God Looks Down and Across

He sees us where we sit, and lay

Like Santa Claus, they say in that poem

In our comfort or our pain

Buddha would be different. Maybe?

Krishna and Vishnu other types.

My taxi driver in the big streets of the Gulf city

Was likely Hindu. A student of the pantheon.

Are we all not like him?

Maybe his name was Gupta. Or Singh.

Millions of them? I have known a few.

Others are Americans like my sister’s friends who convert, and worship and practice hari krishna.

Even in Utah.

Family in Utah. Like the sons of our stake president of , the shorter one.

Suriname and Japan, Fukuoka. One more for the future.

Where else, where will we go?

Oh, yes. God our Heavenly Father.

He sees us sleep, restless or tranquil.

The latter means quiet in Portuguese. The language of my son. And my ex brother-in-law. Who lived and loved down there for a season.

Obedience.

It is required.

My wife loves so. So beautiful.

She watches and moves.

An embodiment of God and His will and desires.

He watches, sees Yousef floundering, Rob and yet Stacey.

Folks I know.

We do what we can.

To help our Heavenly Father.

I missed church Sunday. Saw a girl named Fursay be hurt, unbeknownst to me.

We would be in church, that Sunday morning.

God sees us and hopefully loves us more.

We must love Him and His Son.

Trust Him and the Lord of all.

Suffering in Gaza, I hear in the radio. 

We Americans have other concerns.

The Holy Land and the Rocks of Haram Sharif.

I will re-read that book.

2004, published? Confusing but better than Ralph Ellison. Hateful and scorned, his invisibleness contrived.

Misogyny. Like my guy jokes at work.

He says different than he says. I mean believes.

He jokes.

Perhaps only sensible to those that know, like me.

The trainers.

“Nice footwear,” I say in the elevator.

“You have good style,” she replied.

Funny stuff on a work day.

You follow?

I barely do. But God is there.

Deep into the night, the morning. Now and always.

We thank Him.

While our ecclesiastical leader laments the upheaval of France. 

Yes, this could be some ADHD.

Poetry and a rambling mind.

God sees. 

May Rob be okay.

He doubts so much of it.

We must stay the course— with the Divine.

Dallin H. Oaks versus Pope Leo the 14th, XIV, Robert Francis Prevost

    Some talk on Christianity, or Christendom. Enough of me ruminating about who was the real Bard of the 1th century. Bard barf and rot, I say!

    Why not talk of the religions and the faiths that killed so many across Europe back then?

    Yes, the Protestants and the Catholics were quite deadly back then. Not to mention all the violence and malevolence with Muslims, from Moors to Turks.

    People blame the religions, or practice of religions, or the enforced beliefs in these "unfounded, illogical" beliefs in higher powers.

    I admit, people have done terrible, awful, horrific things in the name of Jesus, Mohammed, Allah, Yawhei, Zeus, Krishna, Vishnu... Maybe even Buddha? However, many, many deaths and tortures and systematic killing and authoritarian governments that oppress and subjugate have been in the name of economists like Marx and Engels, Mao and Pot.

    Can we blame organized religions as the main culprit of the hatred and organized suppression, abuse, all the negatives.

    Christ Himself, us Christians argue and assuage, is not of this nature. Most of us get it wrong. We do and say and act in ways that are not His. Too often throughout the history of our planet.

    Since Jesus, before, and all times in between.

    Unfortunate.

    Religion, and Christianity, get bad names. Take the Crusades of the midevil times. Not good.

    Today the U.S. and other Western nations take blame for being too Crusader-like, too Christian, borderline awful nationalist. There is the support of Israel, which is having its troubles with humanity, which is an ongoing mess...

 I Spoke of My Poems But No One wants to Hear Them

    They seem oblique or sad, but no one wants to know.

    That is my problem. No one cares.

    I know that God cares, and other audiences will care. Some day.

    Just not now.

    They care about remembering or lamenting six essays on silence from college, not the poems that I have written the last few days.

    Why should they care?

    Why do I?

    I like my thoughts on paper, as it were.

    A blog sounds blase to the regular folk.

    But art and magic lie therein.

    We shall see.

    Some day, others will say, thanks for your words.

    And that precept makes me happy.

    Tonight we have new full time missionary. 

    We love to see it, feel it, experience it.

    Excited and enthusiastic.

Alone, or solo, in solitude or lonely, even.

    The messages go boring through. Not boring, of ennui, but boring like a drill.

    A drill, like Makita or Milwaukee, that drills holes into the soothing or deep parts of our souls and makes us who we are.

    Networks and fibers of light, energy, fluids (of varying viscosity), and all those flows and passages re-connect to who we really are, what we shall be, what we are meant to be, and what is most meaningful.

    Even meaning, itself. Significance.

    Like the poems that I write.

    There for us and them, you, and me.

    

    My pronouns, as I told some soldiers Sunday, are me, you, us.

    Amen and pass the rock salt.

 Alone

    I think of extremes, when I was alone.

    When was I most alone?

    What does that mean?

    I was by myself, maybe minding my own business...

    My own business. Alone.

    When I was alone, on the beach, in the mountains, at the library, at church.

    Where were you?

    Who are you?

    Were you with me?

    Did I know you?

    Have you known me?

    

    If you knew me now, or if you knew me then,

    Then I have been less alone.

    You were kind of with me. Less alone.

    Like God.

    You were like God, with me when I was most alone.

    I was less alone.

    I have never been alone.

    Thanks for being with me.

    The highs, the lows, the times sideways, the verticals.

    In pain and joy, failure and triumph.

    Not alone.

    With me.

    You and me.

    Together.

    Alone .

    Or not so much.

    You are here.

    I appreciate that.

    See you.

    Thanks for seeing me.

    Through it all, all of this.

 Trump and Musk Can Never Kill as Many Unsuspecting Victims as Mao or Stalin...

    Or can they?

    Removning medicine and aid from many hapless souls in Africa, primarily, led to many deaths. This past year and a half. Hard to count how many. Stalin and Mao were much worse on their own citizens and those nearby.

    But The Donald and The Elon are working on it.

    Perhaps they learned their lessons in cruel ways of sentencing innocents to death, suffering, privation, and ignominious demises?

    Do I make this up? Fairy tales? False news. Fake, phony, Holden Caulefield?

    Most Americans are racist, I have decided. Why? Because we are ignorant of most of the world's outsiders, and we are woefully ignorant or negligent when they suffer and die. Palestinians, Africans of all the countries. Most Latinos. We buy the illegal drugs while the southern masses suffer.

    Or here locally, mostly people of color are those that deal with the most violent crimes. Those that suffer and die from the illicit products and poisons of our time.

    Oh, the men and women who make us suffer!

    Dictators and elected officials, either way. And our apathy towards all of them.

    What would George Orwell and Aldous Huxley say? Or Clarke and Asimov? How do they think of our attitudes and actions? Or non-actions?

    Or any person with a logically thinking brain.

    If you are anti-humanity, you are racist. You hate and hurt our human race.

 Solitude

    Some people crave it.

    I suppose I do.

    I need it.

    However: sometimes it gets to be a lot.

    So, we look for attention in different ways.

    Or, we look for some kind of solace. 

    Within or without solitude.

    Being alone can be completely different than being lonely.

    Free solo, or trapped.

    

    Where are you?

 I Got Secrets

        I just turned old. I am trying to keep it a secret to some. (And I think that I have succeeded). When I was maybe 51, 52, I would get spam calls on my landline, them asking me my age. I would say a few years ahead, testing the waters, sort of.

    

    The spam and scam calls, I would not tell them the truth. I was telling types of lies. Or, keeping some secrets. We do not want to tell and share all our personal things and secrets that we keep.

    Not exactly right or good to do...

    But we collect more and more over time.