PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant … October 25th, 2017

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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Goodnight to You, My Dear

Time is my dear friend

Old friends slip away

Setting of the sun

The ending of this day

There is so much more I wish I could do

For many are called but chosen, few.

 

Goodnight to you, my dear

Sleep on without a fear

For the eve is when the angels speak

And the night brings what wise men seek

A moment to rest our weary head

And remember the words and what we said

And pray for a chance to try again

So goodnight to you, my friend.

 

Friends take so much time

And then just stroll away

Dreams are hard to find

So doubt can rule the day

Yet I live my life for the chance there will be

A moment on Earth that’s Heavenly

 

Goodbye to fear, my dear

Embrace the love so near

Yes, the treasure of my heart, you see

Spills its gold and shares of all that’s free

To sense the breath of God deep inside

And inhale the power of hope to never hide

And laugh at your lack ’til the end

Good life to you, my friend.

 

 

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PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant … October 18th, 2017

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(3463)

Only Once

The doctor wants my skin

The devil craves my soul

The gossips find my sin

The tension takes its toll

The town needs a son

The school gives a grade

I want some fun

Willing to make a trade

Touching girly flesh

Blessed are the meek

Need to have it fresh

Sick of being weak

Pieces of the Word

Spoken piously

Often seem absurd

Meaningless to me

I’m pissed hearing bells

Like a rat in a maze

Please let me tell

It’s not just a phase

I’m stuck in a place

Where they won’t preach

Haunted by a space

A lesson you can’t teach

A whisper in the dark

I flee from the light

It’s time to make my mark

Pleasure is in sight

Searing raw

Lost obscene

Only once

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Jesonian: Reverend Meningsbee (Part 32) Episode 4… December 4th, 2016

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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Reverend Meningsbee

When Episode 4 of “Gar-SIN-ville” aired on USBN, the entire town sunk into a puddle of melancholy.

The citizens had hoped to be recognized, heard, appreciated and valued, but instead were diminished by carefully edited interviews into creatures of weakness, frailty and in some cases, iniquity.

For instance, it was aired that the Swanson church, while pursuing “the perfect soul mate,” had members who slid into illicit affairs, deep confusion and even domestic violence.

Sammy Collins and his little congregation were characterized as bigots who were actively attempting to prevent the settling of Mexicans into the community.

Perhaps saddest of all was that the Bachman family was brought to tears on camera, discussing the suicide of their son, as Mr. Bachman was captured pleading, “I wish I did believe in God–so I could hate him.”

The community had chosen to be candid and forthcoming, hoping their stories would be welcomed with understanding. But the clever editing of the USBN staff made the town appear to be the most hypocritical community since Salem, Massachusetts burned imaginary witches.

In response, the Holiday Inn Express canceled the contract on Swanson’s church, refusing to let them meet there. The few folks who were coming to Sammy Collins’ house for church were too embarrassed to be seen parking in the driveway. And the Bachmans were bombarded with criticism and evangelistic rhetoric, warning them of a devil’s hell.

To complicate matters, Meningsbee received another visit from USBN. This time they sent their chief counsel, Hector Geminez, to the church office with a threat–veiled as an opportunity.

“We have noticed in all of our dealings in the town that your church could certainly use a kitchen and a pantry, which could be mobilized into a food service for those who are less fortunate in the community,” Hector shared, posing concern.

“We’ve thought of it,” said Meningsbee.

“Well, thoughts don’t feed many people, now, do they?”

Meningsbee paused and then challenged. “What is it you want, sir?”

“Please call me Hector.”

Meningsbee nodded.

Geminez continued. “I have been authorized by USBN to inform you that we have a donation of $25,000 for your church to put together such a kitchen and pantry to aid the community.”

“And why would you do that?” asked Meningsbee.

Hector sat for a long moment, eyeing the reverend. “Listen, pastor. We are both men of the world, even though yours is a bit cloistered. So let me not mislead you. The Garsonville series is doing so well in the ratings that we’re thinking about changing it into a weekly series. Since we have so much footage, we could easily cover a season.”

Meningsbee must have appeared startled, because Hector inserted, “Now, I know this is…ah…displeasing to you, so it was our hope that if you and your church could find a purpose by helping others through this kitchen arrangement, you might be willing to give your backing to such an endeavor.”

“Why do you need my backing?” asked Meningsbee. “The people in this town don’t necessarily like me that well. Why do you think my support will carry any weight?”

Hector suddenly stood to his feet, accentuating the drama. “Oh, but you’re wrong, good Reverend. They may not like you but they respect you.They believe you have insight. We’ve had several people unwilling to cooperate just simply because you placed a fear in their hearts that our intentions are not pure.”

“Well, they aren’t pure,” said Meningsbee.

Hector squinted his eyes. “They are pure in the sense that they represent the truth of the information that’s been provided to us. The public has a right to know what goes on in communities like Garsonville.”

“No, they don’t,” said Meningsbee. “None of us have the damn right to stick our noses in anybody else’s business. And by the way, you can quote me on that, Hector.”

“Well, they told me you might not be cooperative,” Hector said, easing himself back down in the chair. “So I wanted to let you know that we have data about some of your personal dealings–or shall we say, problems?–that might be intriguing to the people of the town.”

Meningsbee smiled. So it was USBN that had stolen his computer, to copy his browser.

He paused, wanting to make sure that his reaction came from a quiet place in his soul instead of the fury of his rage. He waited so long that Hector decided to continue.

“Now, we’re not threatening you. And we really don’t want to use what we have. God knows we all have a private life, right, Richard? What we want to do is make this arrangement to everybody’s mutual benefit. You get a food pantry to help the poor and we get a season of highly rated television programs that enlighten the American public.”

“So you feel you’re enlightening the American public,” barked Meningsbee.

“Well, it does say in the Good Book that the truth will make you free,” cited Hector.

“My dear friend, you have no idea what that verse means. Truth is a beautiful thing when it is revealed by the person with the secret. But truth is a nasty monster when it’s disclosed by strangers, leaving the exposed person condemned.”

Hector stood again and walked to the door, turning as he put his hand on the knob. “Listen, I didn’t come here to have a theological discussion. I’m an attorney. I deal with legal ramifications. We don’t need your blessing to do anything. We don’t need your permission to expose you. We were just providing a courtesy–to you, your congregation and the community–which might create a general welfare for all parties involved.”

He concluded, “I know you’ve heard the phrase seventy-two hours. In case you don’t know, that means three days. If I don’t hear from you in three days, I think you can assume that your predilections will be included in the format of Episode 5. You can have a kitchen–or be dealt a heaping helping of humiliation. It’s up to you. Nice meeting you, by the way.”

Hector Geminez turned the knob, opened the door, walked through and disappeared.

Meningsbee felt like chasing him down and giving him a good piece of his mind, but thought better of it.

He realized that he would probably need all of his brain to figure out what to do next.

 

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Sing, Sang, Sung… April 11, 2012

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in Safford, Arizona

Who knows? Maybe it shouldn’t have happened.

Yet when I was twelve years old, one evening I burst out in song in front of a bunch of friends and family and they all commended me on my deep voice and great sound. I don’t know what their motives were. Sometimes those of our own “kin and kind” feel it’s their duty to encourage some young fat boy by pointing out some false positives– to encourage self-esteem. Whatever the reasons were, I grabbed onto that praise like the church treasurer nabbing the offering plates on Sunday morning.

I started singing. I even gathered a little group of friends to sing with me. We thought we were good. We had already spent our first million from record sales before we ever performed our first song. The truth of the matter is, I was a “family-shower” singer. To my family I sounded just fine—worthy to be heard in small doses. My rehearsal for such musical performances always occurred in the shower, where I sounded absolutely astounding.

“Family-shower” singers. They’re everywhere. Nobody talks to them about pitch, tone, phrasing, breathing and faithfulness to the human instrument because that takes away a lot of the fun of just piping off. Television is full of “family-shower” singers, who make it to auditions or game shows, fully confident they are the next American phenomenon–because their families told them so and their sessions in the shower confirmed their prowess.

I know we want to be an encouraging type of folk instead of negative, but can we agree that it is never nasty to help people discover the best way to count the cost of their own ability? Because what happens with “family-shower” singers, if they are not interrupted by wisdom in the craft, is that they turn into “church-townsangers. They start singing special music in their churches, and a few organizations in the town get wind of it and invite them to sing the national anthem or some favorite love song of the wife of the president of the club. They are always applauded—and unfortunately given unnecessary standing ovations—and further encouraged to spread their good word in music.

Just by the simple action of performing, some of the “family-shower” singers, who become “church-town” sangers, actually do get a little better. But here’s a clue—people will tolerate mediocrity as long as they don’t have to pay for it. Very few “church-town” sangers get a single dime for crooning, even though they have invitations coming from everywhere because most planned events would love to have some special music or entertainment, even if it is a little sub-par.

The thing that makes my heart break for “church-town” sangers is that they all believe they are one break away from greatness. Many of them sit in pews in churches and criticize other people who are professionals because their jealousy will not allow them to “give it up” for people who have paid their dues and therefore achieved a greater level of excellence. They are normally envious, prideful—and broke.

It happened to me. Because after I became a “family-shower” singer, boosted in my ego by the compliments from my relatives, I soon became a “church-town” sanger, considered one of the better vocalists in my school. The choir teacher practically recruited me to come and join the chorus. And speaking of chorus, when we did that Halleluia one, written by Handel, I was the only male who could sing both the bass and the tenor parts. It made me prideful.

So when I got out of high school, I took my music group and we decided to audition for Pat Boone’s agent. Pat was pretty popular at the time (because white bucks had not yet gone out of style). Pat’s agent asked us to make a tape–reel-to-reel was fine—and send it to him so he and Pat could listen to our sound and determine how they could help us. We were ecstatic. So we found a guy in Columbus, Ohio, who had a reel-to-reel tape recorder and was willing to record us for free. We set up a date and went over to his house. We sang three songs and then he played them back.

It was most unfortunate. I didn’t know exactly how to tell him that there must be something wrong with his machine, because his recording didn’t sound a thing like us. It was flat, sharp, out of tune and everything else that’s fussy about music. I was so insistent that the machine was warbling or something that the gentleman finally apologized, handed me the tape and suggested maybe I could go someplace else to get a better recording. I decided against that, thinking that it was just the playback on his system that was distorting our sound, and sent the tape on to Pat Boone’s agent, assuming he would surely have better equipment.

This is going to shock you. I never heard from him again and he refused to return my calls.

After I got over my immature tizzy-fit, I realized that I was NOT a good singer. I also understood that no one was going to tell me that except the tape recorder, whose integrity I had viciously attacked. I started working. I started taping myself. I stopped making excuses common to “family-shower” singers and “church-town” sangers—things like: “I have a cold;” “it’s too early in the morning to sing;” “the acoustics are weird;” “that alto next to me is a problem—she sings like my mother;” “that’s too high;” “that’s too low;” “I forgot my lemon juice;” and “my dog ate my pitch-pipe.”

I worked. I performed. I listened to critique. I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the line I walked away from being a “family-shower” singer and a “church-town” sanger and became a sunger–someone who had sung–anytime, anyplace.

Because until you can do it anytime and anyplace, you are not worthy of the title.

So if you’re a “family-shower” singer or pursuing some other occupation similarly challenging, just remember—all God asks you to do is be willing to hear the criticism that will make you who you want to be instead of who you think you are. If you’re a “church-town” sanger, all your heavenly Father wants you to accept is work. Practice, perform, perfect. You can’t beat that trinity. It’s almost as good as the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost.

And then, one day, after you’vefinished that last concert, you’ll become a “sunger”anytime and anyplace–and suddenly you will be worthy of what you do and completely humbled by the accolade.

It took me too long, because family and my shower, church and my town—were afraid to tell me. Isn’t it interesting that my best friend ended up being a reel-to-reel tape recorder? Maybe that’s just the way life is supposed to be.

Spend a little more time listening to the playback instead of just playing.

**************

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Sitting One

 I died today. 

I didn’t expect it to happen.  Then again, I did—well, not really.

No, I certainly didn’t expect it.

I’ve had moments of clarity in my life.  Amazingly enough, many of them were in the midst of a dream. For a brief second I would know the meaning of life or the missing treatment to cure cancer.  And then as quickly as it popped into my mind it was gone. I really don’t recollect dying.  Just this unbelievable sense of clear headedness—like walking into a room newly painted and knowing by the odor and brightness that the color on the wall is so splattering new that you should be careful not to touch it for fear of smearing the design. The greatest revelation of all? 

Twenty-five miles in the sky time ceases to exist.

The planet Pluto takes two hundred and forty-eight years to circle the sun. It doesn’t give a damn. 

The day of my death was the day I became free of the only burden I really ever had.  TIME.

Useless.

Time is fussy.  Time is worry. 

Time is fear.  Time is the culprit causing human-types to recoil from pending generosity. 

There just was never enough time. 

Time would not allow it.  Remember—“if time permits …”

Why if time permits?  Why not if I permit?  Why not if I dream?  Why not if I want?  Why does time get to dictate to me my passage? 

It was time that robbed me of my soulful nature.    It was time that convinced me that my selfishness was needed. 

I didn’t die. The clock in me died, leaving spirit to tick on.  

So why don’t we see the farce of time?  Why do we allow ourselves to fall under the power of the cruel despot?  Yes, time is a relentless master—very little wage for much demand.

I died today. 

Actually … a piece of time named after me was cast away.

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