I’ve just been elected CEO
of Procrastinators Anonymous.
It’s not as easy as one might think
to counsel others just on the brink
of meeting a deadline precisely on time
when, in fact, it should be a federal crime
to be punctual and proud of it.

The vision of my company states:
Take it slow and always procrastinate.
Pay no attention to schedule and time.
A week from Thursday will be just fine
for that urgent request that’s underlined
in florescent red ink with two gold stars.
Just file it away and let’s find a bar

where people will appreciate
the benefits of being late,
who even consider the moment great
when calendar dates are completely ignored
and deadlines are considered a daily bore,
left to languish on the cutting room floor
while we all take our afternoon naps.

If you’d like a job at this wonderful place,
step up and join the applicant race.
Fill out the forms and turn them in,
then patiently wait for your call to begin.
Take a long trip, maybe go to the moon;
we’ll consider an offer, but not very soon.
One day we’ll get around to it.

I am not a commodity.
I have no shelf life,
no planned obsolescence.
I am neither invented nor inventoried.

I am a singular breath expelled by goodness
into limitless possibility, a place where each
breath is nourished, as a seed in the ground,
until it becomes the strong wind of truth
and blows across the lands to refresh and
renew all suffering beings.

I am a dream let loose in creative chaos,
in the heat and passion of creation,
just when infant stars were learning to twinkle
and a song drifted through the universe
challenging the smugness of silence.
O, for a song. O, that I might hear,
now, in this moment, the beautiful
melody of blessing carried in the gentle
Wind of Heaven.

I am not a commodity.
I am revealed in this moment,
a living thought who hears, with wonder,
the occasional angelic song, an echo of a
memory drifting among the stars.

Refreshing breeze in this fine spring day,
flow through my mind and my fearful heart,
carry me gently on currents of hope,
create in me a fresh new start
for I live in shadows that mock my soul,
dismantling my faith and picking apart
the framework of my life.

Once I dreamed beyond logic and cost,
but now my dreams are all but lost
in lifeless embers that once glowed strong,
anxious to challenge injustice or wrong.
What has become of the courage, the will?
Why is my song lifeless and still?
A faint melody remains, but no words.

I long to feel the elixir of life
moisten the soil of my arid soul
giving life to seeds that lie ready to burst
releasing a power that defies all control.
O that I might bloom this day,
empowered in faith, courageous and bold,
transplanted into the heart of God.

Do you know what the flower said to the tree?
Well, I don’t either but it’s plain to see
that all live together, just like us
they get along fine without anger or fuss.
To be a good neighbor is clearly a plus.

A horse named Bill and a goose called Fred
decided one day to bake rye bread.
They got the oven nice and hot,
pulled down a well used copper pot,
“We’re making what?” They both forgot.

An octopus played the xylophone
but couldn’t find the proper tone.
His arms got tangled up instead
and when he bopped his own bald head,
he got a headache and went to bed.

A shark is a fish with razor sharp teeth,
big ones above and big ones beneath.
I read his press clippings from which I conclude:
his manners are rude, his behavior is crude
and he lives each day with a bad attitude.

Pure Nonsense!

As I wake to this grand and glorious day,
what is this day, by the way?
Is this Monday or Friday, can anyone say?
I get so confused, try as I may.
But don’t we all, here in The Home.

A pinochle game got started last Fall
by four old men who live down the hall.
They meet every Monday at half past ten,
deal the same grimy cards, make up tales they can spin.
Life is exciting here in The Home.

I’ll have my breakfast, then sit around
until the bus is ready to go downtown.
Where does it go? I don’t have a clue.
I ride it to have something better to do
than read the obits, here in The Home.

Someday when you are old and gray,
I’ll recommend this place to stay,
where you can get a big head start
for the line to the bus that goes to Walmart.
Life is great here in The Home.

The only advice I would offer you
is to stay away from the Wednesday beef stew.
Old Mr. Jones, who’s one hundred and two,
ate a big bowl and turned navy blue!
Never a dull moment , here in The Home.

Now don’t get me wrong, the workers are nice
and they should be, given the annual price!
I sold my house, my car and my wife
to enjoy this remarkable Rest Home life.
Just too many old folks, here in The Home.

And here is the final word I will say:
I met Gertrude just the other day.
I kissed her under the apple tree
but she said she wouldn’t marry me
til she checked out her options, here in The Home.

As I close this grand and glorious day,
just before I sleep you’ll hear me say:
Am I in Tucson or Kalamazoo?
And will somebody fix me a bowl of that stew?
There’s a lovely room waiting for you,
here in The Home.

A dove is an elegant, graceful bird.
A hummingbird is a clown.
It’s like driving a Lexus or Mercedes Benz
or thumbing a ride downtown
or catching a bus at the corner stop.
There’s no glamor in this little bird’s life.

When I think of God, I think of the Dove
floating down on graceful wings
to alight on the shoulder of the Chosen One,
to coo and make the world sing.
Such a moving sight as the Spirit descends,
the presence of an elegant God.

Would it matter to you…it doesn’t to me
if the Spirit was a hummingbird?
Don’t laugh, my friend, it just could be.
It’s not the strangest theory I’ve heard.
Powerful, strong, a curious mind.
So close you could almost touch.

I suppose both birds have the attributes
of a caring, creative God.
But I cast my vote for the hummingbird
and before you think I’m odd,
the God I know isn’t hesitant
to look me in the eye

as if to say on my darkest days:
spread your wings and fly with me.
Don’t be aloof or afraid in your life.
Pay attention to what you see.
And with that, the hummingbird
rose in the air and turned somersaults gleefully.

Much has been said in theories of God
of the Author’s majestic grace,
of thrones and kingdoms, omnipotent power,
a grandfatherly look on an old man’s face.
That kind of God is a dove or a swan
and I’m glad if that works for you,

but I’ve just been buzzed by a Hummingbird
who perched on a large red rose.
He cocked his head and looked at me
as he hovered at the end of my nose,
and I knew what he was saying to me;
Let’s turn some somersaults in the air.

With all respect to the elegant dove,
the traditional symbol of God,
while you glide and soar above the crowd
I’ll be off with this tiny hot-rod
who moves with the speed of sacred light
on wings that cause oceans to swell,
with knowing eyes that look into mine,
not to ask or call but compel
my timid soul to take the dare
and turn somersaults in the air.

I’m waving to you…do you see me? When I sit still and focus on this remarkable picture, I am forced to this realization: “What is man that you are mindful of him…(Psalm 8) In the full scope of creation, you and I are pretty small. The few billion stars in the photo are only a tiny dot in the whole construction of the universe. It is staggering to the human mind, and yet we are held in the heart of the Creative Artist. This lovely look at the universe is taken through a telescope at Arizona Star Tours, and I am very grateful for a photo of me waving to you. Wave back! Be at peace this good day!

I heard he came to town today
with his rag-tag fishermen,
ignored the warnings of the Temple guards,
denounced the Pharisees’ sin,
then gathered a crowd in the marketplace.
Will his arrogance never end!

They say he comes from a wretched place,
that he boasts no claim to fame,
but the Rabbi told me privately,
“Use caution just the same.”
For evil is done by men like this.
They’re in it for personal gain.

I must admit that it puzzles me
how he does those miracle acts.
I’d like to believe he’s a charlatan,
but I can’t dispute the facts.
He speaks of peace and selfless love
and ignores the Temple’s attacks.

He seems to possess both mercy and strength.
He invites the poor and the lost.
His followers say they will go with him
no matter the threat or the cost.
I worry, though, what the Romans will do
if they think that he might toss
their kingdom aside in favor of his.
He’ll end up, for sure, on a cross.