Villains

 In surveying the stories

I have run across so far

In books and movies,

In short fiction and epic poems, 

In history and historical fiction,

From Disney animations, 

To action movies, 

To Pulitzer prize-winning dramas,

I have noted that, generally

Villains all share certain traits:

Pride, selfishness, self-centeredness, 

A love of hierarchy,

A disdain for those they consider lesser. 

A need for power,

A love of efficiency - usually ruthless.

A devotion to Rights, but only for 

Themselves. 

A love of cruelty.

A desire to inflict harm.

Ambition, and a willingness

To to turn anyone who gets in their way

Into an object. 

A white, hot, fierce need to defind their own

Reputation.

Jealousy toward anyone who threatens their 

Self image. 

A need to project their flaws onto their perceived 

Enemies. 

Above all, 

They want to 

Convince those around them 

That their vices are Virtues.

And their strategy often works. 

Many people flock to villains,

Worship them, literally idolize them, 

Write them checks. 

And feel good about supporting cruelty, 

Hatred, and death. 

The worst people in the world 

Think they are 

The best people in the world.

They are wrong. 

Sonnet, January 2025 - Reversal

 He builds his case upon the cornerstone

That there is universal right and wrong.

Imagine, he suggests, a country prone

To reverse the virtues we have held so long:

Where cowardice is seen as bravery,

And betrayal is a badge of honor proud,

Where people laud a person's thievery,

Where pride is praised and honor disavowed.

Where empathy is hateful, hate is good,

Where greed is great and charity's a fraud,

Where lies are truth and truth is deemed falsehood,

Where cruelty's an ethic, kindness flawed. 

He thinks that we could not imagine how

Such a land could be. We're in one now.

Christmas 2025

We seem to hate our bodies, 

Loath embodiment. 

If we aren't longing to have our souls pull off into heaven, 

Then we are talking about uploading our essences 

To a computer singularity.

Short of that, we spend half our time 

Disembodied, our minds focused

On digital substitutes for reality.

Christmas is embodiment. 

The messiness and pain of birth. 

A human man, walking the Earth

In sandalled feet 

Mostly on dirt roads 

(only occasionally on water). 

He wasn't forever talking about disembodied souls. 

He connected them to bodies. 

Earthy illness healed - sometimes with mud. 

Leaving these poor husks of bodies behind, 

Christmas is the reverse. 

Earthy stories about seeds and sheep

And lost objects and money. 

Earthly relationships restored.

And finally, 

All of creation restored.

Here. 

Not in a virtual reality, 

Not in a digital version of our brainwaves,

Not in a fantasy realm of clouds and harps.

Here. 

On Earth as it is in Heaven. 

He came to embody

With hands and feet

And a voice and a face

The goodness of a human life. 

We are called

Not to disembodiment,

But to incarnation. 

 

A Christmas Parody (which is protected free speech)

Full disclosure: I own Grinch merch. 

Nonetheless... 

All the Peeps who like Christmas - and some who did not -

All liked "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" a lot. 

A book about Christmas not having a price,

It told us that Christmas was NOT merchandise. 

Although as a kids' book it couldn't be topped,

Some still tried to top it and couldn't be stopped.

First came a Grinch special TV presentation,

Then a live action Grinch, then CGI animation. 

The Grinch started snowballing, couldn't be caught!

In culture, it turned into a huge juggernaut!

The author's estate saw the Peeps adoration

And thought, "This is ripe for some monetization!"

Soon the Grinch was on T-shirts and sweathirts and hats!

His image was plastered on welcoming mats!

Grinchy mugs, Grinchy cups, Grinchy mittens and coats!

Grinchy cookies and dog treats and green Grinchy oats! 

And Christmas now turned into Grinchmas instead.

Perhaps it was right it was turned on its head - 

We seem to laud those who steal things away, 

And dis on the people who make good things stay.

We live in an age that admires the Grinch,

Forgetting his later redemption's a cinch. 

The tale that said Christmas might mean something more,

Has now become Grinchmas and sold in a store. 

But perhaps we might all learn a thing from the Whos

And put ourselves into their little Who shoes.

Despite all the things Grinches try to destroy,

The right way to respond is to hold on to joy.

Cheered

We stood in the staging ground 

For the city Christmas parade

Watching from the other side of the street

The floats prep for their turn to join 

The procession. 

And then it started. 

Floats were dispactched, 

Lurching out into the street 

In slow motion

To glide past waiting crowds.

Directly across from us was a float 

With the words O Holy Night 

Stretched across its side, 

And inside, a crowd of children prepared to sing

Or play the musical instruments 

Poised in front of them, 

Held at the ready. 

But it wasn't their turn to join. 

Apparently they held a later number 

On the parade list 

Because they had a long time to wait

For their turn to turn out into the street. 

So as they watched the other floats roll by, 

They cheered them on. 

For every float, there arose from the children

A round of applause 

And a spontaneous cheer of joy 

And encouragement and delight, 

Cheering the other floats on. 

Floats that sprayed soap-sud snow at them

Or had particularly spectacular lights 

Or giant sparklers sparking 

Received particularly loud cheers. 

But every one was cheered, 

And it seemed to me that we would all do well

To pay attention to everyone passing by,

And to find a way to cheer them on.

Everyone who passed was cheered. 

They never saw me standing across the street 

Hidden in the dim light and the crowding spectators. 

But I, too, was cheered. 

Sandspurs

Putting a plank of wood
Into the shed out back,
I noticed a whole garden 

Of sandspurs growing wild

And flourishing:

Those insidious, innocent (at first) little plants 

That sprout tiny green fluffballs

That suddenly turn into razor sharp

Orbs of pain this time of year.

I hate them.

Without thinking, I gave into my hatred

And, bare-handed, tried to rip them out

By the roots, 

Clutching the whole batch

In my left hand. 

In my annoyance with their existence,

I ripped them out,

And in return, 

They stabbed at my fingertips,

Jabbing my skin

With white hot pinches. 

Some of the points broke off, 

Splintering down under my skin.

I tossed them all into the yard waste bin, 

Satisfied that my anger had destroyed them, 

Had been appeased. 

But my self-righteous triumph

Felt thwarted 

By the throbbing in my fingertips. 

Two days later, 

And the splinters will not come out. 

My skin has covered them over

And eventually

A blister will form and harden around the splinter, 

And eventually I'll pull away the dead skin

And the splinter embedded in it

So I can heal. 

But perhaps if I hadn't wanted to pounce
On those thorny orbs so quickly,

Perhaps I might have saved myself 

A lot of pain

If I had just donned a pair of gloves. 

Possible Things Before Breakfast

The White Queen on the other side

Of Alice’s Looking Glass

Practiced believing impossible things - 

As many as six - 

Before breakfast. 

I see the merit in such and approach. 

It encourages imagination, 

An, ironically, possibility. 

But when I ponder it, 

There is also merit 

In believing as many as six

Possible things before breakfast.

When I think about the fact

That I wake up most mornings 

Immersed in a sea of certainties 

Flowing through my mind and all around me

So constantly 

That I hardly know they are there, 

It occurs to me that most other people wake up 

In seas of similar certitude

But of different certainties. 

The people I most disagree with, 

The people who think things I could never think,

Thoughts that are not only wrong

But translate into horrible actions

And terrible policies

Are just as certain as I am 

Of their rightness

Before they sit down to coffee and eggs and bacon. 

So perhaps 

It behoves me to think six possible things before breakfast. 

Is it possible that I’m wrong? 

Is it possible that my certainty is an idol 

I bow down to so I don’t have to think?

Is it possible I’m a hypocrite? 

Is it possible that when my certainties

Are brought out of my head 

Into the light 

They will make a scene and clash with each other? 

That I might have a fight on my hands 

Between rival ideas

That I thought got along fine

But actually want to tear each other’s throats out?

Do I hold others to a standard

I don’t expect of myself?

Is it possible that I’m 

Just going with my gut,

My knee jerk reaction, 

With what I want to be true,

When in reality, 

If pressed, 

I don’t actually know very much 

About the opinions I’m so sure of? 

Is it possible that the world 

Of ideas that I take for granted

Is just a construction,

Like the movie Matrix,

But created by my own mind:

Made up of biases 

And prejudices 

And online filter bubbles 

And money being made somewhere 

Out there in the digital either

From the fact that I keep on clicking 

On the things that already agree with me. 

Is it possible that I have reduced 

The world into simple binaries 

(Ones and zeroes in computer parlance)

Without nuance, 

Without color, 

All black and white, 

And myself always standing in the light 

Of righteousness? 

Is it possible I am missing the nuances, 

The inbetween-ness of things

The allows for complexity,

For paradox?

Is it possible that 

The worldview I find on my head each morning

Like an enormous hat 

I have somehow slept in

Is a protective helmet 

I have built around my mind 

To keep out the thoughts 

That might actually help me grow? 

But will I actually

Question myself? 

Will I attempt to step

Out of my comfortable, 

Limited perspective? 

Or is that impossible?

If so, perhaps I have thought six 

Impossible things before breakfast 

After all.