A mountain of a man, I’d say,
Like the mountain on which he stood.
For forty days, two times a day
He dared to fight us if we would.

A freak of nature, if such be.
He stood six cubits and a span.
As sturdy as an oak was he;
More like a tree, it seemed, than man.

I recalled the lion and bear
That I’d pursued and smote to death.
Of danger I was well aware
But took my lamb and took their breath.

Our king did not want me to fight.
He said, “Thou art a youth, and he
Is man of war and man of might.
I fear for us; I fear for thee.”

But then relented and said, “Go
And God be with you.”  He then gave
Me armor that was his, and so
Perhaps he thought my life it'd save.

I put his helmet on my head
And donned the coat of mail of Saul.
But they didn't feel right, so instead
No armor would I wear at all.

I bent a knee; I flexed a hip.
I chose five stones from nearby brook.
I put them in my shepherd’s scrip,
In hand my staff and sling I took.

Did I feel fear?  I cannot say.
I don’t recall the way I felt.
I think it may have been this way:
With harder things I thought I’d dealt.

So toward the tree I quickly ran.
I was alone; but they were two.
Before Goliath was a man
Who bore a shield, as bearers do.

He seemed insulted by my youth.
He cursed behind the man of shield.
He said he’d feed me, this forsooth,
To birds of air and beasts of field.

Those words of his I couldn’t abide;
Within me something then awoke -
A righteous rage I could not hide.
I couldn’t contain myself; I spoke.

I don’t regret the words I said.
I told him then, I told him there
Whose carcass it would be that fed
The beasts of field and birds of air.

I went toward him and slid a stone
Into the pouch of trusty sling.
It was the fastest stone I’ve thrown;
I put my might behind the thing.

I said a prayer as I let fly
That God would guide the path stone took.
It landed just above his eye.
As he fell down, methinks earth shook.

The Philistines, their hero dead,
Put down their arms and ran away.
I knew that, even as they fled,
They'd live to fight another day.


I think back on that special day,
A day that dims in memory.
Though I grow old, I yet can say:
The Lord is good; O taste and see.

The good health that was visited on you
When you were young, and maybe from your birth,
Has made your life the richer, and your worth
Is measured by the things you love to do.

It seems that few of any age can keep
Up the daunting pace for yourself you’ve set.
Your energy exceeds that most have met
And so they watch, they marvel and they weep.

Whether it be on the slopes or maybe
Links, or ballroom floor, or choir of church,
You seem to find fulfillment in your search
For what it is that makes up destiny.

So, at this time, this very special time
When milestone passes, that won’t come again,
May of all things you have the best, and when
The day comes (and it will) you’re past your prime

Memories of a better time will keep
A Giaconda smile upon your face.
While your mind may be in another place,
May smile remain as you drift into sleep.

“Learn from the mistakes of others.  You can’t live long enough to make them all yourself.”

-  Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962), longest serving FLOTUS



Start with one comely young man of great promise:
He rescues lamb from jaws of bear.
Rescues sheep from clutches of lion.  
Slays giant Philistine with stone and sling.  
Forms deep friendship with prince, son of king.  
Becomes king himself.
Marries daughter of prior king – a princess.

Add a heaping teaspoonful of lust of eye - perhaps both eyes.
Stir in ****** – more than a pinch (is ****** ever less than a pinch?)

Let simmer; boiling over may be unpreventable, even if *** is uncovered and fire is low.
Clean up overflow.
Rinse cleanup cloth, but keep handy; more cleanup may be needed later.
Replenish fire as needed.
Keep plenty of wood; this fire will burn awhile.

Let plot thicken.
No need for additive; it will thicken of own accord.
Add a dash of sleepless nights.



Do not taste; mixture is bitter.
If proof needed, insert fingertip (not more) into stew.
Run cool water over fingertip.
Avoid four-letter words.
Rinse mouth.
Resolve to believe recipe in future.

*

Protagonist is castigated by prophet.
Marries widow of innocent man killed in battle.
With multiple wives, has multiple children; never a good idea.

       *

Son of one wife grows up to, like his father (like father, like son?), succumb to temptation – for his half sister.
Despite her plea, he forces himself on her.
She grieves.

*

Remove lid; handle potholders with care.
Mix in half a cup of tears.
Probably no need for salt; tears may be salty enough.
Stir ever so gently.

*

Her brother learns of her grief, is determined to wreak vengeance upon perpetrator, his half brother.
Which he does at a subsequent banquet.
Blood flows, some into ***.

                               *

No need for yeast.  
This mixture has enough ingredients to rise on its own.
Also, no need for spice.

      

A comely man in his own right, avenger decides to usurp throne.
Once (and future) king flees.
In subsequent combat, usurper flees by mule.
His mane catches in low-hanging branches of an oak (every yang has its yin), and he is killed.
More blood is shed.

*

Blood is salty, and has a flavor all its own.
More will trickle into ***; it cannot be helped.

*

Add cup of gall.
Little to no stirring needed; gall will disperse on its own, and tends to dominate whatever it is commingled with.

*

The king has epiphany, writes psalms – 150 of them.
Despite all above, the Almighty calls king ‘a man after His own heart.’
‘Where sin doth abound, grace doth much more abound.’ – Rom. 5:20.

*

Cooking is done.
Extinguish the fire.
Let *** sit.

*

Contemplate follies of man.
‘What fools these mortals be’ -  Shakespeare, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“We have met the enemy, and he is us.” – Walt Kelly, ‘Pogo’ comic strip.

*

Final stew is less bitter, but also less sweet, than it might have been.
Once put in the *** of life, ingredients cannot be removed.
They can only be tempered by more ingredients.

Choose wisely.

When does ire
become hate?
Or desire
something more,
which we late-
r may regret?
Might we abet
what we abhor?

That fine line
(not in sand nor red,
but in heart and head)
flutters, like vine
or leaf in breeze.
As a restive boat,
it may bob and float.
But we forget with ease.

         *

So can looks ****?
Not only as man
(but that, too),
I assure you
they sure can.
They may; they will.

An acquaintance knows Cantonese.
Once knew it like her Q's and P's.
Although it was her mother tongue
Some she forgot since she was young.

She doesn't now translate with ease.
For when she tries, her mind will seize.
Not only does blood pressure rise
(So much in fact it hits new highs),
But she finds her knees get weak
And a flush comes to her cheek.
She thinks, as she breaks into sweat,
'Is more to come?'  She knows not yet.
She wonders what could be the matter.
Has she gone mad, like the Hatter?

It might behoove to translate less.
Translating less should bring less stress.

For trying to translate Cantonese -
Who knew it'd cause such things as these?

Picasso reported a theft
By art thieves who barely had left.

"Did you see them?" cops prodded.
"I think so."  He nodded.

"Perhaps you could sketch them
To help us to ketch them."

So he sat down to draw
And they watched him with awe.

After they knew
What Pablo drew,

Arrests swiftly came.
I cite them by name:
Mandolin, guitar, and horse.

But do I jest?  Of course.