He looked at the sad-faced sliver,
chin out, lips curled into a frown,
and wondered what had gone down
to cause such sadness; did it quiver?

The days passed, the face not a sliver,
but had grown full and very round —
still the lips were curled into a frown.
The moon remained still; it was his quiver.

This season or that, life does still shiver
for him who experienced the sad clown
of sorrow and loss, life up and life down.
Still he swims on in experience’s river.

He breathed deeply as he jogged on the
trails near the dunes
along the Big Water. Stepping over roots,
on hard ground, listening
to the sound of the wind in the pines and
the squirrels jumping along
the woodland floor and up the trunks of oaks
screeching from branch
to branch at the intruder in their midst.
He stops on the bridge over
the pond, meets and greets his wife who had
jogged in the opposite direction
arriving back at the designated time — their
morning meditation complete.

The congregation regularly had the preacher for lunch even if lunch
were the church school class immediately following worship when the
class teacher, a wannabe preacher, ate the preacher alive for standing
in the wrong place at the wrong time in the chancel and reading from the
lectern when that Gospel reading should have been read from the pulpit even
though the preacher had his doctorate in liturgics.

Young women had the preacher for lunch actually during lunch weekly in
the town’s greasy spoon with the preacher’s wife in attendance and they
thought nothing of it.

One day, the preacher encountered an army vet who had served in Viet Nam and
the preacher said, “Thank you for your service to the country,” even though the preacher had been a war protester during that era, but, of course, never judging
the poor guys who went when the old guys in Washington said so.

“You a vet?” the man asked.

“Of a different sort. I followed another calling,” said the preacher. “I went into the ministry.”

“Holy Cow, preacher. That’s what I call hazardous duty. I’ll take the army any
day.”

All the preacher could do, was to mutter, “Amen.”

A friend of thirty-eight years
died somewhat prematurely
of slow suicide.

A friend of fifty-years blew a
gasket at him, won’t apologize
and hasn’t a clue

about the middle steps of the
twelve-step program, the ones
where you do a

fearless inventory and admit
your faults and make amends
where possible.

He’s thinking he’s too old for
such shenanigans and things
that make him sad.

He’s done sad, done tragic,
done significant conflict
and he just wants peace

and after a death by walking
in front of a train by his
father when the man

was seventeen and after a death
by cerebral hemorrhage of his
late wife at forty-nine

he thinks he deserves it and,
really, who can argue with
such sentiments?

They worked their way up from the
southeast corner to the northwest
corner of Indiana — corn, corn,
corn corn, church, church, church,
church. They wanted a back-road
road trip but they got red light
after red light. Might as well keep
to the interstate and make a lot
better time they concluded because
ubiquitous fast-food joints and
giant, all-purpose super markets
have taken over main street America
and turned it into strip mall USA.

Somewhere around fifteen years ago
his friend just decided to implode,
remove himself from complicated

relationships, almost barricade him-
self in his apartment, care for his
cats and find false intimacy in social

media. He continued to smoke like a
chimney and eat donuts and pork rinds
like they were going out of style. A

great mind, a great heart, a great guy —
broken by life. Yes, he was broken by
life; life really is too tough for some

gentle spirits who might posture big
and actually get big in size and weight
but who remain vulnerable little boys.

Some go fast, step in front of a train,
slit their wrists, gobble a bunch of
pills; put their heads through a noose;

some go slow, drink gallons of booze,
eat and smoke themselves to death
while under the illusion that they have

thousands and thousands of friends
and lovers when they could have had
the actual love of a couple of kids

and a couple of friends in the flesh
and actually did, but for some reason,
that just wasn’t enough. For some that’s

not enough. He thought about his dead
friend and he then he thought about
fifty-four years ago and how as a kid

he cried, “Why wasn’t my love enough,
dad?” Yes, some people are just too
gentle for life.

The preacher floated around
the profundity and complication

of the deceased by telling
somewhat funny stories and

then once in a while saying
something somewhat in-

appropriate as he ventured out
and approached the corners

of the difficulties which
involved those sitting in the

front pew. They were caught
in their own thoughts and

probably missed what was
said and that was all to the

good. They certainly didn’t
need another weight on

them as they just began to
emerge from the weight

of all those inexplicable
years and experience some

semblance of relief in a
collective sigh after the

benediction.

He rises in the morning;
his wife says he was snoring;
coffee he’ll be pouring
	into the cup 
	so he may sup.
He looks upon the day
and wonders what may
befall him at play --
	hitting the putt
	into the cup?
Or he stands a chance
to catch a sideways glance
from those who prance --
	an egocentric nut
	who still can’t putt
so concludes his wife each day.

Into the bush on the
other side of the window
from where I sit,
a Cardinal couple flit
and fly —
he bright red and small,
she pale
red and brown
with a bright red crown
and big with eggs
and a sharp eye.
They have come to
build a nest in their
favorite meeting place.
But I must give them
privacy and space.
And so I will lower
the blinds and
angle them just so
in hopes they return so
I can keep watching the
glorious birthing and
parenting show.

Ah, it worked!
They’re back
so fast,
(There’s work to
do before Cardinal
chicks at last.)
and I peer through
the slat.
He, on a higher branch,
watches diligently,
while she, at the
fledgling nest,
places a twig
most carefully.

Gregory met her at a dance
and felt a stirring in his pants.
Guiltily, he recalled his Catholic past,
then, smiling, considered his Gregorian chance.