I was made for chewing fat, shooting bull
And shooing cat. I was made for killing
Time, and dropping dime in a glass half full.
I was made for weaving yarn and thrilling

Barn owls in broad daylight. I was made to
Go through phases of clichés and I will
Do these things and I will wing it. Stayed true
To that old school form of toadstool by still

Spending hours bending humor into
Cream-style corn, blow my own horn and waking
Sleeping dogs while sawing logs or tend to.
Spit against the wind or pit friend taking

Time with those who lack repose while sitting
By themselves on lonesome shelves just knitting.

No, I don’t know engines, but I know how
Twisting this chokes it off, but helps it start.
Internal combustion helps us go now
But I don’t understand it at its heart.

More gas! More air! It roars and pops and then
It leaps into a loud and choppy purr.
Dying, quick! More gas! More air! Giggle when
That rattle and pop settles down to stir

The whole machine to productive action
Of turning the wheels and spinning the blade
A surge and a chug. With a little traction
We rip through the weeds and we’ve got it made.

The rusty lawn tractor rattles to life
It rolls like a tank and cuts like a knife.

Cat Lady Ziggy feeding feral strays,
Guess we never knew what she was up to.
Tabby, black, calico, white, spotted, gray,
Cats and kittens, Ziggy serving sup to.

Cat Lady Ziggy thinks she’s doing good,
Herding cats into this great location.
Rat-free and squirrel-free, no birds in the wood.
Colony of carnivores at station.

Cat Lady Ziggy, must be all alone,
Could be feeding birds in her own back yard.
Feeding feral cats in the Twilight Zone,
Roaming vandals, corpses their calling card.

Ziggy, let them scatter. Just leave them be.
Spay them, fillet them, if it’s up to me.

It’s a day without a sonnet, and that
Will be true till this diddy deed is done.
Still a day without a sonnet, hands at
The task of counting syllables for fun.

This day without a sonnet stands alone
Among those seventeen days that contain
Each at least one sonnet that was unknown.
For now quatrain and couplet still remain

To be composed and forced to match the rest.
Like making bricks to match the blueprint hole
That should match bricks but failed the ruler test,
It’s architect unsuited to the role.

We wipe our brow. The task is near complete.
Another sonnet day is on the street!

Here at one year past my ordination,
Seventeen years, five months past my calling,
Twelve years into full-time obligation,
Celebrating fourty-four years’ stalling,

On my second church and my fifth career,
Sixth hometown, the plot begins to thicken.
It’s not that I jobhop or fail to steer;
I’m not adventuresome, just no spring chicken.

Some seventy-six sermon videos,
Going on six-thousand I’ve delivered.
Riding high in my second rodeo,
Trying hard to keep my arrows quivered.

Though too much to learn and nothing to teach,
God help, says Paul, I can’t choose not to preach!

Some say nothing ever happens by chance.
They say God knew all before all ever was.
They think it’s all ordained, a song and dance,
But I believe the Bible, just because.

Some say God won’t repent or change God’s mind.
They say God has no reason for regrets.
They say God orchestrates all but I find
Rejoicing in those things that God forgets.

So God can be let down by God’s anointed.
The Bible says the future isn’t stiff.
It says God was surprised and disappointed.
The biggest word in scripture, that is “if”.

I say these things even though I’m liable
To be called “heretic”. Read the Bible!

Ah, Sunday morning! An obligation
To enter the House of God’s dominion.
Is there conviction or confirmation?
The Great Physician’s second opinion.

Ah, Sunday morning! The benches are hard!
The air feels heavy within sacred bricks.
God’s Word is sharp like a pottery shard,
For those who are kicking against the pricks.

Ah, Sunday morning! Comfort and care,
Sisters and brothers all in the same boat.
The preacher rows, but the Helmsman is there
To chop the waters yet keep us afloat.

Ah, Sunday morning! It’s all in your head
If you stop the alarm and stay in bed.

Does God know the future? What does it hold?
Tell me, and give me your chapter and verse.
If the future’s not yet then it’s nothing to know.
God says a choice is a blessing or curse,

But it’s ours to make. It’s undecided
Which road we take, so choose you this day
Whether Yahweh or Baal. God confided
In scripture the truth: We choose our own way.

Time travel, the stuff of science fiction
But God says time moves in one direction.
You don’t back up; you have no depiction
Of all that will be, just God’s protection.

We know God is love and will always care.
Whatever the future, God will be there.

I don’t share them all. Cards on the table
Can’t hold a candle to cards up the sleeve.
When? Where? My call. I’m simply not able
To publish those I don’t want to believe.

There’s pain in the telling, death in the stew,
Buckshot that might injure more than the mark.
Vagueness and code, I try not to fool you.
I try not to strike up a flint that will spark

Inflamed conversation. Don’t give a thought
To unworthy memories having no place
In blessings abounding the dreamcatcher caught.
Just flies in the ointment, lines on the face.

I don’t share them all. I know when to quit.
Our do I? Who knows if the fuse is lit?

A tribute to friendships taken from me,
Stolen or poisoned, faked and forgotten,
Spilling into the streets of Never Was and Used To Be.
Nylon, polyester, wool and cotton.

Which was it? Lie or exaggeration?
For one, you can give me attribution
But not for both, although my station
Makes one seem the other. No solution

For love lost mystery shadowed too long
To know where it starts or where it will end.
I only know that what once was a song
Is now just an ode to a long lost friend.

Nice while it lasted. Thank you for sharing.
Thanks for letting me think you were caring.