As the celebration of the Resurrection of the Prince of Peace approaches, I find myself bemused by the ways fundamentalist Christians misinterpret Christ’s message. Jesus called for a “brotherhood of man,” but the fundamentalists insist on a tribal community that hates those with foreign beliefs, cultures, and customs. “Blessed be the poor in spirit?” Hell,
Every night the trim ghost Of Marjorie Post Walks through her old home And lets out a deep groan. “Trump’s lying is bad, And his ideas are wacky, But what I find sad Is that he’s so damn tacky!”
An imprudent time traveler named Brad Accidentally killed his granddad. He returned to the present To find himself absent, Which made him go totally mad.
Ukraine is winning the fight, And Putin has gotten uptight. He snarls and he spits, he’s losing his shit, He’s having a huge hissy fit. He may be so crazed that he chooses The nuclear option, and looses His full stock of missiles, fusion and fissile, Ballistics and long distance cruises. Mushroom clouds will rise
The ground has softened And the air is growing sweet. Songbirds have come back.
There once was a tyrant named Vlad Who thought it was terribly sad That Ukraine had gone free. “They should have asked me! I’ll punish them! Things will get bad!” And they did, although not for Ukraine. Vlad’s invasion was bold, but in vain. Zelinsky’s troops won, And Vlad’s had to run. For him, it’s
I’ve learned to hate the Russians All through my whole life. If another war comes, It’s them we must fight. To hate them and fear them, To run and to hide, And accept it all bravely With God on our side. But now we got weapons Of chemical dust. If fire them we’re forced to,
Nathaniel Higginson owned Maitland Farm, located on the largest parcel of undeveloped land in Middlesex County. A number of his ancestors had been in the Higginson Fleet, coming over from England in 1630 to help John Winthrop’s Puritans start the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Higginsons had fought the Redcoats in the Revolution and the Rebels in
Last night I dreamed My dead mother taught me How to let go.
My mother lived a short, uneasy life. Too often startled from her fondest dreams To do her grudging duties as a wife, She learned that is gives place always to seems. Hope’s too frail to build a life upon, But loneliness endures day after day. In places never brightened by the sun, Despair is never