A Bully On His Tricycle

A young bully boy, big for his age,
rides his tricycle up and down the street
shouting obscenities that outrage —
a greeting for everyone he meets.

The rains came, sweeping the street
while the young bully boy, big for his age,
shouts at the swirling wind he meets
“Go away, wind. This is my street. You’re an outrage.”

While the young bully boy, big for his age
shouts at the sun now beating down on the street,
“Go away, sun. This is my street! You’re an outrage.”
Now there is no one left to greet.

At the empty, rain-swept, sun-dried street,
the young bully boy, big for his age,
shouts, “This is one tough dude no one will beat!”,
while he rides his tricycle downhill and off history’s page.

Descent

America descends into hell;
Amerika rises mid chants of a rebel yell,
the Statue of Liberty to sell

to save scared, politically powerful, fat, old, white men
who thrust people (children) of color
into cages — the lion’s den.

Where is the Liberty Bell?
Her clarion ring muted (no silenced!) by rifle sounds and shells
bouncing off city streets. Can no one quell

such heinous, fascist acts
and bring a dying (terminal?) democracy back?

A Rainbow Broadway

I watch wonderful Broadway
musicals of life in America
during the twenties, thirties,
forties — Gershwin, et. al.
and their wonderful revivals
and now I think about all the
history lost during all those
years with, perhaps, the ex-
ception of Porgy and Bess,
but was that the best de-
piction of life for African-
Americans in America? I
love those wonderful Broad-
way musicals but now look
forward to a rainbow rep-
resentation of America, so
I can watch wonderful
Broadway musicals of life
in America — now and into
a bright light, technicolored
future.

Wanderlust During a Pandemic

He saw his neighbor get ready for a trip —
packing the bags, loading the car.
He knew that he would get a Rt. 66 kick
out of a road trip so very far.

But during this time he was confined
as should be all to their homes
and so through his mind, he mined
journeys where he could roam.

With Jules Verne, he traveled to center earth.
With Carl Sagan, he traversed the cosmos.
With Neil deGrasse Tyson, to the universe’s birth.
With Jacques-Yves Cousteau aboard Calypso.

And when the travels were done,
he thought how nice it was to have gone.
He awoke safe and saw the dearest travel companion
— Sophia sat by his side, she —  wisdom.

Let the 1 Percent of 1 Percent Good Times Roll

Apparently, the fifty-six-year-old
wife of the eighty-three-year-old

billionaire kept him locked in his
room during house parties so he

wouldn’t interrupt the good times.
She also kept from her husband

the purchase of a gazillion-dollar
condo which she has for the per-

sonal use of her and her lover. It
is also alleged that she recom-

mended that his feeding tube be
removed. Was that a directive?

Or did she suggest that before
somebody with legal authority,

on his behalf, could change the
will? Hay, don’t the rich have it

ever so good? No wonder we want
to be with them in the ‘hood.

He died; she got the goods.
Do we really want in that neighborhood?

 

Surgeries Are a Good Thing to Do During a Pandemic. You Have to Stay Close to Home Anyway, Right?

He wants to be out jogging
along the trails and cycling

on the roads, which he can
do even during a pandemic

but two important surgeries
have left him gingerly pulling

weeds from the dune grass
which come out of the sand,

thank the Lord, like knives
slicing through melting butter

at a picnic on a hot day in July.
He pulls, rests, pulls, rests,

pulls, rests and asks, “Honey,
can we have that hot July pic-

nic in the air-conditioned house
while we watch reruns of NCIS:

New Orleans?” “Sure, don’t
overdo it. Come in now and I’ll

get you an ice-cold IPA.” “Thank
you, Jesus, er, I mean dear.”

Please, Just Ask a Mom

I asked my white, suburban mom wife
what do you think of Portland?
She gasped and said, “On my life,
I have never! The flame of hate is fanned.
The ‘Wall of Moms’ abused and shoved;
the Mayor of Portland gassed;
a Navy vet beaten, mugged?
Is democracy dead; has liberty passed?
Gassing/abusing a vet and moms, a mayor —
this is some kind of sick strategy to win?
How do they dare?
This is fascist, demagogic spin
by scared, old, white, racist men.”
I, her proud, old, white husband, simply said,
“Well, all righty then.”

Copyrighting Stuff

Bloggers have copyright laws
which appear on site,
often in the right-hand column.
That, of course, assumes the
intellectual-property contains
intellect, which others
might want to claim
for themselves — that’s a
pretty big assumption.
And we all know how to
spell assume, but, hay,
a writer has to believe in
his or her stuff.
On the other hand, people
may just wish to keep
their stuff to themselves
in seldom read blogs,
like the stuff stuffed in
attics which someone
far on down the line would
take to Antiques Roadshow
when it comes to town
on the chance, it might
be a previously undiscovered
treasure.
And yet, there is always
the dream of the Nobel
Prize in Literature, which
may have prompted
the copyright in the
first place. Or, as a writer
was once told by a friend
after reading the writer’s
first book, “What a wonderful
thing for the grandkids,
someday.”

And The Spirit/Wind Danced

Creation Ruach enters my mind and heart
merging with my spirit. I breathe deeply
Creation Ruach, hold it in my chest,
feel it moving through my lungs, enrich-

ing my life’s blood and moving like an
ever-flowing stream of complete spirit,
emotion and body — spirit, emotion, and
body! Yes! And each part needs the other

to be one. How can we know Creation Ruach
when we cannot breathe — grasping for
each and every, ever-shorter breath of life?
And God blew God’s spirit and we became

living beings. The physical battle is an emo-
tional battle is a spiritual battle, but if it is
to be death, death from sources of brutality,
if such brutal death says it has won, death

is a fool. Death has lost its sting in sacrificial love,
for it is at the moment of death that eternal
healing takes place — the “Into your hands I
commend my spirit” sacrificial love. The yet-

to-be-cured continues the battle with the virus
and the brutality that remain and ravage for
a while, while spirit merges with Creation Ruach
in deep, beyond death breathing bliss, together

in one, dancing Whirling-wind Dervish dance while
reveling in anticipation of restored, renewed,
resurrection-new, complete peace for all in the
eternal wind and breath of Creation Love.

Be With Us, Sweet Jesus

James Pennington, Senior Minister of First Congregational UCC, Phoenix, AZ, in an excellent e-newsletter message, points out the deadly consequences and severity of anxiety and how it infects groups like a contagion, not unlike COVID-19 itself.

In part, Pennington quotes one of his favorite authors:

Author Brene Brown states: “Stress and anxiety are two of the most contagious emotions that we experience. Many mental health professionals and researchers believe because anxiety is so contagious, it’s rarely a function of individuals, it’s a function of groups. Like dominos, once one person’s anxiety or stress flares up, it’s really hard for it not to spread – it’s the contagion.”

Pennington went on to pen comforting, pastoral words for his congregation.

I wrote the following prayer in response to the e-newsletter’s message. The poem/prayer alludes to the Hebrews in Egypt (The angel of the Lord passing over dwellings of the Hebrews and the subsequent exodus), the Beloved Communion, a play on Holy Communion and MLK, Jr.’s universal “Beloved Community,” Revelation’s “Come, Lord Jesus,” into the present tense and Jesus as the healer.

Interestingly, the poem contains far fewer words than the number in the explanation. 😇

Oh, Sweet, Healing Jesus,
May contagion passover the congregation.
May comfort abide with the Beloved Communion.
Be with us, Sweet, Healing Jesus.