The sunrise painter’s palette
Today has pink and blue
With touches of white,
And is that purple and orange?
No rhyme, of course,
For that last word,
But also no clash
Of colors in nature.
The white hot sun
Will soon be hidden
By the massing clouds,
But colorful may yet be the day.
Steve posted this today on his CaringBridge page:
Spent the last 4 days split between hospitals (prepped for chemo, but white blood cells too low, so sent home, echo-cardiogram test for heart irregularities), and being electronically in Chicago (via FaceTime) with 5 Seminary buddies having an emotional reunion. The latter was more fun. Caught up on everyone’s last year, read & discussed a current book on “Blue-Note Preaching” with the author, Rev. Otis Moss III, connected via Skype with Prof. Ted Campbell still sharp in his late 80s, and met Rev. Shannon Kirchner of Fourth Presbyterian Church. Wonderfull conversations!
I, Gordon, was among the five physically present in Chicago. Steve stayed with us the whole time by Skype Monday through Thursday.
The Rev. Otis Moss III succeeded Rev. Jeremiah Wright as pastor of Trinity United Church of Christ, Southside Chicago, the home church of the Obamas. He’s the real deal in every way. What a privilege to spend these days together! We have a case of the blues but we’re hearing the blue note gospel.
Both of us – Steve and Gordon – recently received good news from publishers.
Last month Steve received word that Mayhaven Publishing will publish a collection of poems under the title “A Sin a Week: 52 sins described in loving detail, for those who have the inclination and ability to sin, but have run out of bad ideas”
Sinners can order the Steve’s book @ mayhavenpublishing@mchsi.com.
Yesterday Wipf & Stock Publications notified Gordon of its acceptance of “Be Still! Departure from Collective Madness” to be published sometime in the next year.
Steve’s work is done. Gordon’s is not, which is the bad news, if work can be called ‘bad’, which both of us think it can’t, except when it becomes obsessive, which, in one of our cases, it often has been – one of the 52 sins described in loving detail perhaps!
We’re glad to report to Views readers that Steve is doing remarkably well with chemo treatments having stabilized or shrunk the tumors that by all early reports were expected to take him by mid-February. To the best of our knowledge, Gordon has no tumors but reports that the few remaining brain cells he still has are shrinking fast with age.
All in all, life is beautiful! Sin boldly, and if you’ve run out of ideas, order Steve’s book!
The spring ground no longer was frozen.
We made out on a blanket we’d chosen.
Chiggers bit where elastic
Her Mom thought it fantastic:
“Well, at least you kept some of your clothes on!”
I tie some extra large
fruit juice tin cans to trees
in my orchard. The range
where police guns practice
is not very far from
my home. The officers
used their pistols and from
30 feet made some holes
the size of dimes in cans.
Shot cans wave in the wind
and keep away the birds
and thieves who think I’m armed.
No guns for me — instead
I will just use my head…
(Don’t fret, we know that thieves
won’t read this. Reading is too
effete, takes too much effort.
All thieves are lazy — so they’re thieves. Some gun owners are crazy — ban guns.
Let LIBRARIANS judge who can check out guns to hunt or use at ranges!)
Am I Dying? [written 2014]
Well, certainly sometime…
but I mean, am I dying soon?
like before my next birthday…
or even before I get to make love again…
(and these days, at my advanced age,
that might well be AFTER my next b- day),
and is that a good sign, or a bad sign?
Energy is low, even after I stopped my statins,
(which one of my five M.D.s says increases
an elderly male’s risk of a heart attack)
–btw, having 5 Docs is certainly a sign
of one’s impending demise.
All of my doctors are younger than I am.
Two of my doctors are younger
than my youngest child.
The ages given of the newly dead
in my local paper’s obits are half
older, half younger than I am, usually.
I am writing more verses than ever,
but fewer sonnets–am I preferring
free verse because it is faster?
Am I desperate to say what I have to say
before I can no longer think or speak?
There are times now I can no longer
see the grid of streets (as if from above)
in my home town. I make more wrong turns.
My dreams are more memorable than
many conversations. Nightmares
are more frequent–nightSTALLIONS
chase me till the dawn.
If death is like sleep, will I ever
really rest in peace?
Inside the Super-Hero
He was strong. Unlike some men his size
power pulsed, constrained–there was no fat.
He stood tall. His eyes looked down on those
passing by who turned and stared, impressed.
He would smile. He joked when asked his height,
“Five feet…twenty!” Childhood awe returned
(big is best, is boss.) Authority
is imposed. The strong do what they want.
He had never been a little child–
young, but never small. Assumed adult,
he was proud to grapple, fight and hold,
lift and shoulder, carry, guard, protect.
Work was good, but work was never done.
Satisfaction was postponed. Trials like
cancer cells dividing, unrestrained,
overwhelmed him. Tasks enough to make
gods despair. Then building built decayed,
bridges fell, and wars blazed in the land
he had calmed before. He went to bed.
The world’s weight will break the strongest man.
Steven Shoemaker, Urbana, Illinois
[Published in Response, Journal of the Lutheran Society for Worship, Music and the Arts, No. 3, 1976.]
Note: Apology to Steve for re-publishing this morning as “Inside the Super-Herod. LOL. Actually, the mistaken title also seems to work.
6 skills I retain after 11 treatments of Chemo:
1. Putting on or taking off a turtleneck without losing the toothpick in my mouth.
2. Driving a car with my knees under the steering wheel. (On private farm property. Chemo pain meds keep me off public roads.)
3. Sleeping in any position: prone, supine, curled, sitting.
4. Writing light verse, and sometimes poetry.
5. Helping folks laugh.
6. Praying.
I’m sleeping on sheets with 2,000 thread count.
My cars and my toilets all have heated seats.
My steaks are all prime & my pies are home-made.
My wife is a beauty & loves to be laid.
My pilot, my driver, my cook and my maid
All think I’m as perfect as a boss can be.
I earned what I have the old-fashioned way:
My parents were rich and gave me a start.
They helped when I failed, and cheered when I won.
We bought all the votes in the biggest landslide
Our State ever saw–ain’t democracy great?
Round, like a spaceship
Black, like the dirt it finds
Whirring, like a mix-master
Bumping into chairs, tables,
Couches, beds, walls, doors
Bouncing, spinning, random
Cleaning of rugs, hard-wood floors.
Speaking when stuck,
Full of dirt, needing to recharge.
I am needed to open paths,
Lift cords, put furniture back,
Carry to charger–spouse can
Watch Trump on TV–uncleanable.
Views from the Edge 