Mr. Bean, Rowan Atkinson
My preaching was very specific,
I was sure my words were terrific,
But the folks in the pew
Had a much different view:
“Your sermons were all soporific.”
ANECDOTE FROM GORDON:
While preaching a sermon I thought was at least passable, a worshiper with dementia let out an audible “Ho-Hum” during what was meant to be a pregnant pause. It has the makings of a Mr. Bean skit.
Protecting the Homeland by Donnie Trump (2nd grade)
Statue of Liberty plaque with Emma Lazarus’ poem “The Colossus”
You don’t get to come here –
“you tired, you poor,
You huddled masses,
yearning to breath free,
you wretched refuse of
your teeming shore,
Stay home, you homeless,
tempest tossed,
my lamp’s blown out
beside the golden door.”
[Simpleton Press, NY, NY, Dec. 8, 2015.]
Click Cartoon a Day for cartoon by Bryant Arnold.
As readers of Views from the Edge (VFTE) may know, Steve Shoemaker, my poet colleague on VFTE has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. His sense of humor remains strong. This verse recalls a moment with Steve and four other seminary classmates following a rare Cubs’ win at Wrigley Field in Wrigleyville, Chicago.
BENDING DOWN, LOOKING UP
A towering 69 year-old figure standing
six-feet-eight, Steve saunters slowly
through the post-game crowd outside
“the Friendly Confines” of Wrigleyville
like a watchtower on skates, looking
far and near for who knows what.
A very happy young woman as high
as he is tall pulls on his sleeve, asking
a question only he, bending far down,
can hear. He smiles but shakes his head
to whatever offer threatened to bring
him down to a lower happiness high.
Two years later at 72, he might be
looking again for the Wrigleyville fan
for something to ease the pain, settle
his stomach, give some relief from
the newly diagnosed cancer, a pill
or toke or two to raise him back up
to the watchtower, now six-feet-seven.
We who couldn’t hear the question
now smile, bend down low, and look up
beyond Steve’s lofty height with prayers
for courage, strength, whatever will keep
him tall in the game where everyone wins
and loses, and quite unexpectedly,
feels a gentle tug on an old shirtsleeve.
– Gordon C. Stewart, Dec. 8, 2015
Waking up to the smell of bacon
I’ve never really liked the bathroom–
Smelly, necessary pathroom.
Kitchens! Can you smell the bacon?
Kneading, rolling, roastin’, bakin’
Frying, broiling, Bar-B-Queing
Even chickens, we are stewing–
Well? In pot, but sick, on pot…
NOTE: Steve has been writing this week from the Mayo Clinic where he’s being treated for pancreatic cancer. Hour by hour is a roller coaster ride from yesterday’s “Celebrating Illness” to today’s “Cursing Illness.” He can still smell the bacon, but he can’t eat it. But his good humor is in tact. Steve’s friends and family are celebrating him and cursing the illness while following updates on CaringBridge and cheering on his spirit.
Some medicines make pain go away–
My visitors know just what to say.
Most doctors speak in just the right tone–
I see nurses smile, yes, through the phone.
Family and friends recall each good time–
Poets send limericks–some even rhyme!
Greet each new sun–I’m still having fun…
Seven blessings seven prayers,
Leave for now our many cares.
Light a candle, sing a song,
Join with others, do no wrong.
Friends and family, music, art,
Books, food, knowledge–play a part;
Thoughts arrive: thanks, I’m alive.
Thanksgiving Pilgrims and Wampanoag all
Huddled together to eat by the fire.
After the Palefaces learned to trap fowl,
Native Americans also taught fair
Knowledge of maize farming. They heard of God’s
Son who had died for them, teaching of love.
Gathering to offer thanks for the goods
Ingathered at harvest, both of them have
Very much happiness to celebrate.
In years to come would be broken treaties,
Native folks killed, forced to flee or to fight.
Give thanks at least for a few meals in peace…
Verse — A Septet for my 70s
(Late-blooming Stoner)
I was not a ’60s child–
Yes, it’s true I had a beard,
But the Church beat in my head
That at all times choose the good.
Do not drink and do not smoke…
Not to mention, do not toke…
Now the pills for all my ills.
We walk the rows of silent trees,
some smell of resin, some of lime
or lemon–six varieties.
Young families rush, we take our time,
enjoy the shades of green, the feel
of needles, sharp or soft into
our mittens. We will cut the real
tree with the saw, then shake a few
brown needles to the frozen ground.
At home the Christmas tree will light
the room and spread love all around
to neighbors who will catch the sight
of the one tree that spoke to you
and said, “It is for you I grew.”
While the world holds its breath after the attacks in Paris, we’ve searched for hymns that express in music a word worth hearing.
“O God of Earth and Altar” expresses a sense of prayerful resilience and supplication.The lyrics, written by G.K. Chesterton in 1906, were revised, in part, by Jane Parker Huber to address global terrorism:
“From all that terror teaches, From lies of pen and voice, From all the easy speeches That make our hearts rejoice, From sale and profanation of honor and the sword, from sleep and from damnation, deliver us, good Lord.”
Already U.S. governors have made “easy speeches” about not accepting any Syrian refugees in their states, although it is not within their jurisdiction to decide. And, while we pray, the arms industry is preying on war’s alarms to increase production, sales and profits in the name of our safety and security.
Here’s “O God of Earth and Altar” sung to Chesterton’s original lyrics.
Views from the Edge 