Superbowl Sermon

Reverend Mosley surveyed the restless crowd. Grown men fidgeting in their seats like five-year-old boys, their wives sliding them mean glances here and there. Mrs. Hooper was seated at the organ across from Mrs. Smith at the piano ready for a duel. I preferred the deep organ chords, and they way they took the music and built it into a crescendo battle, of sorts. It was five minutes until twelve noon on Superbowl Sunday, 1979 on the day that the Dallas Cowboys played the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Even as the choir bellowed, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” we saw the look in the Reverend’s eyes. It was a comin’ to Jesus meeting in the making. Somehow I knew staring at the back of Alice White’s shapely curls, that the fried chicken was gonna be cold that day and that the time for kickoff was rapidly approaching. I looked nervously at Benny and Clint. Their eyes had glazed into a hard stare on the back of the oak church pew in front of them. It was the same stare we all adopted sometimes during history class lecture. I looked over at Ed Stephens and tried to concentrate on his John Lennon tattoo which looked more like a wizard or something weird. Tick tock, my watch was screaming at me. Reverend Mosley rose and walked to the pulpit. Click, click, click went his Sunday shoes tapping on the floor. He looked down momentarily, then slowly lifted his eyes to take in his flock. All was quiet. Finally, it was time for the closing argument, the one where it would be up to us to decide the fate of our souls if we had not accepted Him into our hearts.

“In a couple minutes, ya’ll are gonna go home. And turn on the Tee Vee. Where we get all our information, all the time. Yes indeed. In-For-Mation! These times we live in. These times right now. There is peril out there. Oh yes, and deception. Can I ask you, what is ruling our lives? What is ruining our lives? Is the television set the most important thing?”

I could feel myself in shouting inside my head….Don’t do it, man, Don’t do it, Reverend.

“Is it Jesus or the Dallas Cowboys? Jesus or the Cowboys? I say to all of you right here, right now, Jesus is more important! Yes, Jesus.”

“Amen Reverend!” shouted Mr. Simmons from the front, and with that, a stampede ignited toward the door. Nobody looked back. I’ll bet Reverend Mosley was even glad the Cowboys lost that year.

Joshua Tree

Ain’t nothing magic

about Joshua Tree

as you venture there

on bended knee

no drink in the desert

to quench that thirst

clear air current

in the vast desert

cactus tree

laces like fingers

bell inside your head

lingers…

dull pain shears

and tatters

caring for naught,

you stagger

bottle stupor, one life no cure

desert curse, course unsure

ain’t no magic here

no wizard spell

no breaks, no solace

no place to dwell

take your demon drink,

you know it well

decaying now,

this human shell

Spring Arriving

Nap if you will

in this perfect spring

dormancy awakened

just before summer

breathes its dragon fervor

casting a sunburnt crust

over this new, vibrant beauty

this hint of a quasi-promise

weaving a fine thread of solace

all gone too soon

Apollo draws his

golden chariot

fueling in turn

both poetry and plague

past where the sorrow kids speak

past where the muted hearts weep

Spring’s herald song

vast glory in color

fading out

before the fire winds

parch the dull earth

cutting the soil into bits

like overbaked brownies

Bringing us out of charmed wonder

our fleeting lullaby

to greet that

mammoth sun

spinning solar fire

axis swirling like mad desire.

About these ads

The Pretty Girls

When pretty little mean girls

grab your favorite green exercise ball

and shun you there at recess

in your worn, glitter shoes

with the backs undone

and ankles spilling out

in unmatched socks

your little mind struggling

trying to find a reason

to see who they are

trying to forget what you are

wondering how they

got so lucky

in their perfect little

Children's Place outfits

with their little pug noses

looking at each other

right in the eye

as they deny

your little place in the world

they don't want the ball

but they want everyone to

accept their places

bow to acknowledge

little pretty girl faces

The History of Moons

Looking upward this morning

that lingering, scheming white moon

still hanging in the early sky

with the sun just up

competing for world dominion

in great, golden hues

There were other

celestial novelties

long ago, you know

sliced moons, just a hint of mischief

great, full romantic ones

viewed while driving

in a silver Monte Carlo

flirting with the idea of love

and the brewing of disaster

Looking into dark eyes

smoldering, melting, dissolving

that ultimate thrill

winding, unfaithful river

thunderstruck in confinement

driving by my house

in the dead of night

no headlights

it's way too late

heartache in every corner

of town

glaring daylight

fills an Algebra class

with a dark presence

uncomfortable reality

invariably an irrational variable

repetition of lessons lost

oh, the pains of wisdom

under that same moon

many moons ago...

Impropriety on the Twentieth Floor

This short story was previously published in Texas Writers Journal - 1st Quarter,  January 2015.  I have also previously posted an excerpt of this one.  

Nobody knew how the meat freezer came to be delivered at the law firm. All that was known was that the receptionist went to make coffee and when she came back to her desk, there it was in the middle of the lobby. A large silver metal freezer with a black handle. No tag, no papers, just sitting there taking space.

“Ahh, Mr. Sellers, you might want to come out and take a look at this.”

“What is it, Edith? I am really busy.”

“Somebody has left...uh...what looks to be a freezer in the lobby.”

“A freezer? What do you mean? Is this a joke?”

“No sir, somebody left a meat freezer in our lobby, and I need to know what to do about it.”

“Ill be up in a moment,” he snapped. One just couldn't depend on support staff. All the little people in the world worming their way about day after day. They were simply too ignorant to take a comprehensive course of action, it was impossible to expect them to think for themselves. They needed leadership from people who knew. So Mr. Barnaby Sellers the Third shoved his most important brief aside and strode hastily up to the front to look at the freezer.

“Edith, can't you just find a tag and call the delivery company and have them pick it up? It's obviously a mistake.”

“Uh sir, I can't find a tag on it,” she said.

And they looked all over for the tag, but the freezer had none. It sat in the lobby reflecting the sun's rays that filtered through the mini blinds.

“Martin, take a look at this,” said Mr. Sellers.

“Why, whatever do we need a freezer for? asked Martin.

“We don't need a freezer. It has been delivered by mistake.”

“Maybe we should canvas the staff just to be sure. Maybe there is a party or some benefit thing going on,” volunteered Martin.

So they sent an e-mail message throughout the firm:

IF ANYONE HAS ORDERED A MEAT FREEZER TO BE DELIVERED TO THIS FIRM, PLEASE CONTACT THE RECEPTIONIST IMMEDIATELY.

Everyone began to filter through looking at the freezer, the lawyers looked down their noses with disgust and the secretaries laughed softly to themselves.

“We are going to have clients in shortly, what will they think? asked Mr. Sellers.

“I'll bet it's just a matter of calling security to remove it,” said Martin. “Edith, call security and asked them to come up right away.”

“Security doesn't have the tools to remove it,” observed a secretary.

“We may have to call a moving service,” said Raymond, a mousy attorney looking down his nose through his wire spectacles.

“What if it should contain a bomb?” asked Martin.

At that suggestion, everyone began to move away from the freezer, but the freezer was absolutely quite. It sat there in the lobby as if it belonged. Just waiting to be plugged in so that motor could run and the fans could buzz.

“Edith call security,” said Mr. Sellers.

“Right away,” answered Edith.

Security came up to examine the situation. Oscar the security guard paced around the machine with his key chain clinking. He strutted in the spotlight enjoying the hanging faces of the lawyers.

“Nope, no sign of a bomb, no ticking, no tinkering, just got yourselves a great big ole freezer here. It's heavy too,” said Oscar. “It's almost like it is anchored right here. What are y’all gonna do with it?”

“You need to remove it then...NOW!” said Mr. Sellers.

“Sorry sir, we can't move this. Your gonna have to call a moving service. We can't be responsible for the injury it might cause employees,” said Oscar.

“Don't you people have some belts or something you can wear?”

“No, not to move something like this,” said Oscar. “And besides, we aren't a moving company, we do the security here and that's it.” He turned on his heels and left the group of lawyers puzzling over the solution.

“Lot number thirty-nine,” read Raymond from the back of the machine. “Serial #006439, Straton, Ohio, FREEZE-O-MATIC, 220 VOLTS.”

“Edith, get a moving company on the line,” said Mr. Sellers.

“Right away,” said Edith and she dialed the phone as she stared through the human circle gathered around.

“Yes...hello...can you pick an item up? Okay....I have one rather large freezer to be retrieved,” said Edith into the receiver. “Oh, I don't know, let me check. Mr. Sellers where would you like it to be delivered?”

“What? I don't know. Can't you just have them take it away?”

“Certainly,” said Edith, “Can I make those arrangements when you arrive to pick it up? Ok, Good....”

The lawyers milled about the machine, pacing up and down, unable for some strange reason to leave the room.

“Mr. Jacobs is on the way up,” said Edith.

“My client,” said Martin.

“Is that the bus line case? Asked Raymond.

“Yes, the one-legged man who was pushed out of the back door by the bus driver. He pulled a gun from his other leg and tried to shoot the driver as he fell out of the bus.”

“So will the bus line make it out okay? Asked Mr. Sellers.

“We are hoping for the best, looks like we will win it. After all, the driver didn't have a choice, had to get rid of the Nut Case,” said Martin.

“Well, what is everyone standing around for, it's time to let this go and get back to work,” said Mr. Sellers.

Mr. Sellers had a hard time working that morning. He continued to walk by to see when the freezer was leaving. He was frustrated that any fool could deliver a machine like that to a law firm. Why would anybody believe they needed a freezer? It was ludicrous.

“Three Men Movers at your service,” said the burly man to Edith.

“What can we do for you today?”

“See this freezer?” asked Edith.

“Sure,” said the delivery man.

“Well, we need to get it out of here,” said Edith.

“Where to?” asked the delivery man.

“Could you just take it to a dumping place or something?” asked Edith.

“Well, there will be an extra charge for that,” said the delivery man.

“An extra charge, why?” asked Edith.

“Lady, you have to pay extra at the Dump Ground. You want it or not, make up your mind”

Raymond approached the front desk. “Are you the movers?” he asked.

“Yeah we are the movers.”

“Well, when you move this thing out, make sure you don't scratch the lobby doors,” said Raymond.

“Yes sir...got it..”smirked the mover.

“Hey lady, where's it goin?” he asked.

“I'll be right with you,” said Edith covering the phone with her hand. “Let's see, what time is your appointment with Mr Sellers?....Sure we will have it ready for you.”

“Lady, we don't have all day here,” said the mover.

“Okay, you need to know where to take it? We will go ahead and pay extra for the Dump Ground,” said Edith. Although she thought it might be funny to have it dropped at a competing firm.

She handed them a check, then the freezer was free to leave its lofty perch at Harper, Drum & Llithgow, 1200 Main Street.

“Alright then, we can drop it after hours,” said Mover Man.

So they loaded it onto the dollies and moved the gleaming, steel freezer through the lobby and down the elevator. Edith sat at her desk and looked at the indention the freezer had made in the carpet. Then she noticed a piece of paper. She walked over and picked it up. It read simply:

TO STORE THE CARCASSES OF HUMANITY

“Hmmm,” mused Edith.

“What's that ?” asked Sellers as he made his timely swoop.

“Oh, it's just a piece of paper I picked up from the floor,” said Edith.

“Well, throw it away,” snapped Sellers, “And get building maintenance to come up and vacuum this mess!”

Comparisons

Memory is large

harboring an ancient forest

of timeless trees

an ocean of vast waves

Generosity is smart

as a wizened, old owl

Fear is as prescient

like foreboding dream

clear and focused

and rather like

a collie mining sheep

on the border of

a grove dominated by wolves

Honesty is plain truth

spilled forward from a cup

filled with simple innocence

Conscience cannot lie

instead it reaches over

with its clever grip

and cackles the truth...

The Sprite on the Sill

There is a well known tiny elf

that we shall call a sprite

to avoid the little intracacies

known as copyright

This little brownie, I am told,

is quite the controversy

He takes up residence in your house

and reports what he does see

The precocious, self-important little gnome

crashes the party, takes over your home

He sits precisely on a ledge observing moments

when he has a story, to Santa then he vents

Telling tales on Cindy Lou, Bobby and

little Andy Dole

That mean, small gnome ruins Xmas eve

as they all get coal

The sprite’s actions have been much maligned

hanging out on that sill…

those threats and tattling touted now as bad

parenting skill

The gnome catches children in their weakest time

a little slip up there

like tattling, yelling, copying

and a small evil stare

All the while, he’s boss of the house

and he did replace

all the family framed photos

with his impish face!

He even caused a 911 call, an accident for fear

when a little girl knocked him down

thinking Xmas might disappear

He ran copies of his image from the

home computer one day

and stuck one right in the center of

granny’s Xmas tray

He dressed in Barbie’s clothing

missing a few moments on the sill

I thought about a candy infraction,

just a few to steal…

We aren’t talking Herself the Elf, but indeed

something more sinister

and if you’re asking me,

he’s one little mean mister

After the holidays, he will make haste to go

back to the Toy Shop in the great

Land of the Snow

Next year, it would be fine

if the Imp on the Ledge would pass us

and take up next door with the family Bore

and their doberman named Lazarus

Where the Story Goes...

Perchance when the story comes

it will be too large to tell

melting into uncharted oblivion

smirking like a wayward imp

melancholy writer laboring

chasing the end

finding the lost along the way

only to be singed

intermittently patching that story

with mystical fabric

the tale winds around a circuitous route

the omniscient voice deciding

lovelorn or love lost?

the plot treads

between two worlds

crossing into the unknown

the Muse smiles

then scampers off into the moonlit night

the plot escalates

then decides to fall

perhaps there is

no story at all….

Dancing with the Sandman by L.T. Garvin - Book Excerpt: Drama in West Texas

It is hard being an actor in West Texas especially when you are typecast and working with limited parts. I always wanted to be the main star, you know, the princess, the ghost, the wildly deranged witch. But I never got those good, juicy roles. They always went to the more princess-type girl than what I was. Instead, I got to be the mother, the queen, the maid, the Edith Ann, basically anything dowdy. Even though I was quite alive and bursting with exuberance, it is no wonder that my acting talents became crippled and subdued in that environment.

It was that in third grade that I was awarded the part of the mother to tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol. I wasn’t exactly excited as I wanted to be the GHOST OF SOMETHING, but I can well remember what I wore to the first rehearsal: a white school-girl sweater and red pants. I knew that when time came for the actual play, that there was no way that the poor mother would get to wear anything vibrant, like the color red, so I had to make it count while I could.

When time came for the actual performance, Ceila Adams and I got to make announcements on the stage to all the parents and other adoring members of the crowd. Ceila and I got along real well, so I was glad to get to do this with her. But the night of the play, she was so very sad because her little white poodle, Muffin, had run away and Ceila was all whiny-like and everything.

As I was the mother, Mrs. Cratchit, in the play, Jeremy Trott was tiny Tim, and he was as I had heard a teacher put it: “a little slow.” Sometimes he would forget his lines and I would have to hiss them through my motherly well-meaning smile sitting across the table from him. This was before Mr. Scrooge’s generosity, so it was easy to see Jeremy as the table was quite bare. I just hated having a husband and all that, especially since it wasn’t Zane but that completely irritating Steven Bower who pulled my hair and called me names. No, while I was busy being the dowdy mother that Charles Dickens had created, the love of my life got to be one of the coveted ghosts, the Ghost of Christmas Past.

To make matters worse, Sharon was the Ghost of Christmas Future which the teachers embellished all up, plus she got to be dark and exciting in intense, black eyeliner, while I was having to worry about having a turkey to cook, and if poor, failing Tiny Tim would make it not only through dinner but Christmas as well.

The day before the play, I fell off the monkey bars. Actually it wasn’t the one in the schoolyard, it was one that I had fashioned myself with an iron bar stuck between two trees. My engineering skills had yet to kick in, in the third grade so I did not realize that the bar would begin to slip inch by inch as I swayed and jiggled and sang:

“Hey, Hey we’re the Monkee…., people say we mess around BUT we’re too busy….DOWN!.”

KERPLUNK!

Well let me tell you, I got put down, and put down in a hurry as I fell almost on top of my head. I managed to get up, even though I was a bit winded, but I didn’t cry. In my severe moment of pain, looking across the yard, I saw a little dog running down the sidewalk, a white poodle. Oh my goodness…..Muffin!,

I got up and managed to run after her and called her name. She turned once to look at me, then ran into somebody else’s yard. I paused…Goodness!, It was the old, cranky Mrs. Wildon’s house. I couldn’t go back there because everybody said she was a witch or something. I just knew that she would be boiling a kettle for Muffin. If I dared to look, it would be her probably making the next batch of stew in some big, black pot beneath the trees. I felt sick to my stomach, and I pondered on the quandary of telling Ceila or not. Oh to survive major head trauma and be worried about small, white, defenseless poodles at the same time!

The afternoon of the play, I put on my maxi length dress in the dressing room. These dresses were handy dandy before celebrity Baby Mamas began sporting them with flip flops, when pregnant, and pretty much any time. The long dress relics of the past not only helped rock a crochet poncho, mood ring, or Indian headband piece, but also worked quiet conveniently as costumes for the mother role I was playing. I waited until Ceila came in and asked her,”

“Ceila, by chance has Muffin come home yet?”

“No,” she replied sadly.

“Hmmmm, do you uh, ever go walking by Mrs. Wildon’s house? I asked.

“Not really, why?” she said.

“Well, I just thought that might be a good place to look if you haven’t already?” I said.

“Do you think she has Muffin?” Ceila asked.

“Well, I don’t know,” I stammered because I was quite worried if Mrs. Wildon was a real witch and all that. Because if she was, she might be viewing us that very minute in her cauldron or her crystal ball, you know witches have all those accessory items and whatnot and I was truly afraid she might put a curse or spell on us….or something.

“I saw a little white dog and that’s all, I don’t really know if it was her or not,” I lied.

“Hmmm,” said Ceila, and frowned. “I don’t think it was Muffin, she never went that far.”

“Probably not,” I said frowning to myself.

Poor Muffin, I thought, she might now be witch soup, or chicken feed, but I had work to do. So I had to put it out of my head and focus with a practically clear conscious as I transformed into Mrs. Cratchitt. I was kinda hoping they would dangle Sharon Adams from ropes when timer for her part came. It might even be possible for those ropes to break or accidentally get gnawed into by some roving beaver, and that Sharon might fall from her lofty perch as the most exciting character in the play and get a little dose of what it felt like to fall out of a tree with a defective monkey bar just because she stole my locket and I felt that some type of retribution should be in order….