If Mel Brooks was right, the other 5 might look like:

11. Look beyond your point of view.
12. Use your imagination. Co-create with Me.
13. Actively look for signs of My love, presence, and guidance.
14. When in doubt, ask yourself, “Will I be building or destroying?”
15. Cultivate happiness.

]]> http://gator326.wordpress.com/2008/09/14/the-15-commandments-mel-brooks-was-right/feed/ 0 gator326 http://gator326.wordpress.com/2008/06/03/married-to-the-muses/ http://gator326.wordpress.com/2008/06/03/married-to-the-muses/#comments Tue, 03 Jun 2008 22:51:39 +0000 gator326 http://gator326.wordpress.com/?p=11 Continue reading →]]> Being married to the Muses means never really knowing if,
on hikes through the desert,
I’ll drink from manifest mirages made with the purest waters of wisdom
or icy kegs of ego on tap at every oasis.

But I gratefully don divine disdain, play the fool, and tumble under jester’s jingles,
because on special occasions
I wear a king’s crown and waltz gracefully
with one of my nine Queens in a magnificent Olympian hall.

We know God without word or thought
We accept and move on

We are simple
We simply are

We are lower than
We are dominated
We are expendable
We are dumb
We are unevolved

We are waiting

You can have my new faith, this quilt of threadbare questions
Too easily worn and stained with reason.
Now winters are bleak save one feeble star,
And dubious new life raises a soggy spring.
Prayers seem prating and crosses just allude.

I am no Titan, no molder of men,  no bearer of illicit gifts.

Yet, I am chained to Caucasus and gnawed on daily.

The bites are small, but I feel the rip of flesh and

          hear the feasting beak snap open and shut.

I rest at night, heal a little, and hope in a hopeless situation.

Inevitably, as dawn approaches, I sense the growing rumble of chariot wheels,

and am slowly able to see that I am less of my former self.

            Someday I will cease to exist altogether.

            I will finally and fully be consumed.

I have never been to Corinth, never been enthroned, never plotted for wealth.

            Yet, I am guarded by Cerberus and forced to roll rocks up oily hills.

          Every time I near the top of the crag, I entertain Faith:

Maybe I will finish, maybe I will rest, maybe I will understand.

It never happens though. No matter the angle of approach or the force of my efforts,

   I fail, and the mundane task drains me of purpose. 

   My convictions and beliefs ooze from my wounds and drip on the ground;

so, I watch what used to guide and sustain me

mix with the greasy grime coating my careworn footpath.   

I never fought in a war, never looted and raped after victory, never blinded giants as No One.

Yet, I am adrift and my journey home is endless, painful, and filled with loss.

I rot from lotus leaves, empty ecstasy, and the promise of clarity from crystal balls.

I am sucked into Klub Charybdis, dizzily swirl around, and dance with ghosts.

Religion, society, my own kind, and yea even my own polluted mind lunge at me,

trying with row upon row of talonous teeth to chew me up simply to spit me back out. 

Seemingly sweet voices seduce and tempt me to crash on ego’s endless shore.

                        It seems there is no safe passage, no solace,

     and I don’t know what to feel anymore.

Where is Hercules to rescue me,

            Virgil and Beatrice to guide me,

                        Athena and Penelope to love me?

I am sickened, yet strangely reassured,

            by the thought that the only moorings I can tie myself to are

                        the final folly of my labors,

                        the empty ignorance of existence, and

                        the pitiful promise of invisible gods.

Some believe just because princesses are pretty

They deserve special treatment and people’s respect.

But the life of a princess is often gritty,

Full of suffering, their lives very nearly wrecked.

Ignorant crowds will judge and jealous hags curse you;

I’m sure Aurora, Belle, and Snow White would agree.

Bitter biddies will gossip, shallow suitors woo,

Like those Cinderella and Ariel did flee.

A true princess not only possesses beauty

But prizes her virtues and always stays humble.

She is true to herself while doing her duty;

Courage, truth, and wisdom help her not to stumble.

Arrogance and selfishness ensure getting burned;

Vanity will not protect her from life’s harsh storms.

She relies on trusted friends whose respect she’s earned,

Believes magic comes in colorful, varied forms.

May you, like Cinderella, face cruelty with grace,

See into people’s hearts as do Belle and Jasmine,

Like Pocahontas judge not because of one’s race,

Use your power, like Mulan, to endure and win.

A royal life is not all romance and laughter;

Princesses work for “happily ever after.”

For my princess niece, Natalie Grace Bertsch,

on the occasion of her third birthday,

February 18, 2008

Our forecast was cloudy and dark.

          “The beasts I will spare

          Of each just a pair.”

Then hope rained, “Noah, build an ark.”

When Mary anointed Our Lord,

Judas grew angry and roared.

          But Jesus approved

          Of her efforts to soothe

And welcomed his tired reward.

Did God create our struggle with greed?

Craft the cancer of want versus need?

          For clearly free will

          Is no magic pill

Meant to cure this disease when we breed.

There once was a Pharisee named Saul,

Who persecuted Christians with gall.

        Then God struck him blind        

        And opened his mind,

So he could recognize his true call.

Before we got kicked out of Eden,

There were no worries about feeding.

        Then one apple bite,

        Made hunger our plight;

Forever to toil with planting and weeding.

There once lived a farmer named Cain

Who offered up to God some grain.

        But his brother won God’s praise

        So Cain slayed him in a craze

Forever cursed to till in vain.

People would beg Jesus to heal

And transform mere morsels to meals.

          He did all this and more

          For the rich and the poor

When he sensed their faith was for real.

As Jesus hung dying on a cross,

He looked down on a Roman coin toss.

          He said his goodbyes

          And let out a sigh

Knowing death was a win not a loss.

A woman was going to be bludgeoned

By a crowd self-righteous and judging.

          Jesus silenced the din

          Drawing dusty old sins,

And scattered every last curmudgeon.

There once was an angel who fell

For indulging dark ego’s spell.

          He got quite a jolt

          When he led a revolt

Forever, from heaven, expelled.

Whether we see God as mom or dad

Doesn’t likely make our parent mad.

          It’s just that we call

          As daily we fall

That would make our creator so glad.

Claiming that God is found in one holy book

Is the act of a selfish, closed-minded crook.

          For what our God taught

          Would all be for naught

If we fail to see Him wherever we look.