Some things I don't understand

Some things I don't understand: 

• Why is it a woman can be a president of a major university, but cannot be president of a local LDS Sunday School?
• Why is it a woman can lead an international accounting firm, but cannot count the donations at her local LDS church?
• Why is it a woman can be a justice of the Supreme Court, but cannot judge a simple LDS disciplinary council?
• Why is it a woman can be a president of a country (okay, not yet in the U.S.), but cannot lead an LDS congregation?

There is much I don't understand, but these questions seem relatively simple. 

Thirty Days

Thirty Days

By David C. Price

Thirty days hath I written

Tho, it seems, no one listens.

Four thousand words I surpassed

Pulled from the heart and the ass

Personal thoughts and feelings

Never before been revealing.

Thanks to Lance and to Betty,

Out of three hundred thirty

Visits to my humble poetry post,

The only people to write me a note

Thanks also to three who liked

My Facebook page links.

I said I would write a poem each day

And so I continued, even when away.

The lessons are few but one worth noting

Don’t promise to do something

Unless you’re willing to do it

When nobody else seems to care.

I miei primi studenti

I miei primi studenti

By Anziano Davide Price

It all began with Rosetta Dall’Armi,

Seguita a breve del Graziella, Lorenzo, and Lucio Golino

Then Analissa, Adolfo, and Lucca Da Ponte.

Before long, Lorena Dall’Armi and Delores Ferrari, and

Le giovani sorelle Maria and Margherita Ruffinengo

Led to valoroso Marco Curzola Favretto

From Mestre came the Familia Cimino:

Giovanni, Guiseppe, Maurizio, and Maria,

And then the Familia Scognamiglio:

Erica, Luigi, Massimo, Maria, e Rodolfo,

Daniela Bullo Poli came with the Familia Dammagio:

Irene, Alessandro, Salvatore, Augusto, and

Guido, Leonida, and Sorella Dammaggio

Sorelli Scarpa, Fachinetto, and Emiliana Trincheze

Led to Guisella Brentegani con Theresa Gigliotti.

Sabrina Indelicata and Aurelio Jovino sequitano Amos Melli,

E proprio Patrizio Zenobi, and Chiava and Amedea Visone

Maria and Nazzareno Salzano were nearly the last,

Until Fratello and Sorella Zanella.

"Yes"

“Yes”

By David C Price

As they kneel on alter sides,

Hands in an eternal embrace

On perfect white cloth creations

Matching shoes, socks, and gowns

With shimmering eyes of love,

A myopic vision framed by mirrors

Whose reflections reveal infinity,

Surrounded by friends and family

Seated in a circle on royal chairs

With mothers at one alter’s end

And fathers at another,

A voice breaking the silence

With Abraham’s familial welcome,

With everlasting, new covenants,

With kingdoms and exaltation ahead,

A tear escapes from its hiding place,

A place where tears escaped before

At birth, baptism, and graduation,

Each hand declares “yes”.

The Agony of Coats

In 1981, I was diagnosed with retinal telangiectasia (leaking blood vessels in the retina, also known as Coats Disease). The treatment for this disease is lasers burning the leaks to seal them off. In 2009 a laser treatment error resulted in a laser shot to the nerves in the back of my eye. The pain of that moment is now a permanent part of my life.

The Agony of Coats

By David C. Price

The errant laser burns each day

An eternal pain to endure away.

My eyes close not from exhaustion

But from bright lights and tension.

Driving at night is particularly painful

Lights in the mirror burn the retina

Driving into sunlight is nearly impossible,

But to reach a destination requires it.

Alfred Noyes “The Highwayman”

Alfred Noyes “The Highwayman”

An erasure poem by David C. Price

The wind was a torrent among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghost

The road was a ribbon

And the highwayman came riding up to the old inn-door.

He'd a cock on his forehead, lace at his chin,

A coat and breeches of skin;

They fitted with never a wrinkle:

And his butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle.

He clattered and clashed in the yard,

And he tapped on the bar;

He whistled a tune to the black-eyed daughter,

Plaiting a love-knot into her long black hair.

"One kiss, I'm after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back before the light;

Yet, if they press me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight."

He rose upright in her hand,

His face burnt like a brand

As the black of his breast;

Then he galloped away to the West.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;

And out o' the moon,

A red-coat troop came marching—

George's men marching, up the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord,

But they gagged her foot;

They had tied her with jest;

They had bound a barrel beneath her breast!

She twisted her behind!

She writhed her fingers!

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched her!

Up, she stood up to attention

She would not lay bare in the moonlight;

Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! The horse-hoofs ringing clear;

Down over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding,

The red-coats looked straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty night!

Nearer he came like a light!

Her eyes grew one deep breath,

Then her finger moved her breast.

He turned; he did not know who stood

Bowed, with her head drenched

Not till he heard Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight.

Back, he spurred to the sky,

With the road brandished high!

When he lay on the highway,

With the lace at his throat.

When the wind is in the trees,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight,

A highwayman comes riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clangs in the yard;

He taps on the bar;

He whistles to Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a love-knot into her long black hair.

Seasons of Change

Seasons of Change

By David C. Price

From gentle winds off northern skies,

From peaceful rains off mountain slopes,

Come broken soil and new born leaves,

Foretelling harvest days.

From south winds heat, humidity,

From cool air falling suddenly,

The rolling clouds bring thunderstorms,

Threatening whirlwind bolts.

From arctic skies come clippers cold,

From prodigious lakes building clouds,

Bushels gather for darker days,

Slaughtering winter meats.

From Gethsemane came blood, tears,

From Calvary Earth shook in shame,

Heaven’s children can now come home

Celebrating God’s son.

Semester's End

Semester's End Haiku
By David C. Price

Stress and pressure mount

In the days before ice cream

For all in classrooms.

Twenty Third Day

Twenty Third Day

By David C. Price

Twenty two days of writing,

Of digital leaves colliding

With impromptu thinking,

And yet in this fomenting

No poetic lines are appearing,

So my twenty third day of pining

Ends with this poem reciting.

Idaho is not Midwest

While living it Italy back in the mid-1970s I frequently had opportunities to explain where I was from. When I said “Idaho” the most frequent response was confusion with Ohio or Iowa. This poem is inspired by that confusion.

Idaho is not Midwest

By David C. Price

Idaho potatoes are not Iowa corn

Idaho sunsets are not Nebraska sunsets

Idaho storms are not Nebraska storms

Idaho’s Salmon River is not a big muddy river

Rocky Mountain ski areas are not Midwest ski areas

Rocky Mountain campgrounds are not Midwest camp grounds

Rocky Mountain vistas are not Midwest vistas

Rocky Mountain road trips are not Midwest road trips

Mountain dry air is not prairie humid air

Mountain pines are not prairie oaks

Mountain goats are not prairie goats

Mountain folks, like me, are not prairie folks

Consequences

Consequences
by David C. Price

Smiling is a physical act with contagious consequences.
Touching is a physical act with mental health consequences.
Kissing is a physical act with social consequences.
Sex is a physical act with emotional consequences.
Love is an emotional act with physical consequences.

Escape

Desperate for Escape

By David C. Price

Fast food drive through lanes

Mandatory meetings at work

Sleeping at relative’s houses

Motel rooms

Sunday leadership meetings

Disciplinary councils

Presiding in church

On-stage ceremonies

Graduation processionals

Snow days at home

Traffic jams

Construction zones

Temple sessions

Dental chairs

Elevators

Airplanes

My mind.

Day of Silence

Day of Silence

By David C. Price

In memory of Brad Schow,

Whose AIDS forced him from school

Into death’s submission,

And for others who suffer,

I join the day of silence

So that all living sees

The impact of being silent

On those who are suffering,

That no one else must submit

Like my friend from high school,

Brad Schow.

Orlando

Orlando

By David C. Price

When my grandfather was only ten

He accidentally shot and killed his sister

And wounded his older brother.

At 14 his sawmill boss called him a “damn fool”

When my grandfather was a thirteen

Sheriff Daly said Ada County Idaho

Should create a reform school for troubled boys –

And Orlando should be the first incarcerated.

When my grandfather was twenty-eight

He was hospitalized for a mental breakdown

After embezzling from the community.

His house was sold to restore the funds.

When my grandfather was thirty

His eleven year old daughter was killed by a train.

His wife was severely injured and in shock.

He ended up divorced and alone.

When my grandfather was nearly forty

He married his brother’s widow

To raise his brother’s children.

And had two children of his own.

When my grandfather died

The YMCA Camp and Tri-Hi-Y Girls

Built a memorial cabin to honor him

For the exemplary man he had become.

When we think our children are incorrigible,

When we suffer death and divorce,

When we sacrifice our life for others,

We still don’t quit – we never quit trying.

That’s what my grandfather teaches me.

Article Nine

Article Nine

By David C. Price

What important thoughts

Are cued to tweet above?

In my dreams I imagine

A Father with an active blog:

“My beloved children,

How silly you have been.

Do you think colored children are

Lesser than my Euro-friends?

I patiently sat waiting

For centuries of your tyranny

‘Til you caught up to me.”

“My dear sons and my daughters,

You’ve divided yourself in two.

Remember the great commandment

Conquered all the older queue.

‘Where love is there is the Father’

So it should be no surprise,

I love all equally, G, L, B, and Q.”

“To all my cherished children,

A moment won’t you spare?

Your pulpits, priests, and prophets

Can seem stubborn as can be.

I have a tweet to send you –

Let me know when you are ready

For women who pray and lead.”

“Oh remember all my loved ones,

Home teaching is a lesser law

Designed to make you care.

When you learn to love each other,

When you serve unselfishly,

You will need not be assigned

To visit neighbor families.”

“To those who play the games of men,

Who feel their teams and cities fright,

Recall the cross bled red not Pantone 648.

But really I don’t care who wins

My favorite play is on the heart.

The Cubs and Sox will have their day.

More Joe Dan Golds is where to start.”

“For those who measure success by wealth,

Who think I, God, lean to the right,

Recall a camel’s eye wanes to a widow’s mite.

I measure not by a 401K,

My child, just give it all away,

And upbraid receivers not.

A liberal gift is what I like.”

He revealed much more to me

Than can be here recounted.

I subscribed to His RSS feed,

And await more tweets reported.

The Paintbrush

#napowrimo - April 16

The Paintbrush

By David C. Price

With a gentle touch the artist dipped the brush

In paints of blue and white.

Then drew a feather on each shoulder,

More fluttering down the crest.

The button on the left, a feathery fluff.

The button on the right, the nibble of a beak.

While down the valley in between

Strained the long goose neck.

The artist’s brush gently smoothed

The texture of the paint.

It tickled as the tail appeared,

Waved at the canvas hip.

A dip, a line, a claw was drawn

Hanging on the navel rest.

Then with a knobby brush

A softness was applied

To the birdhouse clean and fresh,

Reversed and re-applied

Until the canvas cried.

Crossing -- A concrete poem

One of my favorite assignments in oral interpretation is when we have group interpretation of concrete poetry. So I thought I'd do a concrete poem. I hope the formatting holds when this is posted. Enjoy!

Crossing – A concrete poem

By David C. Price

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Concupiscence

#napowrimo - April 14, 2013
Today -- a haiku for your reading pleasure.

Concupiscence lives

Inside the sepulcher of

The abandoned heart.

My Grandmother's Bed

                I don’t remember when it became mine… it was some time after my grandfather Orlando had died, and probably about the time my grandmother Anna Alida went to the nursing home. The bed, along with a desk, giant mirror, and large chest, first went to my sister Barbara - or so I’m told. I’m also told that when Barbara moved out of the house after graduating from Pocatello High School, the bed became mine. That would make it about 1969, when I was 11 or 12 years old. It is still my bed today, nearly 45 years later.

My Grandmother’s Bed

By David C. Price

My grandmother’s bed became mine.

The dreams she had dreamt on that bed,

Now became mine to dream in my head.

From my sleeping tween mind came falling and flying;

From my foggy waking anticipating buses and classes.

From grandmother’s bed came life planning,

As I lay in the basement staring at the ceiling

Hearing parents cleaning, yelling, and wrestling.

The daytime imaginings of riches and happiness,

The daytime dreams of busses and caresses.

In my grandmother’s bed I learned loving,

From Reuben, and Masters, and Johnson, and Hefner.

Dreams of Stevens and McClelland and Schultz and October.

My dreams took shape in Oliver’s words

On a high school stage in Eugene, Oregon.

On my grandmother’s bed the questions fermented,

Will love fall on me from heaven above?

Who is the love I close my eyes to see?

When will someone put her arms around me?

Emotions evolved from a mind to a passion.

On my grandmother’s bed my heart became primed.

Dreams shifted from spooning enduring embraces,

To gentle kisses, eternal bliss, and smiling faces.

I lay on my side and dreamed of true love.

On my grandmother’s bed came two then three children

Who pounced and tickled, cried and embraced.

The lumber’s been re-nailed, glued and repaired

So many times it squeaks and it crackles.

Much like my grandmother at the end of her days.

On my grandmother’s bed children toddled and teared

Of their own dreams and unmet embraces.

Lives re-nailed, glued and repaired

By gentle kisses, hugs and salty graces.

But like Orlando and Harriet and Eugene they left.

On my grandmother’s bed I live my grandmother’s death,

A nest of loneliness and sleep and restless stirring.

There is no rest in peace on the pillow.

What began on Oliver’s stage becomes yet another’s demise.

Memories of dreams fade on my grandmother’s bed.

To my students...

#napowrimo - April 12, 2013

To my students…

By David C. Price

Affect used ineffectively has an effect on my affect.

Speeches are performed, not preformed.

If you are definitely going to do it, don’t do it defiantly.

When you try *and* do something, I will try *to* not do something to you.

You’re not form Illinois and you’re not speaking quitely.

If you don’t know how to pronounce a word, look it up.

If you don’t take notes in class, you will fail the exam.

If you don’t practice your speech, you will fail the assignment.

If you don’t come to class, you will fail the course.

If you don’t believe me, maybe you should defiantly try and see.

Yes, you can turn in assignments early.

I have prayed for you during class.

When you fail, but try again, I have to hold back tears of joy.

It’s difficult to not hug you when you succeed.

The worst day of my semester is the last day of class.

Tanka poem

#napowrimo - April 11, 2013

Today's entry is an untitled Tanka poem:

Out in the open

Confession can heal many

Wounds of sinfulness…

But I didn’t screw it up,

So you get nothing from me.

Move On!

#napowrimo - April 10

Move On!

By David C. Price

Dreams destroyed dig deeply

Into an individual’s identity.

What, one wonders, will work

To temper the turmoil

Rejection wrought?

Courts can’t correct

Any anger or angst.

Souls seeking peace must

Fill furrows with flaxseed,

Not nattering negativism.

What would’ve or could’ve can’t

Move maddening mountains. 

A cancerous conviction can

Dig deep down and destroy

More than denied dreams.

Move on.

The Colorado Zephyr

#napowrimo - April 9, 2013

The Colorado Zephyr

By David C. Price

The rhythmic beat of steel on steel.

Naïve trees clinging to the rocky scar.

A child’s squeal at the running deer.

The wafting smoke during a 15-minute break.

A closing call to community dining.

Pine trees desperately holding snow babies.

The abrupt night at the mountain tunnel.

The burst of day at Moffat’s end.

Three letter tags create community.

The universality of the drunkard’s gate.

Waiting, waiting, beside an empty field.

Falling tombstones to telephony’s past.

Crossing calls of long – long – short – long.

A junked car wall taming the Big 10 winds.

Animal tracks on frozen Frazier.

Ice chunks running rapids.

Ghosts wave to the darkened passerby above.

A book, a nap, a camera flash, a quiet empty stare.

Silent echoes of pick and blast line the walls,

While angles of thick wire faithfully guard the DMZ.

Spruce to sage to cedar.

Yarmony, Bond, Dotzero, Allen, Parachute, DeBeque, Akin.

Cars and trucks dance along the skirts of virgin canyon walls,

Finally finding release at Glenwood Spring’s fiery nest.

Ottava Rima

An attempt at ottava rima poetry...
#napowrimo - April 8, 2013


She showed me how to play a violin
My oldest grandchild, my sweet Caroline.

Athena has no fear of diving in.

Her bravery tops most any child of mine.

From Franklin, little Lydia could swim,

Despite her start, a short but sincere whine.

These three can always make their grandma smile,

While I can watch my grandkids playful style.

Father's Hand

Father’s Hand

By David C. Price

His hand touched his sweetheart’s burdened brow, then the new born baby’s gown

Other hands joined his, gently bouncing her in white, as he promised spiritual sight

Then raised her high for all to see, his link to eternity.

Soft hands surrounded her, holding her tight as thunder shook the sky,

He held her cheek to his chest whispering warm words, promising a peaceful night

She raised her glance to see flashing lights, while held in the hands of serenity.

Her tiny fingers wrapped around the bars, eager for her first ride,

She trusted his grasp holding her tight until, released, she pedaled out of sight.

He raised his hands high, freedom realized, to celebrate her victory.

To the bus he gripped her hands tight but there let her go, turned, as salty rain drops fell.

She peeked o’er the yellow edge, full of eagerness and fear from a sleepless night

He raised his hand to wave goodbye, then blew a kiss from a palm of misery.

His hands held her tight in waist deep water, let her down and lifted her up white and wet

The hands of a dove descended to her braided hair as she received the gift of God’s own light.

She raised shaking hands, but on his turn embraced him tenderly.

At her first date they danced with a formal hand, a squeeze saying love,

Before his touch was replaced by a suitor’s stir beneath the crepe and lights.

He raised his empty hand to wipe away a tear, overwhelmed by his daughter’s beauty.

Slowly his hands filled her moving box, tremors of losing revealed

Her future in another state, she put her hands to the wheel and drove into the night.

He raised his hand to her slumbered space and opened a door to an empty bed’s solemnity.

It would be months until their hands touch again, his heart stroked by her absence.

At the veil and alter a kiss and a hug, yet another’s touch held her tight.

To a tin-canned tail he raised his silent prayers that new hands would honor her dignity.

Always his daughter she would be, though his tremored touch a mem’ry.

Those hands, large and rough, gentle in their touch, come back each day in might

When she raises her child high for all to see, their link to eternity.

"A Poetic Adventure"

#napowrimo - 20130406 - "A Poetic Adventure"

A poetic adventure

by David C. Price

From the shade of a cedar tree

In the valley below I could see

A clear view of a jabberwock

Galumphing down the city block.

It curved across the railroad track

Toward the children’s jumping jacks.

Oh my, how could this be

The children below were in P.E.

And didn’t see the danger lurk.

I turned a leaf to save the day

And found myself far far away.

In the valley below a baseball match.

Fans cheered as muddy tensions clashed.

Strike one, strike two the umpire yelled

But this time mighty Casey’s failed.

Oh my, how sad the scene below.

None are laughing, no one shouts

My little league heart is broken out.

I turn again some joy to find

When something rubs me from behind

But when I look there’s no one there.

A dusty coat and whiskers fill the air.

My milk is missing, my sandwich too.

This beast must have escaped the zoo.

Oh my, how strange this feeling is

Of things which are but I cannot see.

Could it be the mysterious Macavity?

A quick breeze moves me from far to near

From the flutter of pages new scenes appear

I glimpse wild geese, a purple cow, a shoe,

A snake, a hippopotamus, and thing two.

In the distance a gentle ring grows louder

As mother’s dinner bell calls me home.

My moose and I rise off the duff

And climb the dusty trail

Back to reality.

Grandkids - a cinquain poem

#napowrimo – April 5, 2013 – “Grandkids”

In celebration of day 5 of National Poetry Writing Month, here’s a cinquain poem.

Grandkids

By David C. Price

Grandkids

Are favorites

Of all God’s creations

What makes mine special is they’re from

My kids.

Attraction (D&C 84:45)

Attraction (D&C 84:45)

By David C. Price

Swimmers on a sandy beach.

Homeless and a barrel blaze.

Southbound birds.

Neon lit shoppers.

Wanderers with a full moon.

Moses’ burning bush.

A sailor’s star.

Dancers and a mirrored ball.

Flies around a porch light.

An evening campfire.
An opening night curtain rises.

Wisemen looking east.

A Boy Scout’s mirror on a distant hill.

Children in a TV trance.

A darkened movie theater.

A night baseball game.

February groundhogs.

Mahonri’s stones.

Astronomers on a cloudless night.

Aurora borealis.

Fourth of July Fireworks

A candle-lit dinner.

Farmers at sunrise.

A wise virgin’s lantern.

Joseph in the grove.

Moroni’s bedroom visit.

Kirtland’s dedication.

A Liberty jail window.

The Nauvoo Temple at sunset.

My soul to Christ.

I Knew It from the Start

#napowrimo 4-3-2013

I Knew It from the Start

By David C. Price

My father was a spy.

I knew it from the start.

He left each day in a German Bug,

And returned again each night.

My father was in the FBI.

I knew it from the start.

He went to protests and watched the crowd,

And talked with migrant farm hands.

My father had Swiss bank accounts.

I knew it from the start.

He lived and studied in Geneva,

And hid some francs at home.

My father knew the Kennedys.

I knew it from the start.

Bobby came to our house, I learned,

When running for president.

My father was a tennis champ.

I knew it from the start.

He hit the ball so fast and hard,

No one could defeat him.

My father was a carpenter.

I knew it from the start.

He built our house from scratch,

And ripped and stained like no one else.

My father was a railroad man.

I knew it from the start.

He knew each car by name,

And whence they came and went.

My father was a brilliant man.

I knew it from the start.

He named the birds and trees and plants,

While driving in the car.

My father was just like his dad.

I knew it from the start

They both were giants in the land,

And now a giant I must be.

I didn’t know that from the start.

Window Stains

#napowrimo - 2013-04-02

Window Stains

by David C. Price

Darkness within envelops,

concealing private pain.

Lost virtue and youth,

entering eternal inferno.

Bruised knees and salty tears

offering no reprieve.

Hard seating for a soul

seeking salvation.

A corner candle flickers,

lifting light until consumed

By yellows, blues, and reds

descending from above.

Panes of expiation

restoring strength and hope

Morning’s star rescues me.

One stain shattering another.

Rehearsals

#napowrimo 2013-04-01 

Rehearsals

By David C. Price

The baby weighed at the hospital.

The babysitter at the door.

Playing in the neighbor’s yard.

Sleepover at a friend’s house.

Boarding the bus for the first day of school.

Camping in a friend’s back yard.

Loading the back pack for the overnight trip.

Bus ride to the away game.

First date.

Choir trip to Disney World.

Post-graduation all night party.

Summer road trip.

Move-in day at college.

Working during spring break.

Christmas with in-laws.

College graduation.

A job in a distant town.

Missing the Sunday phone call.

The wedding march.

The honeymoon trip.

The end of a family reunion.

A birthday phone call goodbye.

Grandfather’s funeral.

The worst phone call ever.

The hospital visit.

Amazing Grace.

The graveside.