6/25/2004
Time Capsule
#52 Time Capsule
In my last Blog I quoted a couple of little verses from Time Capsule. A number of you have asked for more of these. In hopes that quantity may cover for quality, I will send most of the rest along. I have taken a few out that might be considered “for Mature Readers Only” but there is still a bunch. 1994 was an interesting year. If you pay any attention at all to politics, these ditties will bring back memories.
TIME CAPSULE
March 13, 1994-July 22, 1994
Some reflections on the daily
news as reported in the
Lexington Herald-Leader
Clinton: Media presuming guilt
in Whitewater
The Masters Of The Universe
Are angry with the papers
For making such a noisy fuss
About their private capers.
White water in the White House
Gets rougher every day
Everybody's feet are wet
No matter what they say.
IRA threats,
mortars close London Airport
"Coffee, tea, or milk," she said,
"Perhaps a tiny snack?"
"No thanks, just bring a jacket
To save me from the flak."
Whitewater beast
is gobbling up inner circle
The baby-boomer network
Is tattered and is torn
All the Friends of Hillary
Are woeful and forlorn.
The small-time sleaze of Little Rock
Won't cut it in D.C.
A fact that comes as no surprise
To folks like you and me.
Abortion consent bill
headed for full house
The Good Ole Boys in Frankfort,
Their fingers to the wind,
Are set to make it tougher
For teenagers who have sinned.
They'll have to ask their Mommas now
Or their Pappas, or a Judge,
Before they turn their babies
Into horrifying sludge.
Guilty plea ends Harding's career
For this dreamer and schemer
Much better to cop a plea,
To go to the shrink instead of the clink
For the trauma to Kerrigan's Knee.
Overcoming the rage -
There's no escape from racism
for blacks in the middle class
You just haven't made it
Into the club
If you can't handle
An idiot's snub,
If you can't look
A fool in the eye
Without running home
To have a good cry.
It's too much to ask
That a change in the rules
Will eliminate bigots,
Idiots, and fools.
U.N. Sanctions likely
against Korea
First they do
And then they don't.
First they will
And then they won't.
To say the least,
It's irrefutable,
The far, Far East
Is still inscrutable.
Doggie drive through
lets canine customers
pick bones, snacks
Can you believe it,
It sounds like a joke,
A doggie cheeseburger,
With fries and a coke,
A "Park 'N Bark" area
With hydrant to boot,
At five dollars a whack,
Its really a hoot.
Government computers blamed
for murky letters
Somewhere back East
In the belly of the Beast
A machine is composing a note.
It takes but one guess
To smell IRS
As the one reaching out
For your throat.
Louisville man wearing dress
arrested, jailed
John Paul Poynter
Powdered his nose
And went to school
In his pantyhose.
The students were shocked
To see John Paul
In his long black dress
At study hall.
The Teacher said, "John,
You're strangely dressed,
We'll have to put you
Under arrest."
John Paul Poynter
Couldn't make bail
So he spent the night
In the local jail.
Nervous brother and pregnant bride
marry with President as best man
The bride wore a white
Maternity dress,
The preacher smiled,
And said, "God bless."
Bill and Hillary and Chelsea sweet
Thought it all unbearably neat.
Fourth massage parlor
forced to close
How in the world
Can we ever relax
From our basketball loses
And our new payroll tax
If they close all those places
Where girls rub our backs?
Man enters guilty plea in murder
at Berea College
He thought she was fooling around
So he put a gun to her head
And pulled the trigger six times
Until she was thoroughly dead.
Then, with a sad little smile,
He confessed and saved us a trial.
Don't shed for him too many tears,
He'll be out in about seven years.
Judge: Sports participation a privilege,
not a right
"What's that you say, your honor,
Is this some kind of joke?
I always thought that baseball
Included snorting coke.
To take away my future
Is really pretty cruel
When all I did was little more
Than strike a pose that's cool."
High court's Blackmun
to announce retirement
The front page is covered with crooks
But when God opens His books
The one for whom 'twill be scary
Is this priest of Molech named Harry.
Best defense: Simpson's dream team
of attorneys could be an ego nightmare
They say that O.J. took an axe
And gave Nicole some nasty whacks.
Next he took a long slow ride,
His trusty pistol at his side.
While half the country sat and gaped
The LA cops all bowed and scraped.
Now the legal eagles joke,
"We'll get him off and leave him broke."
Defense fund set up for Clintons
Buddy, can you spare some dimes
To save us from our sleazy crimes?
Those fancy lawyers don't come cheap,
They even bill us while we sleep.
Ten thousand dimes would help a lot
To save us from our sticky spot -
Ten thousand, give or take a few,
From you...and you...and you...and you!
Judge upholds injunction
on breast therapy
Doc Marek told the ladies,
"Just look into my eyes,
Give my nurse your credit card
And feel your breasts both rise.
Just trust me, ye bra-challenged,
Now would I lie to you?
For a very modest addition
I'll help you stop smoking too."
"Whoa" said the Court, "Cease and desist
From making a promise the girls can't resist.
It's deceiving, misleading, will cause them to dream,
But when they wake up they will lose self-esteem."
Obese girls, short boys earn less than peers
later in life, study says
Oh weep for the vertically challenged
And the cute little chubbies in skirts,
Who, when they arrive at appropriate age,
Will probably make only minimum wage
And suffer innumerable hurts.
Where, oh where, when we need them,
Are the Pols with compassionate laws,
Why can't we give these neglected
A tax cut or cash in their paws?
Fear not, you gloomy young ladies,
Who are too many inches around,
Leave off your whining, young fellows,
That you're a little too close to the ground.
The PC Police will rally their troops
With whimpers and whining and self-righteous whoops
And lobby the Pols 'til they bleed from their ears
And pass a good law that will dry all your tears,
That will make you as good as the slim and the tall,
Whatever you do for the rest of your years.
Jones sets execution deadline
for Aug. 12
Here's a little secret
Not many people know,
You can die of old age
In a cell on death row.
You'll have your own place
With a cable TV
And doctors and dentists
With never a fee.
You'll have a free lawyer
To plead for your life
And conjugal visits
With a friend, or your wife.
While the friends of your victim
Gnash their teeth in a rage,
You'll cool it in comfort
'Til you die of old age.
Organizer sues to get license for nudist camp
Ole Kevin Hux don't own a tux,
He's surely not a scholar,
He's just a nice religious guy
Out to make a dollar.
Never mind his lady friend
And her pimping in Alaska,
She'll say she's just a hometown girl,
If you take the time to ask her.
So why not let them run around
Their acres in the buff?
Why treat their little enterprise
Like bigtime, badguy stuff?
Relax, you guys, get off their case,
Knock off this nasty stall -
All they want’s a quiet place
To play nude volleyball.
Columbia's top newt dies
This space shuttle newt
Not only was cute,
She also was very prolific -
She laid forty eggs
In less than a week,
Then died of the stress
With a tear on one cheek,
Which was not very scientific.
More Americans than ever are overweight
One in four it used to be
But now it's up to one in three
Who scarf up the sugar, the grease and the salt,
Who wash down their burgers and fries with a malt,
Who lounge on the couch in a neat little row,
Who, offered a snack, will never say "no."
They're costing a fortune in medical bills,
Obesity is father to all kinds of ills,
But don't you dare mention their unseemly mass
For Uncle Sam's made them a "pro-tected class."
Agency gives legal aid to offset abortion law
Planned Parenthood Director Announces
Here's help for the girls who've been messing around
And can't get a parent to let them abort,
Their good buddy Jan, some lawyers has found,
Who, for nothing, will find a cooperative court.
So relax, little Lucy and Judy and Jill,
Party on gaily with Harry and Bill
And when you get pregnant just give Jan a call,
She's ready to help you, with no charge at all.
Filly brings excitement,
$1.05 million at Keeneland
A million dollars
for a horse?
Of course!
It's out of my range
But just pocket change
For the nice little man
Who’s here from Japan.
Zookeepers unable to get
baboons out of trees
I don't get it,
Enlighten me please,
Don't the baboons
Belong in the trees?
Mixed signals on healthcare
create turmoil
"He's gone and done it again,"
Poor Hillary Rodham cried,
"Every time he opens his mouth
He sticks both his feet inside."
or
Ole Bill's in the doghouse again,
His wits, it seems, have gone south,
Poor Hillary's sighing
And pitifully crying,
"It happens each time
That he opens his mouth!"
Juice pitchman Limbaugh
squeezed out
Orange blossoms weeping.
The Valkyries have ridden,
Femi-Nazis cheer.
07/94
JS
In my last Blog I quoted a couple of little verses from Time Capsule. A number of you have asked for more of these. In hopes that quantity may cover for quality, I will send most of the rest along. I have taken a few out that might be considered “for Mature Readers Only” but there is still a bunch. 1994 was an interesting year. If you pay any attention at all to politics, these ditties will bring back memories.
TIME CAPSULE
March 13, 1994-July 22, 1994
Some reflections on the daily
news as reported in the
Lexington Herald-Leader
Clinton: Media presuming guilt
in Whitewater
The Masters Of The Universe
Are angry with the papers
For making such a noisy fuss
About their private capers.
White water in the White House
Gets rougher every day
Everybody's feet are wet
No matter what they say.
IRA threats,
mortars close London Airport
"Coffee, tea, or milk," she said,
"Perhaps a tiny snack?"
"No thanks, just bring a jacket
To save me from the flak."
Whitewater beast
is gobbling up inner circle
The baby-boomer network
Is tattered and is torn
All the Friends of Hillary
Are woeful and forlorn.
The small-time sleaze of Little Rock
Won't cut it in D.C.
A fact that comes as no surprise
To folks like you and me.
Abortion consent bill
headed for full house
The Good Ole Boys in Frankfort,
Their fingers to the wind,
Are set to make it tougher
For teenagers who have sinned.
They'll have to ask their Mommas now
Or their Pappas, or a Judge,
Before they turn their babies
Into horrifying sludge.
Guilty plea ends Harding's career
For this dreamer and schemer
Much better to cop a plea,
To go to the shrink instead of the clink
For the trauma to Kerrigan's Knee.
Overcoming the rage -
There's no escape from racism
for blacks in the middle class
You just haven't made it
Into the club
If you can't handle
An idiot's snub,
If you can't look
A fool in the eye
Without running home
To have a good cry.
It's too much to ask
That a change in the rules
Will eliminate bigots,
Idiots, and fools.
U.N. Sanctions likely
against Korea
First they do
And then they don't.
First they will
And then they won't.
To say the least,
It's irrefutable,
The far, Far East
Is still inscrutable.
Doggie drive through
lets canine customers
pick bones, snacks
Can you believe it,
It sounds like a joke,
A doggie cheeseburger,
With fries and a coke,
A "Park 'N Bark" area
With hydrant to boot,
At five dollars a whack,
Its really a hoot.
Government computers blamed
for murky letters
Somewhere back East
In the belly of the Beast
A machine is composing a note.
It takes but one guess
To smell IRS
As the one reaching out
For your throat.
Louisville man wearing dress
arrested, jailed
John Paul Poynter
Powdered his nose
And went to school
In his pantyhose.
The students were shocked
To see John Paul
In his long black dress
At study hall.
The Teacher said, "John,
You're strangely dressed,
We'll have to put you
Under arrest."
John Paul Poynter
Couldn't make bail
So he spent the night
In the local jail.
Nervous brother and pregnant bride
marry with President as best man
The bride wore a white
Maternity dress,
The preacher smiled,
And said, "God bless."
Bill and Hillary and Chelsea sweet
Thought it all unbearably neat.
Fourth massage parlor
forced to close
How in the world
Can we ever relax
From our basketball loses
And our new payroll tax
If they close all those places
Where girls rub our backs?
Man enters guilty plea in murder
at Berea College
He thought she was fooling around
So he put a gun to her head
And pulled the trigger six times
Until she was thoroughly dead.
Then, with a sad little smile,
He confessed and saved us a trial.
Don't shed for him too many tears,
He'll be out in about seven years.
Judge: Sports participation a privilege,
not a right
"What's that you say, your honor,
Is this some kind of joke?
I always thought that baseball
Included snorting coke.
To take away my future
Is really pretty cruel
When all I did was little more
Than strike a pose that's cool."
High court's Blackmun
to announce retirement
The front page is covered with crooks
But when God opens His books
The one for whom 'twill be scary
Is this priest of Molech named Harry.
Best defense: Simpson's dream team
of attorneys could be an ego nightmare
They say that O.J. took an axe
And gave Nicole some nasty whacks.
Next he took a long slow ride,
His trusty pistol at his side.
While half the country sat and gaped
The LA cops all bowed and scraped.
Now the legal eagles joke,
"We'll get him off and leave him broke."
Defense fund set up for Clintons
Buddy, can you spare some dimes
To save us from our sleazy crimes?
Those fancy lawyers don't come cheap,
They even bill us while we sleep.
Ten thousand dimes would help a lot
To save us from our sticky spot -
Ten thousand, give or take a few,
From you...and you...and you...and you!
Judge upholds injunction
on breast therapy
Doc Marek told the ladies,
"Just look into my eyes,
Give my nurse your credit card
And feel your breasts both rise.
Just trust me, ye bra-challenged,
Now would I lie to you?
For a very modest addition
I'll help you stop smoking too."
"Whoa" said the Court, "Cease and desist
From making a promise the girls can't resist.
It's deceiving, misleading, will cause them to dream,
But when they wake up they will lose self-esteem."
Obese girls, short boys earn less than peers
later in life, study says
Oh weep for the vertically challenged
And the cute little chubbies in skirts,
Who, when they arrive at appropriate age,
Will probably make only minimum wage
And suffer innumerable hurts.
Where, oh where, when we need them,
Are the Pols with compassionate laws,
Why can't we give these neglected
A tax cut or cash in their paws?
Fear not, you gloomy young ladies,
Who are too many inches around,
Leave off your whining, young fellows,
That you're a little too close to the ground.
The PC Police will rally their troops
With whimpers and whining and self-righteous whoops
And lobby the Pols 'til they bleed from their ears
And pass a good law that will dry all your tears,
That will make you as good as the slim and the tall,
Whatever you do for the rest of your years.
Jones sets execution deadline
for Aug. 12
Here's a little secret
Not many people know,
You can die of old age
In a cell on death row.
You'll have your own place
With a cable TV
And doctors and dentists
With never a fee.
You'll have a free lawyer
To plead for your life
And conjugal visits
With a friend, or your wife.
While the friends of your victim
Gnash their teeth in a rage,
You'll cool it in comfort
'Til you die of old age.
Organizer sues to get license for nudist camp
Ole Kevin Hux don't own a tux,
He's surely not a scholar,
He's just a nice religious guy
Out to make a dollar.
Never mind his lady friend
And her pimping in Alaska,
She'll say she's just a hometown girl,
If you take the time to ask her.
So why not let them run around
Their acres in the buff?
Why treat their little enterprise
Like bigtime, badguy stuff?
Relax, you guys, get off their case,
Knock off this nasty stall -
All they want’s a quiet place
To play nude volleyball.
Columbia's top newt dies
This space shuttle newt
Not only was cute,
She also was very prolific -
She laid forty eggs
In less than a week,
Then died of the stress
With a tear on one cheek,
Which was not very scientific.
More Americans than ever are overweight
One in four it used to be
But now it's up to one in three
Who scarf up the sugar, the grease and the salt,
Who wash down their burgers and fries with a malt,
Who lounge on the couch in a neat little row,
Who, offered a snack, will never say "no."
They're costing a fortune in medical bills,
Obesity is father to all kinds of ills,
But don't you dare mention their unseemly mass
For Uncle Sam's made them a "pro-tected class."
Agency gives legal aid to offset abortion law
Planned Parenthood Director Announces
Here's help for the girls who've been messing around
And can't get a parent to let them abort,
Their good buddy Jan, some lawyers has found,
Who, for nothing, will find a cooperative court.
So relax, little Lucy and Judy and Jill,
Party on gaily with Harry and Bill
And when you get pregnant just give Jan a call,
She's ready to help you, with no charge at all.
Filly brings excitement,
$1.05 million at Keeneland
A million dollars
for a horse?
Of course!
It's out of my range
But just pocket change
For the nice little man
Who’s here from Japan.
Zookeepers unable to get
baboons out of trees
I don't get it,
Enlighten me please,
Don't the baboons
Belong in the trees?
Mixed signals on healthcare
create turmoil
"He's gone and done it again,"
Poor Hillary Rodham cried,
"Every time he opens his mouth
He sticks both his feet inside."
or
Ole Bill's in the doghouse again,
His wits, it seems, have gone south,
Poor Hillary's sighing
And pitifully crying,
"It happens each time
That he opens his mouth!"
Juice pitchman Limbaugh
squeezed out
Orange blossoms weeping.
The Valkyries have ridden,
Femi-Nazis cheer.
07/94
JS
6/20/2004
Making Poems
NUMBER FIFTY-ONE
Making Poems
I cannot speak for others but for me a poem is a gift. It comes, unbidden, from somewhere, and unfolds in ways difficult to describe. Robert Frost took a good stab at it. He wrote that a poem “…begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life—not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion.”
In “The House At Pooh Corner,” Pooh was discussing with Piglet how “shillings” got into a particular poem Pooh had written - “They wanted to come in ...so I let them. It is the best way to write poetry, letting things come in.” For the most part this is the way my poems come to be. Each starts with a word or phrase or line about a person, place, thing, or experience and then just develops - things come in because they want to.
I have seldom been able to just sit down and write a poem for some occasion or reason outside myself. I have done it for an anniversary or birthday, but usually these have gestated some period of time in my subconscious and just popped up serendipitously at the right time.
Once I wrote a series of verses on the article headlines out of three months of our local liberal rag, the Herald-Leader. They were fun but were essentially doggerel, which is probably the lowest form of poetry. For example:
“Church of England breaks with tradition,
ordains female priests”
In England now the ladies shout
To all the world in voices stout,
"With hair well-permed and tailored dresses,
Look at us, we're real priest-esses!"
“White house usher fired
for calling Barbara Bush”
There's a subtle lesson here,
Not to be denied,
Although it's tough to lose your job
It sure beats suicide.
(This was at the time when Bill Clinton was President and Vince Foster’s death was much in the news.)
The fact is that even if your name is Ezra Pound or Maya Angelou, poems written to order, for an occasion, are seldom very good poems. They are not the ones that survive in anthologies.
Although a poem comes unbidden, it does not come without effort. Each one takes something worthwhile and distills it down to its essence, much like the making of a good wine. It is the product of patience and hard work and a measure of skill. Like the grapes, a poem cannot be forced, rushed or pressured into the end product.
I have written a few poems in one sitting, the first draft was the final draft. Others have taken more work - one waited patiently 15 years for just the right word. Usually the whole thing manages to get out in just a day or two, but often it takes a few more days of shaking and sorting and fitting to find the final form. Sometimes, years later, I make a small change. This may be due to the fact that I was in too much of a hurry to finish, or simply that I have changed over time and see things in slightly different way.
It is the Creator who sets the stage for the making of wine and it is the same Creator in whose image we are made who sets the stage for the making of a poem. That is not to claim canonicity for any poem, simply to acknowledge that behind our visions and dreams stands the Eternal I Am and that the careful use of words is worthwhile because it is rooted in the Word who became flesh and died on a cross for our sins.
Here is a recent poem, quite appropriate for inclusion in “Growing Old Ain’t For Sissies:
THREE A.M.
It’s three in the morning.
I sit, hunched on the aging toilet seat,
To ease the aging back
And encourage the aging bladder
That drove me through
The latest dream, ever
Looking vainly for an open restroom,
A free urinal, a blessed sanctuary.
Only three A.M., but it seems
I’ve wandered all night long, searching
Through grubby rooms,
Up and down creaking stairs,
Into dimly remembered corners
Of an old A&P bakery and warehouse
Where I used to sort the mail
And eat jelly doughnuts hot from
The ovens on the third floor.
A car hurries up Fort Harrod’s Drive.
Who is out at three A.M.? Where
Are they going at this time of the morning?
The night shift has changed long ago,
They should all be in their places,
On the job or home in bed.
What game’s afoot?
What errand, good or ill,
Is in the works and what will be
The end of it?
While I ponder, half awake,
The aging bladder does its thing.
Rising slowly, I whisper a prayer;
“God be merciful to me, the sinner –
And also to the one who passes
My dark window at 3 A.M. on
This undistinguished morning.”
JS/6.04
024
+++++++
I meditate on You in the night watches,
For You have been my help,
And in the shadow of Your wings I sing for joy.
Psalm 63.6-7
Making Poems
I cannot speak for others but for me a poem is a gift. It comes, unbidden, from somewhere, and unfolds in ways difficult to describe. Robert Frost took a good stab at it. He wrote that a poem “…begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life—not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion.”
In “The House At Pooh Corner,” Pooh was discussing with Piglet how “shillings” got into a particular poem Pooh had written - “They wanted to come in ...so I let them. It is the best way to write poetry, letting things come in.” For the most part this is the way my poems come to be. Each starts with a word or phrase or line about a person, place, thing, or experience and then just develops - things come in because they want to.
I have seldom been able to just sit down and write a poem for some occasion or reason outside myself. I have done it for an anniversary or birthday, but usually these have gestated some period of time in my subconscious and just popped up serendipitously at the right time.
Once I wrote a series of verses on the article headlines out of three months of our local liberal rag, the Herald-Leader. They were fun but were essentially doggerel, which is probably the lowest form of poetry. For example:
“Church of England breaks with tradition,
ordains female priests”
In England now the ladies shout
To all the world in voices stout,
"With hair well-permed and tailored dresses,
Look at us, we're real priest-esses!"
“White house usher fired
for calling Barbara Bush”
There's a subtle lesson here,
Not to be denied,
Although it's tough to lose your job
It sure beats suicide.
(This was at the time when Bill Clinton was President and Vince Foster’s death was much in the news.)
The fact is that even if your name is Ezra Pound or Maya Angelou, poems written to order, for an occasion, are seldom very good poems. They are not the ones that survive in anthologies.
Although a poem comes unbidden, it does not come without effort. Each one takes something worthwhile and distills it down to its essence, much like the making of a good wine. It is the product of patience and hard work and a measure of skill. Like the grapes, a poem cannot be forced, rushed or pressured into the end product.
I have written a few poems in one sitting, the first draft was the final draft. Others have taken more work - one waited patiently 15 years for just the right word. Usually the whole thing manages to get out in just a day or two, but often it takes a few more days of shaking and sorting and fitting to find the final form. Sometimes, years later, I make a small change. This may be due to the fact that I was in too much of a hurry to finish, or simply that I have changed over time and see things in slightly different way.
It is the Creator who sets the stage for the making of wine and it is the same Creator in whose image we are made who sets the stage for the making of a poem. That is not to claim canonicity for any poem, simply to acknowledge that behind our visions and dreams stands the Eternal I Am and that the careful use of words is worthwhile because it is rooted in the Word who became flesh and died on a cross for our sins.
Here is a recent poem, quite appropriate for inclusion in “Growing Old Ain’t For Sissies:
THREE A.M.
It’s three in the morning.
I sit, hunched on the aging toilet seat,
To ease the aging back
And encourage the aging bladder
That drove me through
The latest dream, ever
Looking vainly for an open restroom,
A free urinal, a blessed sanctuary.
Only three A.M., but it seems
I’ve wandered all night long, searching
Through grubby rooms,
Up and down creaking stairs,
Into dimly remembered corners
Of an old A&P bakery and warehouse
Where I used to sort the mail
And eat jelly doughnuts hot from
The ovens on the third floor.
A car hurries up Fort Harrod’s Drive.
Who is out at three A.M.? Where
Are they going at this time of the morning?
The night shift has changed long ago,
They should all be in their places,
On the job or home in bed.
What game’s afoot?
What errand, good or ill,
Is in the works and what will be
The end of it?
While I ponder, half awake,
The aging bladder does its thing.
Rising slowly, I whisper a prayer;
“God be merciful to me, the sinner –
And also to the one who passes
My dark window at 3 A.M. on
This undistinguished morning.”
JS/6.04
024
+++++++
I meditate on You in the night watches,
For You have been my help,
And in the shadow of Your wings I sing for joy.
Psalm 63.6-7
6/13/2004
Cats
NUMBER FIFTY
Cats
Recently, removing the latest cat mess from the garden, I thought of a poem written in 1987. The thought warmed my heart. If you are a cat-lover, just skip this one. If you are a real cat lover, you can now take your cat to the St. Francis Episcopal Church in Stamford, Connecticut where they are now giving Holy Communion to pets.
DISCOMFITING A CAT
As I came round the corner
I spied out in the street
A fat and furry Siamese cat
With fat and furry feet.
She didn't like the looks of me,
I quickly closed the gap,
Shoot, she said and tossed her head,
I'll go and catch a nap.
I was moving quickly,
She ran beneath a van,
I thought I heard her mutter,
Bug off, you nasty man.
Coming to the sidewalk
I veered off down the block
And thought, how satisfying,
To leave a cat in shock.
For cats are sorry creatures
Who spread their smelly poops
In other people's gardens
And even on their stoops.
I'd love to scare them all to death,
But that's not in the cards:
So I'll just evil-eye them
Back into their yards.
2/87
052
Cats
Recently, removing the latest cat mess from the garden, I thought of a poem written in 1987. The thought warmed my heart. If you are a cat-lover, just skip this one. If you are a real cat lover, you can now take your cat to the St. Francis Episcopal Church in Stamford, Connecticut where they are now giving Holy Communion to pets.
DISCOMFITING A CAT
As I came round the corner
I spied out in the street
A fat and furry Siamese cat
With fat and furry feet.
She didn't like the looks of me,
I quickly closed the gap,
Shoot, she said and tossed her head,
I'll go and catch a nap.
I was moving quickly,
She ran beneath a van,
I thought I heard her mutter,
Bug off, you nasty man.
Coming to the sidewalk
I veered off down the block
And thought, how satisfying,
To leave a cat in shock.
For cats are sorry creatures
Who spread their smelly poops
In other people's gardens
And even on their stoops.
I'd love to scare them all to death,
But that's not in the cards:
So I'll just evil-eye them
Back into their yards.
2/87
052
6/06/2004
Choices
NUMBER FORTY-NINE
Choices
She didn't choose to be born - it just happened. From then on the choices seemed to multiply like yeast in warm dough.
The first year her choices were all easy ones. She chose what pleased her and she protested what did not. She chose "warm" and "milk" and "bright"..."safe" and "take" and "crawl."
By the time she was two she found the things that pleased her did not always please her mother and father. Choices multiplied and began to have consequences. Many had to do with obedience-would she choose to do as she pleased, or as what her mother wanted? Was there a way to get both together? How much trouble was she willing to risk to get her own way?
Three years of give and take, push and pull, hugs and swats, and they more or less had things worked out. She was ready for school. There she found a whole new world of choices like "which crayon?" and "which seat?" and "which swing?" She also found a big new set of rules laid down and enforced by a teacher who wasn't much interested in debate - rules that didn't seem to leave much room for choices.
Those days one of the hardest choices was the daily one of "what to wear?" The mornings were filled with heated discussions and debates and often tears. Finally her mother insisted this choice be made the evening before, not the morning of. It was still hard, but at least she could start the morning in a happy frame of mind. By the time she was thirteen, they had more or less worked these things out.
She entered high school. The choices broadened dramatically. It was here she first noticed the fence of love built around her by her parents. They intended it guide and protect and enable her to make good choices. She had a hard time seeing it that way. For her the fence always seemed too close, to high and too strong. But somehow she managed to choose--whom to admire, whom to avoid, who would be best friend.
There were some wrong choices too. She discovered the consequences had escalated again. She learned from her mistakes. She also learned the real meaning of words like "risk" and "accountability." As she struggled and grew, her parents moved the fence out and took down the upper rails. Eventually they dismantled it entirely.
By the time she was eighteen, most of these things had been worked out, more or less. She chose a college and decided to become a nurse. This choice brought with it others. She chose to do her very best, to limit her social life to "just friends," to work summers in a hospital.
Back when she was seventeen she had chosen to accept and follow Jesus Christ. It was this choice that now stood behind her desire to do her very best. It was this choice that moved her seek out the best professors, the most challenging classes and the most difficult assignments. It was also this that helped her chose, for a time, to forego the ring, the veil, the vows and all the things these promised.
Sitting wearily on the edge of a hard cot in a tin shack ten thousand miles from home she thought about these things. She remembered thinking, as she walked to the platform to receive her nurse's cap, how she really had the business of choosing down cold. She was very sure she had everything worked out, was ready for whatever God might bring her next.
This morning she wasn't so sure. It was her second day in the refugee center. Across the dusty courtyard outside another tin shack five hundred mothers were lined up with their desperately sick children. Some had traveled weeks to reach this place. Many of the mothers were sick themselves. Some had been in this same line other mornings-each day praying their child would be seen and helped.
But the day was never long enough. There were too few doctors, too few nurses, and too few helpers. There were also too few cots in the makeshift hospital, and too little equipment, medicine and supplies.
It sounded simple--see each child in order, admit the serious cases and send the others home with medicine and instructions. But it was not simple. Yesterday thirty-four of the children should have been admitted. There were only seven empty cots. Of the twenty-seven sent away last night, some would be dead this morning. The rest would be back in line, praying for an empty cot and a chance at life.
Again today, she must chose. Who is sick enough to die? Of those, who will be admitted to fill the empty cots? Who is already too sick to live whatever the help? How can she tell a mother her child will not be admitted because the child is too far-gone for saving?
Choices? All her life she has made them. For the most part she has done a pretty good job. But none of that had even begun to prepare her for the choices she must make today. Today she prays, "Lord, don't let me have to go on choosing. Send more doctors, more cots, more hospitals, and more medicine. Lord, give all these children enough food so they won't get sick, and Lord, please stop this senseless war."
Having prayed thus, she will get up, go to her place for this day and do what needs to be done. She will do the very best she can. The rest is in the hands of God.
+++++++
The King will answer and say to them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.’
Matthew 25.40
Choices
She didn't choose to be born - it just happened. From then on the choices seemed to multiply like yeast in warm dough.
The first year her choices were all easy ones. She chose what pleased her and she protested what did not. She chose "warm" and "milk" and "bright"..."safe" and "take" and "crawl."
By the time she was two she found the things that pleased her did not always please her mother and father. Choices multiplied and began to have consequences. Many had to do with obedience-would she choose to do as she pleased, or as what her mother wanted? Was there a way to get both together? How much trouble was she willing to risk to get her own way?
Three years of give and take, push and pull, hugs and swats, and they more or less had things worked out. She was ready for school. There she found a whole new world of choices like "which crayon?" and "which seat?" and "which swing?" She also found a big new set of rules laid down and enforced by a teacher who wasn't much interested in debate - rules that didn't seem to leave much room for choices.
Those days one of the hardest choices was the daily one of "what to wear?" The mornings were filled with heated discussions and debates and often tears. Finally her mother insisted this choice be made the evening before, not the morning of. It was still hard, but at least she could start the morning in a happy frame of mind. By the time she was thirteen, they had more or less worked these things out.
She entered high school. The choices broadened dramatically. It was here she first noticed the fence of love built around her by her parents. They intended it guide and protect and enable her to make good choices. She had a hard time seeing it that way. For her the fence always seemed too close, to high and too strong. But somehow she managed to choose--whom to admire, whom to avoid, who would be best friend.
There were some wrong choices too. She discovered the consequences had escalated again. She learned from her mistakes. She also learned the real meaning of words like "risk" and "accountability." As she struggled and grew, her parents moved the fence out and took down the upper rails. Eventually they dismantled it entirely.
By the time she was eighteen, most of these things had been worked out, more or less. She chose a college and decided to become a nurse. This choice brought with it others. She chose to do her very best, to limit her social life to "just friends," to work summers in a hospital.
Back when she was seventeen she had chosen to accept and follow Jesus Christ. It was this choice that now stood behind her desire to do her very best. It was this choice that moved her seek out the best professors, the most challenging classes and the most difficult assignments. It was also this that helped her chose, for a time, to forego the ring, the veil, the vows and all the things these promised.
Sitting wearily on the edge of a hard cot in a tin shack ten thousand miles from home she thought about these things. She remembered thinking, as she walked to the platform to receive her nurse's cap, how she really had the business of choosing down cold. She was very sure she had everything worked out, was ready for whatever God might bring her next.
This morning she wasn't so sure. It was her second day in the refugee center. Across the dusty courtyard outside another tin shack five hundred mothers were lined up with their desperately sick children. Some had traveled weeks to reach this place. Many of the mothers were sick themselves. Some had been in this same line other mornings-each day praying their child would be seen and helped.
But the day was never long enough. There were too few doctors, too few nurses, and too few helpers. There were also too few cots in the makeshift hospital, and too little equipment, medicine and supplies.
It sounded simple--see each child in order, admit the serious cases and send the others home with medicine and instructions. But it was not simple. Yesterday thirty-four of the children should have been admitted. There were only seven empty cots. Of the twenty-seven sent away last night, some would be dead this morning. The rest would be back in line, praying for an empty cot and a chance at life.
Again today, she must chose. Who is sick enough to die? Of those, who will be admitted to fill the empty cots? Who is already too sick to live whatever the help? How can she tell a mother her child will not be admitted because the child is too far-gone for saving?
Choices? All her life she has made them. For the most part she has done a pretty good job. But none of that had even begun to prepare her for the choices she must make today. Today she prays, "Lord, don't let me have to go on choosing. Send more doctors, more cots, more hospitals, and more medicine. Lord, give all these children enough food so they won't get sick, and Lord, please stop this senseless war."
Having prayed thus, she will get up, go to her place for this day and do what needs to be done. She will do the very best she can. The rest is in the hands of God.
+++++++
The King will answer and say to them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.’
Matthew 25.40
