Saturday, June 16, 2018

What Makes America Grate


(Haiku Form)
by Jim Rapp

We are finding out
what we are made of, what makes
America grate.

No, not "GREAT", rather
what makes our behaviors "GRATE"
on those watching us.

The ease with which
the Liar-in-Chief lies, grates
to highest Heaven.

The sleaziness of
the POTUS grates
on those who love right.

The complicity
of silence from those with power
grates against justice.

The #me too movement
has opened – with grating – a
skeleton's closet.

The rejection of
amnesty seekers grates on
the heart of our God.

The separation –
by force – of children and their
parents grates the most.

When we turned away
the child, the stranger, we turned
away our Savior.

The nations look on,
remember our greatness, and weep
for what we once were.


Monday, June 11, 2018

Trumpian Diplomacy


What causes a grown man to seek approbation
by obnoxion; does he think by burning down the house
he'll force his co-inhabitants to praise him;
does he  really think "diplomat" is spelled l-o-u-s-e?

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Co-Malingerers


by Jim Rapp

He assumes I know what I'm doing
and he is the one who is floundering.
Little does he know, in his ruing,
he's watching another malingering.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

The Burden of Brother Blood


by Jim Rapp

How faithfully we'd serve You if You had not insisted
that we love you will all our heart, soul and mind,
and . . . and our neighbor as ourselves. Nothing listed
concerning our comfort, time or wellbeing of any kind.

The burden of serving You is decreed in Genesis – found
in Your answer to Cain's plea, "Am I my brother's keeper?"
"Your brother’s blood," You said, "cries from the ground."
You will not let us escape the burden of brother keeping –
                   the burden of brother blood.

Saturday, May 12, 2018

Accommodation


by Jim Rapp

Essentially dead from the top down – one third –
that third stands in the middle of my cherished view,
a thin, ragged stem giving roost to an occasional bird,
otherwise accommodating only detritus, nothing new.

I've given thought to removing it one way or another.
The landlords have no interest in doing so; they see it
only from ground level, two-thirds live and no bother;
it is a bother at the third-floor view from where I sit.

I have no quarrel with dead trees, some I see as comely,
dead from root to crown, sturdy arms lifted in elegance,
dying with proper dignity, in vertical repose, serenely
suggestive of their useful, fruitful, former countenance.

So how can I bear a grudge against this unseemly dead
when I reflect that, at 82, I'm at least one third unseemly?
I'm shamed that those whose view I've insistently obscured,
graciously accommodate ("look around") my unseemity.

Saturday, April 21, 2018

The Rewarder


by Jim Rapp

Sometimes faith finds a specific object –
a healing, a deliverance, a benefice –
but more often its undefined subject
is unnamable, provides no satisfice.

The wanderer must home in on a distant star
and pursue it though its flickering light casts
no shadows, lights no page or path, nor
guarantees – nor guarantees – a home at last.

Beyond that receding star – far, far, far yet
beyond; a thousand eternities far and dim –
faith sees the Undefined, the Object of its
quest, the Rewarder of those who seek Him.


Saturday, April 14, 2018

The Ruthless Arbiter


by Jim Rapp

When innocents die in gas attacks
it seem only right to strike the perpetrators.
An eye for an eye – if struck, strike back –
insert ourselves as "righteous" arbiters.

No matter that care is taken so that
no missiles strike the guilty smiters,
extract no eye, inflict no harm nor swat
the accomplices of the perpetrator.

Instead "righteous" arbiters aim their drones,
in other conflicts, to pull down houses,
deform the limbs of young and old:
and who will arbitrate their causes?

"Vengeance is mine," says the Lord,
"I will repay." Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.
Atrocities, the Righteous Judge will hoard,
and then repay, coin for coin, with no ruth.

Snowstorms Are For Kids


(Haiku form)

Snow storms should not come
on weekends when kids are home
from school anyway.

Storms should interrupt;
should put a stop to all things
children love to hate.

When I pass on to
Heaven I'll apply to be
the keeper of storms

dispatching them to
interrupt adults' plans while
pleasing the children.