tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8258520155507665532024-02-20T23:01:10.852-05:00Once Upon a WonderMy Poetry, Musings, and Other Stuff --
Published Weekly or ThereaboutsKen Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.comBlogger253125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-11485120397802462562015-02-04T05:45:00.001-05:002015-02-04T05:45:17.733-05:00SOME UNSOLICITED ADVICE FOR YOUNG PASTORS<br />Be wary of praise.<br />You will get some.<br /><br />There will, of course, be criticism,<br />much of it framed as "a suggestion"<br />and some of it will be hard to hear.<br /><br />Which is why words of commendation<br />will be so welcome. You'll be tempted<br />to lap it up like a puppy at a milk bowl.<br />Yes, you did work hard on that sermon.<br />You thought the ending was especially strong.<br />No doubt it was.<br />Several people told you it was.<br /><br />But now, let it go.<br /><br />Be wary of praise.<br /> <br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-58721438247290557762015-01-28T08:16:00.000-05:002015-01-28T08:16:03.158-05:00KID STUFF"Suffer the little children to come to me<br />and forbid them not: for of such is<br />the Kingdom of God."<br /> -- Mark 10:14<br /><br />Just between you and me, Simon,<br />sometimes I just don't understand him.<br />Bad enough we've got people lined up<br />wanting their leprous skin made clean,<br />their blind eyes opened. And over<br />by the fountain a bunch of Pharisees<br />have their heads together, cooking up<br />another accusation. It's getting late<br />and these parents bring their brats to him<br />for . . . what? To touch them, give them<br />a hug? As if he had all the time in the world!<br /><br />You there. You with the little girl.<br />Step aside. Can't you see he's got<br />more important . . .<br /><br />Yes, Master. I . . . I'm sorry.<br />Yes. Yes.<br />I think I understand.<br />I think.Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-27580000918641926532015-01-21T17:05:00.002-05:002015-01-21T17:05:29.628-05:00ASSIGNMENTEvery now and then get up early<br />Slip on your robe and slippers<br />Steal down the stairs<br />Open the back door<br />Listen to the dark silence<br />Stand there awhile looking east<br />Say a prayer if you are so inclined but<br />Say it short and soft<br />Don't expect anything to happen<br />Anticipate no epiphany<br />Just be<br /><br />then go and have your coffee<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-81491154237372101312015-01-14T10:06:00.003-05:002015-01-14T10:08:26.557-05:00OPPORTUNITYI had a chance to be a banker.<br />
The bank president sat behind his desk<br />
and painted a picture of what<br />
my future would look like:<br />
good salary, opportunity for advancement,<br />
status in our community, a life of significance.<br />
It was all there, and more, he said,<br />
for the taking. Just finish your college<br />
studies and seize the day. He may even<br />
have said <i>carpe diem</i>, though perhaps<br />
my memory has gilded the scene.<br />
I do remember feeling flattered.<br />
I thanked him but said my goal<br />
was to become a teacher, a teacher<br />
of English. He pursed his lips,<br />
gave his head a sad shake and<br />
did not say "Good luck with THAT."<br />
But I think he wanted to.Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-38091416392446809392015-01-07T07:50:00.001-05:002015-01-07T07:50:30.116-05:00JANUARY PUZZLEMENTIt must be terribly confusing.<br /><br />The grey squirrel sitting<br />on the deck railing is back,<br />devouring the bird seed.<br /><br />Last night's snow triggered<br />our outlay of provender<br />for sparrows, juncoes, cardinals.<br />Not for squirrels.<br /><br />What looks to him like beneficence<br />on his behalf is, apparently,<br />no such thing. How else<br />explain why we open the door<br />and shout him away?<br /><br />It must be terribly confusing.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-80908087226637590552014-12-31T09:51:00.000-05:002014-12-31T09:51:11.720-05:00TESTIMONIALMy mother finished high school.<br /><br />There was a photo of her fellow graduates<br /> -- Milton Grove School, Class of 1924 --<br /> three girls in white dresses,seated, <br /> and behind them, standing,<br /> four boys, soberly attired<br /> in unaccustomed suits and ties <br /><br />It hung on the wall of my parents'<br />bedroom, testimony to her<br />first-one-in-her-family achievement.<br /><br />Twenty-three years later, when I was<br />about to begin my own venture <br />into the "realms of academe,"<br />(a phrase she had learned<br />from her favorite teacher,<br />Mr. Becker), she pointed me<br />to the photograph and recited<br />the names of her classmates<br />along with a brief biography<br />of each, ending with . . .<br />"and now she . . . and now he . . ."<br />followed by a description<br />of their current station in life.<br /><br />
She was especially proud <br />of Adam, who, she said,<br />was now living in Japan, employed<br />as a teacher. The point of her<br />review was clear to me<br />and required no further explication.<br />School, I saw, was my passport<br />to possibilities undreamed of.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-38956698986602021342014-12-24T09:54:00.000-05:002014-12-24T09:54:02.704-05:00MARY'S CHRISTMASI hope you won't take<br />what I'm going to say<br />the wrong way,<br />dear, but now maybe<br />you'll believe what<br />I told you months ago.<br /><br />I know, I know,<br />they were only sheep herders, <br />but this morning when I saw<br />them kneel there on the straw<br />and stammer out<br />that they'd heard<br />a heavenly choir<br />and said they'd come<br />to worship the babe<br />they knew would save<br />us all, I believed them.<br /><br />Didn't you?<br /> <br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-47257415591328449902014-12-17T06:51:00.003-05:002014-12-17T06:51:36.688-05:00CHRISTMAS WISH LISTIt gets harder every year<br /><br />No more ties please<br />or sweaters<br />I prefer choosing my own fruit<br />unboxed<br />Thank you all the same<br />Same goes for candy<br />nuts<br />beverages<br /><br />My needs are cared for<br />To conjure up some wants<br />seems silly and selfish<br /><br />If I'm not mistaken<br />gift cards<br />for peace on earth<br />are still not available<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-29878140971110608072014-12-10T07:34:00.001-05:002014-12-10T07:34:52.914-05:00REALITY CHECKthere is something about<br />the slop of first winter snow<br /><br />slush the next morning<br />the slap dash of cars<br /><br />ferrying their drivers<br />to ports of work<br /><br />that compels reflection<br />an unwelcome reminder<br /><br />that beauty is evanescent<br />every flower fades<br /><br />each glorious sunset<br />sinks like a stone<br /><br />into a sea of darkness<br />one day's fairy dust<br /><br />becomes the next day's<br />sodden slippery slosh<br /> <br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-18362453266851217692014-12-03T07:35:00.000-05:002014-12-03T07:35:08.655-05:00EBENEZER SCROOGE, UPDATEDGo ahead. Explain to me how<br />the story of a child born to<br />a young woman in a backwater<br />town two thousand years ago<br />got transmuted into this orgy<br />of Black Friday, Cyber Monday,<br />billion dollar spending spree<br />to say nothing of obligatory<br />parties, insipid "Holiday" music <br />and all the rest of it.<br /><br />I'm serious. I'd really like<br />to know, and while you're<br />at it, tell me why the whole<br />Santa Claus thing, which<br />teaches kids that their parents<br />are big liars, is such a good idea.<br /><br />Go ahead. Explain.<br />I'll wait.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-58307673135440130102014-11-26T07:49:00.002-05:002014-11-26T07:49:34.070-05:00HOW TO READ A POEMLet the poet take you<br /> by the hand and give<br /> it a tug, gentle but<br /><br />firm. Give yourself over.<br /> Be led. Suspend judgment;<br /> there will be time enough<br /><br />later if you want it back.<br /> When the poet points, look.<br /> And while you are looking<br /><br />don't forget to listen. Do not<br /> use your eyes or your ears.<br /> The trip will be short one<br /><br />and may be easily forgotten,<br /> but not always. The world will not<br /> be changed. But you might be.<br /> <br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-70783416426869427522014-11-19T08:11:00.002-05:002014-11-19T08:11:09.502-05:00THE PLUMBERHe arrives, confident, right on time.<br />He has tools whose application<br />I can only guess at. He listens<br />to my tale of leaking, gurgling<br />woe. He nods his head, his face<br />limned with a knowing smile.<br />My faith in him is boundless.<br />Surely salvation is at hand.<br /><br />He begins his work humming.<br />Two hours later his hums<br />have ended. I hear him<br />stomping up the basement stairs.<br />We've got a real problem here<br />he says. I think his choice<br />of pronoun is, at very least,<br />just a smidge inaccurate.Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-40565347222392810132014-11-12T08:20:00.002-05:002014-11-12T08:20:36.636-05:00HANDOUTThe man who stands at the light<br />at Third and Market holding a sign<br />that says out of work has been<br />here every morning for the past<br /><br />two months. Today I'm the third<br />car back and this time, for the first<br />time, I take a dollar bill<br />and hold it out the window.<br /><br />The February wind waves it.<br />He sees and walks quickly toward<br />me, his tattered coat poor protection<br />from the cold. He takes it and<br /><br />wishes me God's blessing. I wonder<br />why, instead of feeling virtuous<br />and blessed, I feel embarrassed.<br />For him, but mostly for me.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-651457676406671332014-11-05T07:57:00.001-05:002014-11-05T07:57:31.320-05:00TASHAMixed Welsh Terrier they told us<br />at the Humane Society. Which<br />made us ask ourselves: mixed with<br />what? Maybe fugitive, we joked.<br />Open the front door and use your<br />legs to block her escape or she would<br />be gone, tearing across the street<br />as if chased by demons. Trailed,<br />then reclaimed, she would lick your<br />hand in gratitude and seem to say<br />-- well then, what's for supper? <br />There came the day when she could<br />not be found. Placards on telephone<br />poles and trees, ad in the paper,<br />yielded no response. We hoped <br />she'd found another family, <br />one that guarded the front door <br />with more efficiency than we had.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-1273966614447211652014-10-29T09:33:00.001-04:002014-10-29T09:33:41.984-04:00SELECTIVE MORALITYBut it's one of God's creatures<br />she tells me, this woman who<br />defines the unpardonable sin<br />as cruelty to animals. She<br />will not set mousetraps.<br /><br />She will allow me to do <br />so but thinks less of me <br />for it. Come summer and,<br />God help me (for I cannot<br />help myself), as I see her slap<br />and dispatch a mosquito.<br />I give her my best grin:<br />"But it's one of God's creatures."<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-60197109914071248052014-10-23T14:09:00.002-04:002014-10-23T14:11:13.268-04:00JOURNEYThe winter walk home from school<br />
after wrestling practice started<br />
in twilight, ended in darkness.<br />
<br />
The long trudge along the steel tracks<br />
made time for thought, sometimes<br />
for dreams and prayers. <br />
<br />
Lights from the occasional farmhouse<br />
gave comfort, as did the dogs<br />
who lived there, their barking<br />
at the unseen invader of their territory<br />
a reassurance of order in the universe.<br />
<br />
There were nights when moonlight<br />
made the rails ahead gleam<br />
like two straight lines of cold fire<br />
stretching into the distance, the future.Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-61035144206230063712014-10-14T08:25:00.001-04:002014-10-14T08:25:25.703-04:00HANGING TREEDid you ever hear about<br />the hanging tree? We hadn't.<br />Come, he said, I'll drive you there.<br />On the way he told us about<br />the huge oak standing in<br />his family's back yard<br />that had served as gallows<br />for condemned prisoners.<br /><br />Taken from the county jail,<br />made to sit on a horse<br />standing under the thick<br />lowest limb, they were jerked<br />into the air, kicking till<br />they breathed their last.<br /><br />The tree, he told us, stood<br />sixty feet high. We arrived<br />at the house where he said<br />he had lived as a boy and<br />heard stories about the men<br />who were strung up to die. <br />He led out back and pointed.<br /><br />There, he said. We gaped.<br />Where's the tree? We asked.<br />Oh, it's been gone for<br />over a hundred years, he said.<br />It stood right over there.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-68874228275277011692014-10-09T17:25:00.002-04:002014-10-09T17:25:36.660-04:00I AM NOT A COOKI am not a cook, not really.<br /> I use a cookbook and follow it<br /> slavishly. My idea of creativity<br /><br />consists of adding an extra<br /> 1/4 teaspoon of paprika<br /> to the Betty Crocker recipe<br /><br />for chili. But I do enjoy cutting<br /> up the vegetables for a stir<br /> fry. I like the way the knife<br /><br />slices through a carrot and<br /> makes a thunk with each slice<br /> and I feel great when someone,<br /><br />anyone, at the table<br /> says: this is pretty good.<br /> But I am not a cook.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-1207690896606159752014-10-01T06:22:00.002-04:002014-10-01T06:22:08.470-04:00CIVIL (WAR) DISOBEDIENCEIt is said that during America's<br />Civil War, when Mennonite young men<br />from Virginia were drafted into<br />the army, complaints were registered<br />about them: they were not good soldiers.<br />One of their officers agreed that such<br />criticism against them was justified,<br />but in one respect only.<br />They were, he said, model soldiers:<br />well-behaved, respectful of authority.<br />When ordered to march, they marched.<br />When ordered to close ranks, they did so.<br />They kept their rifles oiled and cleaned.<br />They faced the enemy bravely.<br />When they heard the command<br /> -- Ready. Aim. Fire! --<br />They readied their weapons, they fired.<br />But, alas, they disobeyed in one regard.<br />They did not aim.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-73878213455499460012014-09-24T07:51:00.002-04:002014-09-24T07:51:09.593-04:00BETRAYAL"And as soon as he was come, <br />he goeth straightway to him, and saith,<br />Master, master; and kissed him."<br /> (Mark 14:45)<br /><br />English ivy embraces<br />Our backyard oak<br />It looks like<br />A mutually beneficial relationship<br />But it's not<br />It's a death squeeze <br />Not all hugs<br />Not all kisses<br />Can be trusted<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-81449187494717962152014-09-17T11:17:00.002-04:002014-09-17T11:17:29.671-04:00HAMMER MILLIt began with a slow whine<br />and built to an angry roar.<br /><br />On this day it might have been Menno Shelly<br />shoveling the ears of corn on his truck<br />into the metal jaws that swallowed<br />then tore apart cobs and kernels,<br />transforming them into what<br />was called simply "chop."<br /><br />It happened daily at the feed mill<br />where my father worked. Eight years<br />of age made me old enough to be<br />there to watch and marvel at men<br />who lifted and carried hundred pound<br />feed bags, handing out good-<br />natured insults to each other, often <br />shouting them over the ear-blasting <br />noise of the hammer mill.<br /><br />More than anything<br />I wanted to grow up to be one of them.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-66427085262621751962014-09-10T13:51:00.002-04:002014-09-10T13:51:48.077-04:00GOD'S ECONOMYThe mulch pile at the Camp Hill<br />Recycling Center towers ten feet<br />above my head. Ground-up limbs,<br />branches, twigs are here for the taking.<br />Just bring your buckets and your bags<br />and haul it away. Scatter it <br />around your shrubs and trees.<br /><br />Could it be that nothing, nothing<br />is ever lost? Could it be that everything<br />passes on to something else, to be<br />reformed, transformed? Even you,<br />even me. Even that butterfly over there,<br />flirting with the black-eyed Susan.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-37729034837947585662014-09-04T07:02:00.004-04:002014-09-04T07:02:56.212-04:00DRIVING HOME ON SUNDAY NIGHTFrom the back seat where I sit<br />with my sister, I peer through<br />the windshield at oncoming headlights,<br />wondering why my parents are so calm.<br />How could they not know what I know:<br />that the Rapture is happening,<br />is taking place this very moment,<br />as we head home from my grandparents'<br />house where I had seen with my own<br />eyes the headlines of the newspaper<br />left lying on their dining room table:<br />"Airplanes Plummet to Earth,<br />Pilots Disappear"; "Flames Devastate<br />East Coast"; "Tens of Thousands Reported<br />Missing." Quotations from the Bible<br />salted the pages: "Two shall be in the field;<br />the one shall be taken, the other left."<br />"There will be famines and pestilence and earthquakes."<br /><br />How am I to know the "newspaper" was <br />only a religious tract designed to frighten sinners?<br />So I sit on the edge of the seat,<br />my questions stuck in my throat,<br />terror-paralyzed, and see, off to the left,<br />the airport tower light sweep<br />its circular path across the landscape,<br />surely searching for the missing thousands.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-13435846131064116002014-08-27T08:11:00.002-04:002014-08-27T08:11:34.354-04:00BILL MILLERHe came to the feed mill where<br />my father worked but I could<br />tell the first time I saw him<br />he could not possibly be<br />a farmer. Not with that red<br />convertible, the hat tipped<br />at a jaunty angle, the tiparillo<br />clenched in his teeth. I admired<br />his loose-limbed climb up<br />the office steps, his effortless<br />way of making himself fully present.<br />He's a salesman, Dad said, and<br />a good one. Unlike our customers,<br />he rarely commented on the weather.<br />He talked baseball and cars,<br />told mildly off-color jokes. <br /><br />We were country.<br />He was city.<br /><br />I was fifteen.<br />I considered possibilities.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825852015550766553.post-30261467511493458832014-08-19T07:13:00.001-04:002014-08-19T07:13:46.441-04:00TRAIN TRAVELThe railroad track that ran<br />behind the feed mill<br />where my father worked<br />could take me anywhere.<br />Balancing myself on a rail,<br />I would walk, staring into<br />the distance and go to <br />Philadelphia, New York City,<br />London, Paris. Along the way<br />I amazed everyone with my<br />intellect and charm, always<br />properly understated, of course.<br />I overheard beautiful women<br />whispering to each other: "So <br />young and yet so deep." I did my best<br />to hide my smiles. Then, stepping<br />off, I'd grab the corn mash bucket<br />and go to feed the chickens.<br />Ken Gibblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10773179312549968546noreply@blogger.com1