going on in the bush,
until he saw the chipmunk’s tush
scampering up that same bush
onto the roof to gather another
red berry, the chipmunk saying,
“Winter is coming. I must not
tarry.” Then the man just shook
his head uttering, “There I go
again making birds and chip-
munks into women and men.”

Some have said that he is a madman.
He certainly is mad as in angry – all
the time even when he smiles his
Cheshire grin. A two-year-old gets

angry, too, because he is told what
to do and it is something he doesn’t
want to do because it keeps him from
doing what he wants to do. The madman

is an old man; he can do pretty much
what he wants to do and if people
don’t like it, he gets mad and plots
and carries out vengeance on them. 

A toddler is part of the community we
call blood, and one day, as time goes
on, by grace, she will see herself as
part of a greater community – the

community of humanity and then the
community of creation, a sister to
Brother Moon And Sister Sun as Francis
sang. She will suffer and ache and,

hopefully, that suffering will trans-
late into compassion for that community
of humanity and creation which suffers
on and on. The madman? No, he is a

single, solitary figure staring into
a pond, and desperately and frantically
and furtively looking around for the
shadow which, perhaps, was there once.

She promptly returned my call
Saying, “I have spoken before to a Bob Dahl –
Germanic origin, Scandinavian.”
I said, “Five years ago, it could have been.
For a chocolate lab we were looking.”
And she had said, “Not much cooking.”
So, here we are again, and this time
She said, “I think we might be fine.
An old Scandinavian guy named Bob with a bad ticker
Is worried about his eight-year-old lab’s future,
If he should push up daisies,
So his mind is full of what’s and maybe’s.”
“So, let me get this right
You volunteer morning, noon and night,
While being a full-time Scandinavian studies professor?”
I wondered whatever possessed her.
For dogs, she had a deeply felt love.
She seemed like a homeless dog’s heavenly dove.
“Is the dog’s name known to you?”
“The dog’s name is Buddy.”
“Oh, my, my last dog was Buddy, too.”
She exclaimed, “Two Scandinavian Bob’s and two old Buddy’s, too.
Let me see what I can do.”
She said it might be serendipitous
Or perhaps synchronistic.
She had the vocabulary of a professor of linguistics.
Being a retired minister, I said providential perhaps.
She said she would call me back.
I’m waiting for the call, but it has only been a day.
I guess I’ll just sit in my chair and pray.

We all think we are getting better.
It’s not true.
When I was young I got into some
Fights, held my own,
Then decided to be a pacifist.
Jesus was calling.
In my head I was moving toward
Sainthood;
In my heart I was still holding
My own in the fights.
Now, I’m losing the battle.
The pugilist is just under
The surface. Why?
Mortality? My aging face
In the mirror? Sins of the past?
Politics? All of the above
And a lot more?
Jesus is still calling.

The (p)resident has got us all discombobulated,
keeping us emotionally incapacitated.
We feel compassion, grief and anger
for those victims of greed and nature,
but he sees that as a victory for competing,
while all the time, resources are depleting.
How will the citizens of Puerto Rico
cope with this federal assault on their survival?
Only a certain amount of time will tell
until, even the base, cries, “What the hell!
This callousness is beyond the pale.”
Really? Wouldn’t it be nice if that were true;
but don’t count on that base coming through.
For whatever reason, they are in a universe parallel
and still telling the majority of America to go to hell.

Nothing is getting done in the GOP Congress,
And while I’m pleased, I do digress.
Democrats all should be pleased
Trump’s ineptitude has caused legislation to freeze.
If the GOP’s draconian plans had succeeded,
healthcare for millions of Americans would have been defeated.
The divide between rich and poor would increase even greater,
but beware, it is yet to be decided if we survive a Trump
initiated nuclear incinerator.