Growing up somewhat close to the University of Notre Dame, I spent a lot of time with Catholics. In fact I dated all Catholics (including one who was training to be a priest) until I finally found the one non-Catholic man in Indiana. Thus, this protestant preacher’s kid went to a lot of masses and Catholic weddings. My equally protestant mother also enjoyed watching the suspense caused whenever a new pope was to be selected during the cardinals’ conclave. I’m afraid I’ve succumbed to her “illness,” too. Since I have only known of 5 popes during my lifetime (including Pope Francis) and I am no “spring chicken”, the reality is that we probably should be paying some attention to each conclave. The election of a new pope does affect a rather large portion of the world’s population. Unfortunately for the Catholic community, I have known just a few too many crazy Catholics and so, I feel no obligation to be completely reverent about pontifical poetry. My apologies to God, Pope Francis, and my Catholic friends. After this, they will probably be my former Catholic friends.

The rare has happened,
A papal resignation
That has led to reason speculation.
Because of too many scandal seasons?
Or because of aging health reasons?
No matter what the trouble,
The Sistene Chapel is still far from rubble
And seems like a majestic setting
To drink Italian espresso
And celebrate ego less so.

To elect a new pope
You have to wear a dress
Which might cause distress
To an ordinary male witness
And the only sign of a decision
Is smoke with questionable color division

This method was first thought
By the Vatican distraught,
Who felt cardinals should elect a new pope
In less time than it takes for a spinster
To regain matrimonial hope.
So, they locked up those gentlemen,
Who had little papal acumen,
And gave them sparse nutrition
And little religious hydration.
And presto!
A quick election
With minimal additional frustration.

So, here is my question,
For our national consternation
Why haven’t we locked up our Congress
To fix our governmental budget mess?
It hasn’t been attempted
Because we know them all too well
They’d rather not jell or budget fight quell,
And most would rather drown
Before getting caught wearing a gown.

The first two books I ever remember being my “bedtime stories” were Dr. Seuss’ One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and Fox in Socks. Since our family rarely purchased new children’s books, these were a treasure. And since Dr. Seuss is often quite silly, I delighted in them as a child. My beleaguered mother probably had them memorized by the time I was five, since I insisted on each being read to me every night.

March 2nd was Dr. Seuss‘ birthday and since my birthday is the day after his, I have an extra-special fondness for all things Seuss, as you will see this coming Tuesday on MIP. So, here is my decidedly poor attempt to salute this “master” of children’s poetry:

A girl on the go
Should sit down with a book
Because the girl cannot go
Without doing that book look.

For the book tells a story
About unusual places
And lots of tall piles
In rather strange spaces.

And the piles all are silly
And seem willy-nilly
But, to a young girl
They can be fabuhilly.

And they show a young girl
How to live a good life
With a fox, and a cat and
Marvin K. Mooney,
For life wouldn’t be life
Without each as a roomie.

So, a girl on the go
Should pack up her imagination
Full of new words and
Beetle paddle paginations.

For fun is so fun
When the fun is so Seuss
And Thing One and Thing Two
Are back out on the loose.

Monday’s Post: Are you for realia?

She was born in a blip of a village
Over a half century long ago,
Where everyone knows everybody
And caring is the norm.

She grew up in a small southern town
In the tempest known as the ‘60s
And found herself center-stage
As the winds of time turned quickly.

She had her first kiss
In the suburbs of a city
And learned about who she was
In the flash known as the 70s.

Her city became a university
Where life changed so dramatically
And she wrestled with identity,
Tradition, and civility.

She met a country boy
In the midst of transformation
And he turned her head to a new life
Far from the dreams of her own destiny

As she grew into a woman
Life was not kind to her own well-being
And she struggled to achieve sanity
In a world of huge hypocrisy

She forged a new self-idea
As she learned to be a mother
And found that parenting struggles
Are far harder than any other

In the midst of a large crisis,
She found herself again
And slowly turned the pages to a
New and better “yen.”

She took on daunting challenges
At a time when most would quit
And shed too many tears
Because of mentors gone and spent

But, now she is much wiser
Even though she still has much to know
And the good Lord leads her quietly
On a road few ever go.

Remember writing haikus in school? That 5 syllable-7 syllable-5 syllable exercise that we all undertook to better understand poetry? I have to confess that my haikus are not very worthy of posting. But fortunately, someone else’s is.

Having married into the Arnold family, I can tell you that Dave Mattson is “legendary.” He was first introduced to our family as a youth director at the local church. Later, he became a missionary to the native peoples of Alaska, where churches are often sparse. His ability to craft and fix problematic situations in people’s houses is also the stuff of legends. Regrettably, I have never met “Mattson,” as my in-laws refer to him. But, my mother-in-law suggested that I friend him on FB for his unique writing style and unusual status statements (Recently, he seems “bent” on drafting elaborate fiction about the impending royal birth in London.).  Each day he also greets FB with his thought-provoking haikus. And Mattson is decidedly better at haiku construction than your MIP author. So, today’s Poetry Saturday features some of my favorite haikus from Mattson and I hope they inspire you to move forward in your life. Thanks, Mattson, for sharing with my MIP readers. And if you like these, there are plenty more to come:

Your better future
Will be prevented if you
Hoard your bitter past

Suicide removes
What could have been the best and
Leaves only the worst behind

You can be free from
What won’t let you go when you
Look it in the eye

The future won’t wait
For you to decide how long you’ll
Remain in the past

If you do not leave
The past behind the future
Will leave without you

Do not listen to
Anyone who believes in
You less than you do

Real love believes in
What’s best in you and wants you
To overcome the worst

Succeed is what you’ll
Do despite those who would keep
You as a failure

Never be content
With less than trying something
That’s impossible

When you can take strength
From pain and faith from fear, you’ll
Be happy again

The future won’t keep
You from the past but the past
Can block your future

Monday’s Post: Word of the Week: What did you think heliacal meant?

It starts when we’re 4 or 5,

The learning of how to survive,

In a world of business and power,

Where few ever explore the flower.

And then when we’re 8 or 9,

We realize that we have a spine,

But relentless is the pressure to conform,

And we hope that we can transform.

Around the time of a teen,

We learn we must have self-esteem,

But only if we work, as forewarned,

Toward the conventions of society’s norm.

We want so badly to be “good,”

And do what we know we should,

But lost in the drive for power,

Is the soul’s last hopeful tower.

So, off to work we go,

Hoping our soul will learn to know,

A new sense of self and love,

But, it merely goes on like an ill-fitting glove.

It isn’t who we truly are,

Like putting a cloud in a race car,

And finally we realize our error,

And the all-engulfing time terror.

So, we finally engage the fear

And learn to trust in what’s clear

And work on our heart’s dream

To fuel our innermost seam.

And to the world of conformity

We say, “Following you is deformity.”

For us to be His chosen

We yield to a life less frozen.

Monday’s Post: Word of the Week: What did you think campestral meant?

He numbs the world

By distance and space,

Or rapid-fire toxic waste

In the form of abuse

From chemical substance.

He quietly walks

Thru doors of his own choosing

And leaves the others behind

That are open wide

For the taking.

If he only knew

That we still see inside

How we would hew

The best of his pride

A change cannot come

Without pain’s clear expression

But he still hides

The truth of all of his distraction

How we long to assist

The one of our intentions

How we wish he would reach out

For friendship’s love extensions

Our fear is he will die

Before our intervention

But Heaven wants better

Than mere weak observation

May God protect

The man of misdirection

Until the day comes

Of a heart’s resurrection.

Monday’s Post: What does baba mean? And what’s the new Word of the Week?

Serious Session Alert: My friend, Kim, passed away 3 years ago today. While I wrote this to further define who I intend to be, it also describes her viewpoint…at least from my viewpoint. So, Kim? You have always been one of my favorite destinations…I can’t wait until our paths cross again.

You Are My Destination

What should I say to you To give you ease?
What should I do for you
To help you, pretty please?
What should I know
That would answer all your questions?
Who should I find
To learn wisdom, not retention?

It is confusion;
It is conundrum;
It is illusion;
It is reduction.

Who should I seek
To find all the answers?
Where is the One
To channel my frustration?
When will I know
How to combat in-conclusion?
Why am I here
In a world of your invention?

It is anger;
It is sadness;
It is living, or so it seems.
But is this indecision
Nothing more than just a dream?

Why are you gone
When you should be here?
Why are you here
But only fuzzy and unclear?
Where is my solace
In the midst of indignation?
Who is the target
Of my arrow’s good intentions?

It is your triumph;
It is your lesson;
It is a journey;
It is destination.

Let me find you;
Let me see you;
Let me banish in-conclusion;
Let me hear how you conceive
This crazy universe of distraction.

For each thought is instructive,
Each moment so productive
Do you know that you change me,
Just by being “respirative”?

For you are my yearning;
You are my task;
You are my statement;
You are my past.
Given the moment,
I can say, en masse,
You are my life’s journey…
You are the road map.