The other day I posted a “Taxpayer’s Prayer”, which I found in the Christian Science Monitor, written by Russell Baker. Apparently it came through so small that it was unreadable, so I’ll try again. I thought it amusing.
O Mighty Internal Revenue, who turneth the labor of man to ashes, we thank thee for the multitude of thy forms which thou
hast set before us and for the infinite confusion of thy commandments, which muliplieth the fortunes of lawyer and accountant
Here’s today’s poem:
She was a child- –at first,
not innocent, but trusting.
Her world was one of beauty until
it was scarred by the ugliness of killing and intrigue.
Mere protests led to violence;
the man she loved was swallowed up by war.
But sometimes in the midst of strife there can be found
a haven of peace, arranged by love.
War cannot kill love, for the strength of a heart’s devotion
survives when all else seems lost.
Since in the USA April 15th is te traditional day that taxes are due, I thought I would share a couple of short quotes that I found in a Christian Science Monitor article.
If Patrick Henry thought taxation without representation was bad, he should see how bad it is
quote from the Old Farmers Almanac..
O Mighty Internal Revenue who turneth the labor of man to ashes, we thank thee for the multitude of thy forms which thou hast set before us and for the infinite confusion of thy commandments which multiplieth the fortunes of lawyer and accountant alike.
MOCK SPRING March 2016
The sun is warm today,
brightly encouraging, gently
teasing the trees to bloom.
It is too early for spring
I want to tell the trees.
But they are bursting with
enthusiasm and cannot wait.
They do not remember other years
when, tricked by a mock spring,
they suffered the bites of frost.
And I, like the trees,
am too eager to pack away
my sweaters and coats, and
rejoice in warmth again. But,
I must not be mocked, for
I remember when I bloomed
in joyous anticipation, only to be
disappointed and hurt when life
turned it’s cold shoulder to me.
Old Woman’s Challenge
old woman woke.
outside the moon was watching
but there was no one there
inside her head and no one in her bed.
terror was there but
old woman grasped it and held it down as
terror growled and showed teeth.
old woman knew what to do
for even though
inside old woman’s head it was murky
inside her heart there was courage.
she stared at terror until it whimpered
and backed away, so
old woman went out into the night
where the moon was bright
to show her the way.
then she offered up the treasure
she had found in her heart
to purchase wisdom.
it was enough.
old woman found someone to help.
moon shone brightly into her room
and made terror shrink and flee
then moon smiled because
old woman with brave heart
knew where to find love
and there was another day.
IN THE AIR
Did you ever wonder
what you breathe in?
what is out there in the air?
There are voices and thoughts,
all flying around wirelessly.
They surely must crash into each other
like airplanes in a busy sky.
The phone call from Uncle Joe
narrowly missing the giggles
from the teenage girl next door.
A call to 911 is dodging an
e mail joke out there somewhere.
A whole speech may go zooming past
while family pictures float by.
No more may our private opinions
be shrouded in a whispered phone call,
or hidden in an envelope,
now they are in the clouds for all to see.
It is like waking at night to the song
you have not thought of in years
playing incessantly in your head.
We used to wonder where it came from
and now we know.
It has always been there, in the air,
ready to play unbidden in your brain.
How about a lighter poem today? Enough serious, eh? I’ll bet you all can identify with this one.
Ode To My Computer.
You are a computer.
But, as Lenny Bruce would say,
if you really are a computer,
Then why are you a computer,
and why do you torment me?
What did I ever do to deserve
this constant frustration,
this fight we seem to have
always. I want to be in charge,
but you claim to be smarter.
Shall I smash your smug face?
shall I walk away and retire
to the hills to grow hollyhocks?
I used to have a life,
but you have taken it over,
filling my every waking minute
with anger and angst.
I watched a bevy of quail this morning.
They popped out one by one
from under a flowering bush
that made them invisible at first.
I listened as the boldest one
whispered, ”We need to cross
the street. I’ll go first.”
And away she raced—running
so fast she put roadrunner to shame,
her legs moving at such a speed
you could scarcely see them.
From the safety of the bush
across the street she squeaked,
“O.K. Next.” And one by one they ran,
their comic little bodies speeding
and chirping in triumph as they safely arrived.
I guess we all need someone
to lead the way, to say “look. I did it!
Now you can too.”
‘Tis a time of uncertainties,
a month poised expectantly
between winter and spring,
unsure of itself. Trying to decide,
shall I snow? shall I blow?
shall I bestow the kindness of
more sun and warmth or shall I
bluster and refuse to offer hope?
March is a time of life,
not youth and not old age,
dangling between past and future.
It is a time of uncertainty,
the spirit tightly clinging
to youth, the body fearing age.
I have anticipation of better
days to come and yet the
Marches of my past tell me
it may not be so.