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.

Confessions of a 4th Grade Athlete by L.T. Garvin

Summer is here which brings it closer to the upcoming football season which brings it closer to unleashing the whimsical characters in my book, Confessions of a 4th Grade Athlete.  There are many valid questions that begged to be answered:

Why are we football-obsessed in the South?

Why do we love working out in 100+ degree weather?

Why do we chase an oblong leather ball around like our lives depended on it?

None of these questions; however, are answered in this book.  Nope, for those answers you will have to look elsewhere, but in this book you can discover a boy named Nate and his quest to become a star athlete amidst the scholarly demands of elementary school.  So I will be writing, blogging, promoting, reading and generally working pretty hard this summer.  I am not sure at this time if the saga of Nate will continue or not, as the Attention Monster is apparently holding my imagination hostage as he sometimes did when Nate attempted to concentrate in class.

If you would like some insight on the crazy game of football, and how we glorify it, then here is my  nostalgic summation of that all-important last game:

https://broussardlana.wordpress.com/2014/11/21/last-game-upon-the-green-grass/

You can also see that Nate may closely resemble this young man who did achieve a measured amount of local glory upon that hallowed football field that holds the dreams and aspirations of the populations of both large and small towns all over the nation as we grasp the long and wondrous days of summer and watch them unfold into the promise of fall.  You can also see that this sentence is much too long.  Hoping everyone in WordPress Land has a great Memorial Day weekend for those who celebrate it.

Illustrations by: Corbin Hillam.  Publication by Crystal Publishing, LLC

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.

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Gulf Storm

When the clouds drop

low and ominous

reminding me of a

Gulf storm coming

after a pleasant fall day

digging a midst bulbs and sprouts

never saw that baby copperhead

small pit viper, it was

trying as I was

to make indentations

in that dark earth

masking thoroughly

the uneasiness of the raven's nest

the troubles that dominate inside

lace ropes of frailty

wrapping the inner chamber

that storm due in

an uncertain flood plain

bayous cut deep

will swarm with gators, snakes

better to stumble upon the copperhead

and not the coral snake

red and yellow

kill a fellow

and even a brooding girl

with a petulant pout...

but I choose rather to think

of fall flowers

black-eyed Susan

rock rose

blood sage

and not lurking serpents

the curse of a malicious existence

so I leave that nightmarish daydream

not daring to delve

into the impending storm

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...