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Consider The Lilies

J. Elk-Baptisté

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019

J. Elk-Baptisté

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Consider The Lilies

Consider The Lilies of the field, how they grow:

they neither toil nor spin: and yet I say to you that

even Solomon in all his glory was not

arrayed like one of these.

Mathew 6. 28

Sally Anne Baxter

Turning away the Baxter girl

Sending her into the cold

Would not turn out well, and

Ferris would rue the day he’d

Done it.

His, deed of shame,

Monica called it.

He’d not allowed the girl to take her bonnet.

For Pete’s sake! It was the girl’s own bonnet!

Monica was indiscrete, fun loving; a tease.

His embarrassment was her joy.

He was outed for possessing a cruel heart—

For having committing the grand-daddy of all mistakes.

Outed at dinner parties.

Judged and blamed at many, many events and occasions.

Word spread until he knew people avoided him.

Women whispered behind raised hands.

Gentlemen shunned him and waiters ceased smiling.

Dog with no bone

Chip with no dip

Fold without sheep

Hypotenuse lacking a decent triangle

Ferris was beside himself, but

Must not let it show

In all seriousness, after so terrible a misunderstanding, he thought of leaving the city


Ships in a Corn Field

From out beyond the Hebrides

The wooden ships are back, returned from afar

They anchor in sight of our house

There is a grande galleon in the cornfield

In an upstairs room

Something dangerous is caught, glimpsed

The scent of past adventure reaches in

A far distant horizon lies in mist

Did I catch the sound of sails buffeting

Against the gray morning

From far voyaging, a strange, shifting sky

Allows them return to safe harbor

There is a barque moored at one boundary fence

Away down near the blacktop

Skiffs bob, bobbing like water birds

Going from sight, sinking below whitecaps

Close in, there’s a high-riding craft

A black priest stands at the fo’c’sal, day-dreaming,

While the Captain’s coming ashore at our swinging

Barn door

Chests of fine trinkets are hefted by pirates

Men of dire hunger, of unhinged appetite.

Dutch doors.

Open minded.

Half there--half not.

Treasure do lie wasting under our rafters now.

Over-weighting both joist and beam.

From glory days long past.

Committed to memory; still, the returning ships

Bring news of catastrophic occurrences

In far off places, events affecting souls

We can never know.

Our neighbor in his red pickup

Whining up the drive takes

Moves my attention and overlying the vision of wheels,

A dusty, trailing fog, a great ship; impatient and wallowing,

Awaits a new tide.

…off to where the Ford motor company will not venture.

We will have friends over and they will stay after supper.

Tonight is another story; another mystery

Needs telling.

Asleep there in a wide-leafed book,

With tea-stained, marbled end-papers.

A sentimental dedication; words of love inscribed.

Pulled down from a top shelf for friendship’s sake.


Is that true wealth

Well-off, or, what?

He’s a loser in

This loser’s estimation

Don’t kid me

I won’t kid you

Out another friend

Wary of grass-roots


Let’s not be too greedy

In shafting a friend

Smooth our way

And bounce along

Regardless of opinion

Wary of opposition

Of hidden agendas

Stare back smiling

Play with a lobe

Tweak the beard

Lower the tone of voice

Begin anew, then,

Assume a friendly tone

Tap against the roll-top

Clear the throat

Ask a favor

Chuck out keys

Like burley for

A bitter bite

We don’t like you

Don’t use us

Meet your other self

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