a digital commonplace book
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One of my favorite poems ever was a short one titled “Blurt Out Love.” That’s exactly what I’ve done in tossing down this birthday poem. I’ve experienced losses and gains over the last year. Enhancing old friendships and developing new ones has been the best gain. I am learning to invite friends into my experience, as they invite me into theirs.
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l finally got around to articulating this question I’ve had my whole life.
(PERFECT! background image by danielkirsch on Pixabay)
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This is not autobiography. Prophecy? Perhaps. Just give me a few more laps.
Hey, I read about a big scientific study that suggests eating eggs five days a week correlates with reduced chances of developing Alzheimer’s. (And now the algorithm will feed me all kinds of nonsense about dementia: “Does your back side itch? That may be a sign of dementia!”)
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SOMEONE REQUESTED DOGGEREL?
The last few times I went for a walk, I got an itch right in the middle of my back. As you can imagine, I was looking around for a sign post or someone’s tree to “give me a hand” in scratching that inaccessible itch.
Lebanon, Kansas: geographical center of the 48 contiguous US states. If our country had an itch in Lebanon, Kansas it would have trouble reaching there to scratch.
(Image supplied by ChatGPT based on my prompt, “Make a picture of a tree scratching a hiker’s back to relieve an itch.”)
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I began this poem last night, after once again being lulled into complacency.
(image based on my prompt to ChatGPT)
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This naughty little poem celebrates good coffee and great hospitality.
True story! Our hostess had run out of regular coffee, but had a small bag of this VERY expensive coffee, called Kopi Luwak. So she brewed a pot and served it to us. I was suitably impressed… by the coffee and by her generous hospitality.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kopi_luwak
(background image by leewei on Pixabay)
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[This is an early morning response to Genesis 30]
More than likely, the author WAS winking. The mandrakes story gets us thinking how man’s devices are laughable in light of God’s sovereign choice. With or without fertility enhancers, God was going to grow Jacob’s family.
My lingering question is, where does Scripture comment on this and other stories to clearly indicate, “The moral of this story is this or that”? Some will pontificate while others will ponder where the truth is at.
(background image by Erik Llerena on Pixabay)
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We’re being undone by a man and movement that ANYONE should recognize as unserious, undeserving, and unworthy of power. But, as Hamilton said, “The masses are _______.” Evil likes to think of itself as elegant, but even the Devil’s unitard is baggy. I’m asking ChatGPT to illustrate that…. Here you go:
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[sung to the tune of “Don’t You Dare Drop My Insurance Policy”]
Susan showed me something about our homeowner’s insurance that’s gonna have me feeling nervous until we figure out what’s going on. In this poem, think of the mountain climb as if it were buying a house at age 34 and paying for insurance 31 years before having to make a significant claim. Susan wants me to consider that the odd thing she showed me about the insurance may constitute a blessing. She may be right, but I’m Scottish, and penury is always just around the corner.
This poem will go in my “After The Fire” collection. The background photo is of a fire in the Sangre de Cristo range, which we witnessed on one of our mountain climbing trips.
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I like most cats, and squirrels are fine when they’re not in the road. But condescending cats who like to lecture… I can do without their goad.
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My apologies to you if you drive a Cybertruck. But even you have to acknowledge that your “truck” is an acquired taste… at best.
I was driving with someone far more circumspect than me the last time we were overtaken by a Cybertruck. I was moved to write this poem by her unusually frank reaction to the passing monstrosity.
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The other morning, while I was driving to work and listening to NPR, I had a bad reaction to some fantasy. An author of children’s books began reading his latest work, and it was too full of names for my liking. In protest–to nobody listening–I blurted out “In the Kingdom of Whoop-de-doo….” Then and there, I knew I had just saddled myself with writing a poem. It has taken several days. How was I going to get myself out of this? With one last night’s sleep, I figured out how to bring it to a swift and merciful end. So here you go.
(background image by Osman Zöllner on Pixabay)
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This poem is just poking fun at myself for what I described to a friend as my IBS. That’s irritable brain syndrome.
The Shirt
One of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever been given was the shirt I’m wearing in the background image. By giving it to me, my friend Sten-Erik said, “Your face gives away everything you’re thinking. And we still love you.”
Snee
I meant to come up with a nonsense word… something, anything other than what someone talking with me might assume I’d say at the end of that sentence. So, if you go look it up, don’t try to make sense of how it fits in the poem. That’s not the point. Rather, the point is “Hear me out, and don’t interrupt when you don’t know what I may say next!”
I have some friends who are spectacularly good listeners. See this poem I wrote about one of them: Silence, The Lingering Wisdom.
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Some people hold up protest signs. Some people march. I write poetry. This protest may resonate most with people who–unlike most Americans–speak English AND Spanish. An “idiota” is… well, I think you know what that is. There’s been a proliferation of them lately.
(background image by Neill McLaughlin on Pixabay)
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Here’s one of those wake up, look in the mirror, and write what you first see poems. Oh well…. Make the most of becoming a ghost.
In case you’re imagining a younger me, here’s a selfie I took today. My friend the portrait photographer could find some beauty in this mug, and she’d capture it. She’s amazing.
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How long has it been since you read Carl Sandburg’s “Fog”:
The fog comes
on little cat feet.It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
I’m no Sandburg, but my poem was probably inspired by his. Last night, we had a thunderstorm, and on my walk today, the sky reminded me of the many times I have seen wool or downy feathers scattered where some predator had supper the night before.
Do you hear the thunder in that first stanza? Do you see the lightning? And with my explanation above, can you see the remains of the bobcat’s meal in the sky above?
Does it bother you that I didn’t try harder to rhyme in this poem? It would have been fairly easy to rhyme “prey” and “day” or “die” and “sky.” But I didn’t want to do that here. I’m ornery that way, and refuse to comply.
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The coworker I refer to here is really great with patrons, including the eccentric ones who challenge my patience. For example, if “Coin Guy” shows up when I’m on the desk, I go get her to swap places with me for a while. It’s the other way around on Mystery Book Club day.
Just goes to show: it takes all kinds.
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CHILDISH AND CHILDLIKE
I think I’ll start a new theme in this poetry blog: Protestation. The truth is, my muse has thin skin, and she always starts spitting out ideas when something offends her. She needs to grow up.
Don’t get me wrong—my muse isn’t all bad. She also takes childlike delight in things that are rarely ever recognized or celebrated… but should be.
By the way, I don’t believe that song lyrics are inherently inferior to other poetry. But I bet some poets do.
(background image by HubertPhotographer on Pixabay)
_________
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It’s probably just distractible little me who feels this way….
For some reason, my sieve of a memory recalls occasions when I was trying to concentrate in a library, but could not because of one or another distraction. In college, it was students who walked around in flip flops: “Flip, flop; flip, flop, flip, flop.” There were also the ones who were struggling with term papers. They would loudly wad up one sheet after another to protest their own bad writing. Then there was that librarian in seminary. He always sat in his office with the door wide open, cheerfully whistling his library tunes.
I’ve never tried to concentrate in a monastery… or do anything else there, for that matter. But I’m guessing that tap shoes are frowned on in that sacred place.
(background image adapted from one by Manfred Richter on Pixabay)
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Let’s see if I can explain this one to you as successfully as I explained it to my wife….
I think most of us heard this little rhyme sometime in our youth: “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.” Of course that’s superstitious nonsense. But for some reason, it sticks in my head all these years later. It’s an intrusive thought that needles me every time I stroll down a city sidewalk. I can be listening to a narration of George MacDonald, or C. S. Lewis, or Dostoevsky. My head can be in the clouds, but my eyes don’t miss those cracks, and I’m repeatedly tempted to adjust my pace to match their spacing.
I wish I were free of this nonsense. I wish I were on a mountain path, where the disorder of roots and rocks may fix my attention, but more in the way of a friendly conversation with companions. I’d gladly go that way. I’d gladly submit to the slight difficulty they impose. There, I’d gladly undergo.
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My recent writing probably makes it obvious: I’m struggling with disappointment and irritability. I’ll not bore you with the many, many irritants that swirl around me. Just know they are there, and some of them are even real!
Anyway, I thought I’d better have a little chat with my boss, the library manager. When I’m struggling internally, paranoia kicks in and I falsely assume that any smart observer can see right through me. What a relief to learn that my boss completely understands–and sympathizes with–my stress. In fact, he himself had recently published a blog post specifically dealing with holiday stress. That doesn’t mean I’m free to be a Grinch. I still have to be polite to patrons and coworkers. But if I’m feeling irritated, at least I’m not afraid of a secret and powerful judge of “mere” FEELINGS.
(background image is AI-generated and submitted to Pixabay by Jeanette Atherton)
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When you live in the same neighborhood for 30 years, and are moderately outgoing, you learn who’s pleasant to chat with and who you’d rather avoid. Racism is a huge turnoff, as are complaints like “the neighbor’s sprinkler is getting my grass wet.”
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In a short video that I watched recently, Neil deGrasse Tyson explained how it is that there are spots on Earth’s surface that are farther from the center of our planet than the summits of our tallest mountains. The continual spinning of Earth has caused its equator (actually, a latitude south of the equator) to broaden out. The result is that our planet is now pear-shaped.
More recently, a friend was demonstrating the security footage that his Tesla recorded as we were approaching the car upon returning from a hike. There on the dashboard screen was this fellow approaching the car on my side and getting in. He, too, was a bit pear-shaped. Let’s just say the camera adds ten pounds–I’ve got to spin it somehow!
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Hopefully I don’t need to comment on this one. Right?
I’ve participated in a pancake toss once or twice. It was at Family Camp at Horn Creek Ranch in Colorado. Out on the porch of the cafeteria, the chef stood behind a griddle scooping perfectly cooked pancakes and tossing them out to us campers. We were supposed to catch the pancakes on our paper plates. I think we were successful 80% of the time. But we laughed 100% of the time.
By the way…. Log Cabin is what I grew up putting on my mother’s perfect pancakes. It’s what I like. Susan’s folks were from New England, so maple syrup is the only reasonable topping to her way of thinking. Oh well… you can’t be right all the time.
(background image adapted from a photo by Яна Тикунова on Pixabay)
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I don’t really have much to say about this poem. The image of waves licking the world’s shores simply jumped out of my waking mind one morning. I’ll blame it on my silly muse.
Here’s a simpler version:
I awoke from a snore
With this curious thought:
The waves are licking
The melting shore.
(background image by Alexa on Pixabay)
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I don’t have the energy right now for yet another essay on the frustrations stemming from my leaky memory. But here are some bullet points. Is there a pattern?
How about you? I’d love to hear your bullet points!
(background image by Andreas Lischka on Pixabay)
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I keep thinking about what I was trying to communicate in this poem. It may be this: we all have a different tolerance for assumptions. I have trouble with people who jump to conclusions with hardly any thought (the first stanza).
Others are better about checking their assumptions (the second stanza), but they still skate over many facts without considering them. Such people are efficient in their thinking (think of Daniel Kahneman’s “thinking fast”). Still, such people can get irritated when their assumptions are questioned. They don’t want to slow down to consider weaknesses in their thinking. I get along fine with such people… for the most part.
How about the third stanza? One cannot live without making millions of assumptions every day, so nobody REALLY lives fully in the third stanza. But some of us come closer than others. Just ask my wife. When something goes missing in the house, I am methodical in my search; I look in places where she doesn’t bother looking. She’s being efficient; I’m being thorough. I once found something valuable that was missing (keys, if I remember correctly) IN THE TRASH BIN IN THE ALLEY. Yeah, remember that? Boom! I’ll always have the keys in the trash can story to excuse my slow thinking!
(background image cropped and tinted from original by Albrecht Fietz on Pixabay)
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When this book cart rolls across the concrete floor of our cavernous library, it creaks and rumbles so loudly that I have to put my fingers in my ears. Somebody please send me soundproofing tape. FOR THE CART.
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PRACTICAL POETRY
When it comes to pleasures in life
The perils and pitfalls are rife
The proper preserving of cheese
May help you avoid some of these
In case you can’t imagine what I’m talking about, here’s a picture of me making a sandwich with sliced deli cheese that was frozen. Notice how crumbly it is!
(background image by Matthias Böckel on Pixabay)
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In my crawl through the book of Acts, I’m to chapter 20, and I hit this passage:
On the first day of the week we came together to break bread. Paul spoke to the people and, because he intended to leave the next day, kept on talking until midnight. There were many lamps in the upstairs room where we were meeting. Seated in a window was a young man named Eutychus, who was sinking into a deep sleep as Paul talked on and on. When he was sound asleep, he fell to the ground from the third story and was picked up dead. Paul went down, threw himself on the young man and put his arms around him. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “He’s alive!” Then he went upstairs again and broke bread and ate. After talking until daylight, he left. The people took the young man home alive and were greatly comforted.
Acts 20:7-12 (NIV)
What’s the point of Luke’s account? Don’t sleep in church? God’s power was displayed through the Apostle Paul? It’s probably something along those lines, not the supposed “moral of the story” I suggested in the last stanza of my poem. But I couldn’t resist. I sent the poem off to three of my preacher friends. So far, they haven’t responded. They’re probably busy crafting succinct sermons. Good luck, I say!
(background image by Peter H on Pixabay)
#acts20 #eutychus #homiletics #longsermons #workingbackward #keepitshortstupid
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It was a rainy, rainy day. I was home, sitting on the couch with two of my three lazy cats and reading a good book when this poem came to mind.
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For now, I’ll just copy what I wrote on Facebook:
Susan tells me she’s glad I find comfort in writing. I think it’s called lament.
I don’t know about that last line. How can death be a disease? I tossed down this whole poem almost intuitively, not thinking deeply about my word choice. When that happens, I tend to trust my subconscious. There may be more there than meets the eye.
#changeordie #resistingchange #preferringdeath
(background image by Fernando Zhiminaicela on Pixabay)
I wish I felt free to comment on this. It’s a complaint, and it has to do with why I am so exhausted these days. Don’t worry… not family-related.
In my crawl through Acts, I’m to chapter nineteen. When you look up “Is there humor in Luke’s writing?” you’ll often be pointed to Acts 19 and the story of Sceva’s seven sons. Yes, there are serious considerations…. But in the context, this does strike me (no pun intended) as a story that amused Luke.
OUT FOR A WALK
Why didn’t I think to knock?
Perhaps I would have met
A genteel sort of squirrels
Who curtsy when they talk!
— Brad Hepp, 3/25/2024
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On two or three recent occasions, I have needed the word “extrapolate,” but couldn’t think of it. So, I had to resort to “compensate.” This morning, the word I was seeking popped into my mind, and I was so happy I wrote a poem.
It is said that Peter Mark Roget (1779–1869) made lists of related words partly to combat his persistent depression. Which of us hasn’t benefited from the resulting Roget’s Thesaurus? As you can probably guess, he was a brilliant and accomplished man. He also lived a long life. He was deaf by the time he died at age 90. I didn’t know that yet when I attributed my own prayer to him in the title of this poem.
Read more about Roget: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Mark_Roget
#roget #thesaurus #hayakawa #usetherightword #synonyms #extrapolate #compensate
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The only comfort I feel when it comes to automated phone support is knowing that I’m not alone in despising it. Maybe I need a new perspective.
Maybe next time I make one of those calls, I’ll remember who God says I am, and why I’m here.
#representative #customersupport #human #human #human #humanbeing #forgodssakehuman
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Yesterday I read an article exploring why lay people often insist that we should not end sentences with prepositions. Linguists say we CAN do so in English, and that the rule came from a wrong-headed attempt to conform English to Latin.
I like French and other Romance languages. But I don’t like silly rules, such as the one that says you can’t end a sentence with a preposition, or that you can’t start a sentence with “but.”
#grammarnazis #sillyrules #romancelanguages #linguistics
(background image by Denis Doukhan on Pixabay)
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Okay, okay! I’m on my way!
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On my way to church this morning, I was listening to “A Way With Words” on the car radio. One caller was asking about the interjections “Say!” and “Hey!” It dawned on me that my imagination has always shut down when someone says “Hay is for horses.” In my mind’s eye, I spelled out the homonyms: “hay” and “hey.” That’s when this poem was born.
(background image based on one by “12019” on Pixabay… with a little generative fill behind the horse)