'Twas the Day Before Monday

'Twas the Day Before Monday

‘Twas the day before Monday

And all through the nave,

My nose it was a-stirring

I think, of rotten eggs.

Up from my knee bench,

I jumped from my pew,

Ran to the vestibule

To verify what I knew.

A brief talk with the warden

With no time to spare,

He said the rotten eggs I smell

Is natural gas in the air.

He dashed toward the altar

Told the preacher to “take heed”

And “evacuate this congregation

With great speed!”

“But first,” said the preacher,

“There is something to say,

Before we exit,

I think I must pray.”

The warden so astonished

At what he just heard,

Looked at the preacher,

And asked, “Seriously?”

Throw Caution Not to the Wind

Throw Caution Not to the Wind

Recall the end of World War One?

When reparations therein demanded

On a nation with resources none,

Creating a Weimar empty handed?

What happens naturally in any situation,

When in years of strong arm controls

Or, when the people’s House institution

As if a tree, cease sourcing itself from their rich soil?

Three branches of the established tree once equal,

And the most populate the most weak,

Tossed about by the other two as if a needle

Not by wind, but bi-polar power on it wreaked.

Triune inequality makes for dangerous a void,

One branch not using its roots

And leaving a fertile ground once enjoyed.

That ground, like a volcano, erupts with new fruits.

With this situation anything seems better than nothing,

With progressive measures to quell,

The grand old pretenders only bluffing

When feigning to stamp out the progressive spell.

The void, that vacuum, opens a new door,

For a different voice on the stump.

Elated, the people see a new boy,

To the old boys they think he will trump.

Be cautious of the lessons from Weimar,

Salvation pretenders and their solution.

What might look like a shining high star,

Could actually burn the entire tree as substitution.

What's Love Got To Do With It?

What's Love Got To Do With It?

With tongue in cheek I saw a probate judge today,

To find out how much I should pay,

To tie knots with all those I love,

Smacked I, as it was, by a multiplicity of legalized turtle doves.

The fabulous five had decreed

Nuptials valid through love only, indeed.

Marriage in sacred tradition officially driven to doom,

Just like tortured babies in their mother’s womb.

So, is it my turn to knot my many new loves?

Legally protecting my cats and dogs, even my gloves,

Because love, not children, declared now the basis

To marry anyone or anything in this new social stasis.

What does it matter how many I may marry?

My spouse could be either female or male.

Why should I delay, linger, or tarry?

When I foresee a rising polygamous scale.

This kind of love stops not with another human being,

Its legality allows for different sorts of spouses.

It’s not too difficult seeing

That this new definition of marriage lives in many houses.

With word usage, definitions, and traditions rendered useless,

This new era forms a terror unthinkable before.

The high court has jumped its intended purpose,

By lowering ordered society to the floor.

No social balance, nor even its pretension.

Society’s fabric deliberately eroded

Through a progressively-forced intention

By five justices, a new order they encoded.

  

Our Cultural Mess

The article linked to below is brief and well-articulated. It is about the decline of western Christian culture and the rise of the hierarchical secular state.

Our Cultural Mess

A Sacramental Yearning that Millennials Are Craving

I have placed a link below to a blog that I find quite interesting and revealing. It is about young people and their shift from "PowerPoint" churches to sacramental- and liturgically-centered churches.

Institute on Religion & Democracy's Blog

Watch for Signs

Watch for Signs

“In 18 months I’m turning over the keys.”

A legitimate successor to him might not qualify.

Perhaps the chief thinks himself free

The Constitutional succession mandate to mollify.

What is his mind’s detection?

What really is he thinking?

Should he think the “wrong” person win election,

An executive order for his continuance could be his linking.

The signs of the times require watching,

For progressive power never wants to relinquish

Its ubiquitous control without botching

Individual freedoms to extinguish.

One day later a third-term he muses

To foreign masses who don’t care.

Patting himself on the back he chooses

Another constitutional brush he might dare.

Be on guard and prepare, you domestic "subjects."

Your freedoms already usurped.

Ruled six years by ideological sects,

Washington, Jefferson, and Henry silenced by left-loud chirps.

Which branch of the tree is now most reviled?

Nine split needing only five?

Their “subjects” they ignore, with law they beguile,

Or the impotent house and one hundred incapable to revive?

There was a countdown

In the “Seven Days in May.”

James Mattoon Scott forced to mount down.

For the twenty January days in 2017, a new order could be in play.

There’s Nothing Wrong with “Me”

There’s Nothing Wrong with “Me”

There’s really nothing wrong with “me.”

And frankly it’s just sad

The way some people leave “me” out

As if I’m wrong or bad.

Instead they use my cousin, “I”

Where he does not belong.

He’s simply not objective case. My

Goodness, that’s just wrong.

“Please contact Jane or I today”

Is said by more than some.

They’d never say, “Please contact I.”

They’d know that that sounds dumb.

There is one truth we all should face,

One truth we all should see:

For compounds in objective case

There’s nothing wrong with “me”!

This poem was composed by English Professor and novelist J.N. Sullivan.