Sunday Squibs

 

There have been and still are many cults. 

Only a handful reach the status of religion. 

Writing is like fishing—The writer must have a mind bent enough to hook an idea, using herself as bait. 

All his mates in the pub

He drank under the table

Only mild sister sleep

To down him was able

The saint’s progress is impeded by large and slippery boulders

However there are ropes and ladders lying about to get him up and over

There’s a view of the world that’s limpidly clear

That we see it distorted is our fault, my dear 

“Work with me,” says God “and quit your buckin’”

“Wake up, get up, and keep on truckin’”

To tell of their night pees the old folks aren’t shy

Forget the late drink gramps—please less TMI

A few years back, businesses gave out ball caps and coffee mugs. Then for years it was totes. Now it’s water bottles. For our next free gift, maybe crypto currency and lottery tickets. 

At the end of my meditation session I want to be more like Gandhi, ready to do great things, and less like the schoolboy waiting for the three o’clock bell. 

It’s hard to believe this five am darkness was just five weeks ago dancing sunlight. 

The husband who gets in a pickle and tells his wife “I should have listened to you”, doesn’t mean it. He’s really trying to forestall her saying “I told you so”.