I woke up this morning with a poem in my mind and it poured onto the electronic paper of my pda:

Sun of sackcloth black, and bloody
Moon of mournful red.
Stars are falling, Saints are calling,
“Come, Great Day of Dread.

Put an end to politics,
Put an end to pelf.
Raise the dead, give poor the bread,
Put down despotic Self. ”

“Nay, not ‘til nascent gods are gathered,
Twelve thousand strong per tribe,
And My good-news laws are lathered
Through all the world wide.”

It feels to me like there ought to be more to it, but that is all I have for now.
I emailed it to our son, Joe, who is a poet, and asked him for his critique.
I worked on What Think Ye most of the morning and afternoon.
Jackie went at 1230 or so to North Bend for women’s conference.
I walked to Fred Meyers and purchased a new pair of dress shoes.
I watched our To Catch a Thief video. It is better when you can understand all the [English] words. It was hard to hear last night when traffic was passing on the highway.