a digital commonplace book
Here’s a proverb that applies to more than our treatment of animals:
A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast: but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.
Proverbs 12:10 (the KJV rendering I memorized as a child)
NOTE: this is not about my actual nextdoor neighbor. His middle name is Kindness.
I’m the first one up most mornings. Between reading Greek and writing poetry, there’s always the cats.
Word to the wise: Don’t take Claritin-D shortly before going to bed, especially when you really need to sleep. Your sinuses will be clear, but you’ll just lie there with racing thoughts. The “D” in Claritin-D apparently stands for doggerel.
On the night I wrote this poem, I messed up, and took the wrong medication. As a result, I was wide awake, and I started doing something I often do when I first wake up in the morning: in my head I was taking words and arranging them in various orders, looking for an arrangement that pleased me. In the end, the only way I could get this out of my head was to get out of bed and write down the results. It’s not a great poem, but at least I DID get to sleep after writing it.
In my dream two nights ago, my friend and I were stealing large tables from a church. We spotted a police officer, and my friend said, “We’ll rent that box truck!” Quickly, I threw my table into the back of the truck and leaped in after it. WHAM! I had launched myself out of bed and landed on my knees. Crime doesn’t pay, even in my sleep.
In trying to come up with appropriate hashtags for this poem that I wrote last night, I did a search for “moving in dreams.” I’m not going to dignify the results. As with most searches I make these days for “what does it mean if I [fill in the blank],” Google supplied articles suggesting that I am in the early stages of senescence. I suspect the little boys and girls at Google are having a good laugh at my expense.
Back to reality…. Obviously, Susan woke up and asked why I had landed on the floor. I spared her the details of the dream until morning. But she went and got some arnica cream for me to rub on my knee caps along with an ice pack to prevent swelling. I lay there feeling the chill on my knees and contemplating the end of my walking days. Two days later, I think I’ll be fine. But Susan has mentioned a guard rail. And she definitely wants me to keep a pillow on the wooden chest that my face would hit if my knees don’t hit first. She isn’t worried that I’d lose my good looks. It’s my cranium that concerns her.
(background photo by Jay Mantri on Pixabay)
This poem is a lighthearted way of putting a serious problem: we humans often care more about being on the winning team than we do about accomplishing something that matters in the long run. We just want to win, to get our way, to come out on top. We race each other to the summit of Everest. There in the death zone, we plant our flag, and hasten to die.
(background image by Dimitris Vetsikas on Pixabay)
In my crawl through Luke, I got to chapter eleven today. Jesus’ disciples seem a little concerned that they might miss out on God’s blessing if they don’t have the right technique. They say to Jesus, “Lord, teach us to pray, like John taught his disciples.” We sometimes concentrate on the components of “the prayer” that Jesus taught them, but the bigger point (as seen in the illustrations Jesus follows up with) seems to be, “God is good; just do it!”
(background image by “congerdesign” on Pixabay)
I’m slowly working my way through Walter Kaiser Jr’s “The Messiah in the Old Testament.” It’s one of the books my father was thinking through at age 86, shortly before he died. The margins are graced with Dad’s notes. Naturally, I’m reminded often of him and his devotion to the Messiah. Some fine day….
This poem reflects on something at once puzzling and confirming about the Bible: God doesn’t operate as we would. If we were arranging things for the eventual coming of the Messiah, we’d probably make sure his ancestors were admirable characters. Read Genesis, and observe what kind of character Judah was. Jesus’ ancestor was a run-of-the-mill sinner. On the other hand, Judah’s younger brother Joseph was a remarkable, admirable character. He’s the hero through much of Genesis. Again, if I had been writing the story, I’d have made the promised Messiah come through Joseph’s line, not Judah’s.
God doesn’t operate that way. Through the story he created, He says, “I promise to bring this thing about, and lest anyone should get the idea that man is clever, and earns what I give him, I’ll bring it about through normal, undeserving sinners.”
(background photo: an artist’s castoff)
Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I listen to Anne Curzan’s The Secret Life of Words: English Words and Their Origins. This observation about capitalization is inspired by one of Curzan’s entertaining lectures. In talking about capitalization rules, she confesses that she has never figured out a good reason why “I” is the only pronoun that we routinely capitalize.
Linguists “keep it real” when it comes to language.
It should come as no surprise that a poet thinks by analogy. This morning, I had some worrisome things in mind as I plodded through the end of Matthew. In the events surrounding the Crucifixion (as in countless other settings), Psalm 2 is played out:
Why do the nations rage and the peoples plot in vain? The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord and against his Anointed, saying, ‘Let us burst their bonds apart and cast away their cords from us.’
Psalm 2:1-3 ESV
The analogy? I sat reading in the living room, facing the kitchen, and imagining how roaches would conspire at night (if we had them). They’d gather there on the kitchen floor and hiss their hateful plans. In the end, it isn’t about roaches, but about man. He’s meant to reflect a good, loving God, but often comes closer to reflecting despicable crawling creatures.
The Title
I originally meant to title this “Night Crawlers.” But then I looked that up. Worms? No, that’s not sufficiently despicable. So I looked up “roaches” and found the scientific name for the ones we encounter here in Texas: Periplaneta americana. Perfect. The divisiveness, the constant warring, the plotting…. There’s definitely an American species of this global phenomenon.
We both calmed down, and I took a photo to prove it. But not before I wrote a poem* about the vicissitudes of duty. You see, I grew up with the following proverb:
A righteous man cares for the life of his beast.
Proverbs 12:10
But the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.
For the Grammar Nerds
Should it be “Old Cat and I,” or “Old Cat and Me“?
I or Me
with apologies to Robert Frost
Some say the pronoun should be I,
Some say me.
From what I know of how I act,
I hold with those who favor I.
But if I could choose otherwise,
I think we know enough of cats
To say that their effect
Is quite extreme
On mortals such as me.
* That poem, “Duty in Retrospect,” was pretty raw, and I haven’t decided if it’s safe to publish. My response to bothersome cats brings up other bothersome issues.
Increasingly, I find myself turning even simple statements into poems. Perhaps I’m as annoying in this as Fezzik was to Vizzini in “The Princess Bride”:
Inigo: That Vizzini, he can fuss.
From “The Princess Bride”
Fezzik: Fuss, fuss … I think he like to scream at us.
Inigo: Probably he means no harm.
Fezzik: He’s really very short on charm.
Inigo: You have a great gift for rhyme.
Fezzik: Yes, yes, some of the time.
Vizzini: Enough of that.
Inigo: Fezzik, are there rocks ahead?
Fezzik: If there are, we all be dead.
Vizzini: No more rhymes now, I mean it.
Fezzik: Anybody want a peanut?
The Poem’s Inspiration
I don’t recall the context of the exchange, but one of my Facebook friends wrote the following, and her first two sentences seemed like the beginning and premise for a limerick:
I once met a woman at the mall who had seven children in tow: an oldest child, a pair of twins, and, youngest of all, a set of quadruplets. Each pregnancy subsequent to the first doubled the outcome the one prior. If I were in her shoes, I think I’d probably put my foot down regarding future pregnancies.
Laurie Pearce Mathers
This light-hearted poem is a prequel to the more serious “The King’s Toast.” By the way, my initial commentary on that poem was pretty muddled. If you already read that commentary, do me the favor of reading the improved version.
It’s probably obvious that in this poem I’m exploring the idea that an awareness of God’s presence would help us regulate our behavior. Have a problem with foul language? What if Jesus were right there beside you in a physical, visible form? Would you curse then?
I don’t know.
Closely related poem: “The King’s Toast.“
(background image by Adina Voicu on Pixabay)
If this little poem has any deep meanings, it’s by accident. It’s just some residual silliness from my younger self. That’s all.
(background image by Radomír Šalda on Pixabay)
Back in college, I developed a nervous habit of looking at my watch every minute or so. I doubt anyone else noticed the habit, but I sure did!
My wristwatch was a cheap old Timex, so here was my solution…. I took the back off and removed the movement and face. Then I disassembled the movement, threw the loose gears in the case, and closed it up. The useless watch went back on my left wrist.
True to form, I’d look down at the watch every minute or so. Every time I looked, I had to laugh at myself. There, under the crystal, were a bunch of loose gears, telling me absolutely nothing. Nothing except, “Hey dumb dumb. Stop looking down here!”
The Background Image
That’s not my watch. Who knows where my “Hey dumb dumb” watch got off to. Somewhere between college and now, I lost it (I really did). I’m tempted to buy a cheap old watch to recreate the college timepiece. Its photograph would replace the background image, created in Photoshop from a couple of Pixabay downloads.
The Limerick
When I first thought of writing this limerick, I immediately came up with lines 1, 2, and 5 (the “A A… A” lines). That left me lines 3 and 4 (the “B B” lines) to tell the whole “how I fixed it” story. Believe it or not, that was the hard part. In the prose above, it took me thirty-six words to say what the limerick says in twelve words! That’s one of the main things I love about writing poetry: the challenge and charm of compression.
Have you ever read the most compressed poem of all? Even I can remember this one:
Fleas
Ogden Nash
Adam
Had’em
You’ve heard of the “Social Butterfly.” Now meet the “Social Gnat.” He lives on social media and other rotting things.
This is the kind of poem I often wrote when I was young. Silly, I know… unless you are this guy. Then it’s a serious message: get a life!
This poem is a defense of how I often wake up in the morning. My brain starts the day by trying to dress thoughts in presentable words. The thoughts may be silly. They may be as bizarre or disordered as the dreams from which I woke. But I clothe those thoughts with orderly words: poems, if you like.
“Surging Ugliness” is like a sergeant who barks out orders, the duties of the day. He isn’t interested in the silly private’s search for beauty and meaning. I mistakenly thought that “sergeant” was etymologically related to “surging” (my French isn’t that good). Nevertheless, “surging” does suggest the nature of a real conflict, a real battle between ugliness and beauty. We’re easily fooled by which of these combatants is winning. Beauty seems often to be overwhelmed by surging ugliness. It takes careful reconnaissance to find the truth. Sometimes it takes the silliness that I call poetry.
This is my second silly poem in one day. When I was young, that’s the only kind of poem I wrote.
The inspiration was watching one of the beautiful nature documentaries that David Attenborough put together. While I have never seen Zebras in the wild, I HAVE seen — or barely seen — ptarmigans on mountain climbs in the Rockies. It’s amazing how close you can get to these birds before you recognize that they are birds, and not just rocks!
This, like another poem I wrote on this day, is just silly. My friend Kelly Stern posted a picture of a slug on her Facebook page, and my imagination went immediately to “work.” Just chalk it up to the brain making new connections….
Dear God, let me not be this guy!
Actually, in the careless way I built this poem, I WAS THIS GUY. I can do better with my poetry — and occasionally do. The almost comical reality in my life is that practically every time I point to “someone else’s” failings, it is my own failing that quickly comes into view. I have seen this so often when criticizing grammar! Point out someone else’s poorly-constructed sentence, and I’m sure to blunder within two or three of my own sentences.
I’ll never forget the illustration my friend Jim Adams gave us for the blemished sacrifices passage in Malachi. He brought the class a big bouquet of wilted flowers. That was over thirty years ago. That’s how good a teacher he is!
I guess every poet comes up with this one eventually.
This “poem” is not silly. In fact, I have never been more serious or intentional in anything I have written. It is not that I have no thoughts. Nor is it that I don’t want to share my thoughts with others. It is that there is no such thing as thoughts I have while “alone.” It may drive me to insanity, but I am determined to become consistent in my belief in an all-knowing and very present God. One of the worst hidden hypocrisies in my life has been holding the belief that I have “the ear” of the most powerful being (God) but not voicing my thoughts about others to Him. How many times I have scrolled through Facebook and thought this or that about my friends and acquaintances without “voicing” those thoughts to the One who can do something about my concerns? Do I see someone who is filling his or her life with hatred? Why would I not voice my concern about that to all-powerful God, the one best able to teach them love? Do I see someone hurting and reaching out to friends for comfort? Why would I not voice my sympathy to the great Comforter? Hypocrisy is usually associated with action. My hypocrisy has consisted of inaction.
Yesterday, I attended a birthday party for Youssef Sleiman. All who attended were given the opportunity to read something they had written, or to extemporize about how God has uniquely crafted this man to bring Himself glory. It was something like a memorial service, where the eulogies went on for over two hours. But in this case, the eulogee — the dearly not departed — was sitting there right beside us laughing and occasionally weeping.
I wrote a poem for the occasion, and was happy to see that much of what I wrote matched the reflections of people who have known Youssef far longer than I:
Background image stolen from Lynné Sleiman’s Facebook feed, where it was titled “Meta.”
(of how we fill our lives)
He filled his pack with bubble wrap
And set off on the trail.
Thus equipped, the carefree sap
Was sure he could not fail.
So light his step,
Straight his back,
His shoulders fresh and strong…
Up steepest trail he fairly floated
Warbling his song:
“For times like these I was set free,
So tell me not that I must care
For all your drudgery.
La di da, twiddle dee!
Like all the birds that sing above
For this I was set free!”
Just as the sun
Behind the mountain
Took her cooling plunge,
Approaching alpine glade he sang,
“So high and far I’ve come;
Dee dum, dee dum, dee dum!”
Feasting eyes on matted grass
The clever lad observed,
“Here the elk bed down to sleep,
And therefore, so shall I.”
Lying there, in bubbles wrapped,
The lad soon fell asleep.
But wasn’t long into the night
That hunger pains began to gnaw,
Bitter cold to creep.
He reached into his empty pack
In search of something, any? thing?
Of all he did not bring
To serve as food and warmth.
Somewhere
In that frigid night
His soul above him floated,
Warbling her song:
“For times like these I was set free
So tell me not that I must care
For all your drudgery.
La di da, twiddle dee!
Like all the birds that sing above
For this I was set free!”
Then, looking down from whence she’d come,
“Die dumb, die dumb, die dumb!
On matted grass, eternal bed,
La he died — twiddle dead.”
– Brad Hepp (2019)
This silly poem was inspired by Psalm 16:2: “I say to the LORD, ‘You are my LORD; I have no good apart from you.'” How much of my day is spent pursuing “good” apart from the Lord, doing things that seem pleasant, but which He has not given me to do? Such folly invites the fate of a mountain climber who chooses to pack only what lightens his load.
As much as he’d probably prefer to deny it, Don Regier helped me with a few of the lines.
Go fast! Get there! It’s fine now and then. Mainly then.
