A directionally-challenged poet’s Lenten reflections

Even though it’s Holy Week,
the road I seek
isn’t necessarily the cobblestone one
once carpeted with wilted palms
and stained by an innocent man’s blood.

Too often I’m guilty
of being directionally-challenged
(or simply disobedient).
My leather-bound Map Quest
indicates the ancient Via Dolorosa
is the road that leads
to my desired destination.

Still, it is not the path
on which I always find myself.
It is not the route of least resistance.
It is unpaved and steep.
It appears to be too narrow.

You see, I love the bright lights
of Broadway.
I’m captivated by the commotion
of Wall Street.
I’m preoccupied with the happenings
on Pennsylvania Avenue.
I’m drawn to the glitz and glamour
of Rodeo Drive.
I’m a sucker for the Penthouses
of Park Place that call out to me.

In spite of being convinced
there is One who knows me at my worst
yet loves me just the same,
I am somehow capable
of coming up with endless explanations
for why I am not satisfied
with my Lover’s lane.

Yet He whispers in my heart
that His street of dreams
is guaranteed to lead me to a good Friday
and an even better Sunday.

And so I have a choice.
I can persist on
on an all-too-familiar pathway
overgrown by great intentions
and not-so-wonderful results.

Or I can make my way to
an overlooked trail
on which the footprints
of a risen dead man
can still be traced.

One is a well-traveled road
that really goes nowhere.
The other is an unpopular trail
that leads beyond the cul-de-sac
of a bloodied cross and an empty tomb
to a desirable court where
justice resides with grace.

This week (compass in hand)
I have a decision to make.
Hopefully, come Easter morning,
Scott Peck won’t be the only one
with first-hand experience
taking a road less traveled.

A first-class flight that was truly out of this world

It was a flight to end all flights.
Full-service all the way.
The upgrade she’d but dreamed about
was offered her that day.

She took off in ECONOMY.
But, oh my gosh. Alas,
before she’d landed on the ground
her seat was in FIRST CLASS.

It seems she got quite cold back there.
The old girl couldn’t breathe.
But she did not complain a bit
and neither did she grieve.

She left that to the baffled few
who looked at her and cried.
The news spread up and down through coach.
Miss 40-D had died.

The flight attendants rushed to help
and moved the lifeless lass.
They found a seat beside a man
asleep up in FIRST CLASS.

When he awoke he thought the gal
a bit aloof and rude.
She didn’t answer when he spoke.
She had an attitude.

But when he saw her turning blue.
He shrieked, “This woman’s dead!”
Unnerved and angry all at once
he face turned crimson red.

“How dare you strap this corpse right here?
It’s not a morgue you know.
I want a refund when we land
at Gatwick or Heathrow.”

He got his refund as he asked.
His face in time would fade.
And, bless her heart, Miss 40-D
was given her upgrade.

The moral of this true-life tale
may seem at first to be
“In time you’ll get what you desire.”
But more importantly.

“The trips you take may seem routine.
You board and then you fly.
But hey, you’d best be right with God.
In flight you just might die.”

* This poem is based on a British Air flight from New Delhi to London in which a first-class passenger awoke to find the corpse of a woman who had died in the economy cabin being placed in a seat next to him.

New lyrics celebrating an old saint’s ingenuity;
A Poetic Protest of Soul Patches

I’m looking over
a three-leaf clover
that Saint Patrick saw before.
One leaf’s the Father.
The second’s the Son.
Third is the Spirit.
There’s three yet there’s one.
It takes explaining
’cause faith is waning.
There’s absence of mystery.
In Dublin or Dover
St. Paddy’s clover
can teach us the Trinity.

St. Pat the preacher
was one grand teacher
to illustrate truth through weeds.
Old Mother Nature
revealed Father God.
Clovers decoded
what many found odd.
In Shamrock City
I pray this ditty
will reclaim an old saint’s fame.
He was a master.
A much-loved pastor.
Let’s honor St. Patrick’s name.

A Poetic Protest of Soul Patches

A call to end one hair-raising trend.

A moustache can be debonair.
A go-tee’s kind of nice.
But what some grow below their mouth
is neither fire nor ice.

That clump of hair they boast down there
beneath their lower lip
I guess is spose to make them look
as if they’re cool and hip.

But let me say that soul patch thing
is really quite bizarre.
It looks as if they’ve washed their face
but missed a splotch of tar.

Don’t patch your soul. Just let it be.
Some hair’s best left unseen
unless (come ol’ Saint Paddy’s Day)
you dye your soul patch green.

Unearthing Jesus is a seasonal disorder

The bones of Jesus in a box?
His wife and son as well?
If true, our faith is but a farce
and we’re all bound for hell.

For Heaven’s sake! This grave ordeal
is only “holy” hype.
It’s just the game Christ’s critics play.
You know their rules and type.

The headlines claim He didn’t rise.
It happens every year.
The media discredits faith
as Holy Week draws near.

The skeptics can’t accept the fact
that Easter might be true.
They dig up ways to make their case.
It’s really nothing new.

Unearthing Jesus is the goal
of those who won’t believe.
But, boy, it makes me sick inside.
It makes me want to heave.

I wonder what the Savior thinks
at being called a fake.
I’m sure it really breaks his heart.
Eternal life’s at stake.