The Parable of the Merciful Gardener (Luke 13.6-9)

The gardener who in the vineyard works,
one day the owner asked him to explain:
“The past three years, I come here seeking fruit.
This fig tree from production still abstains.

“Why should it waste the precious dirt this way?
I’m now suggesting that you cut it down.”

Instead, proposing this alternative,
the dresser of the vines described its ground:

“Sir, one more year, the soil around its roots.
Aeration, and manure I will apply.
If once again, no fruit appears next year,
I’ll cut it down, throw it into the fire.”

An Argument For Self-Regulation of Attorneys (a poem inspired by Comment [11] of the Preamble to the ABA Model Rules)

The state possesses great authority
at law, and power is abused sometimes.
Abuse is challenged most effectively
by that profession when it’s not the state
on which the right to practice law depends.

The Legal Profession Should Serve the Public Interest (a poem inspired by Comment [12] of the Preamble to the ABA Model Rules)

Profession, relative autonomy.
Self-governance, responsibility.
In regulation, public interest served.
No furtherance of those parochial,
self-interested concerns held by the bar.

“Lawyers play a vital role in the preservation of society” (a poem inspired by Comment [13] of the Preamble to the ABA Model Rules)

Lawyers must preserve society.
Their role is what this vital interest serves.
Fulfillment of this role requires this:
a thorough understanding of the Rules
that govern that relationship between
the lawyers and the system that they serve.

Mike

I cried a little with these memories.
I met you first when I was seventeen.
You, forty then, an age discrepancy.
They mattered not, those sev’ral years between.

The hours I drove for you behind your wheel.
Discussions that would never make me snore.
You told me how to use a vegetable.
Zucchini, in a way not heard before.

Your women, those relationships described.
Despite your art, were strongly hetero.
You open, honest, how I would define.
A young adult, I, stuck in utero.

To south of Lockhart, back and forth we go.
Your family’s farm, the cows that you would feed.
The city as the only place I know.
Exposure to some basic husbandry.

Your humor and irreverence displayed.
Would tell me of that beast most mythical:
Hilocometoot, not Sasquatch (so clichéd).
You father’s bedtime tales, original.

On our first trip, menudo was your rave.
The rest’rant, Mexican, where we had stopped.
An opportunity to me you gave.
The stomach-turning tripas, onions chopped.

Your humor made me, from my shell, emerge.
My laughter at your charming, clowning ways.
Now for a while, our paths seem to diverge.
Eternity, together all our days.

I used to cry each time I thought of you.
On this side never would I see again.
The dearest friend of mine I ever knew.
You stood alone, unique, this world of men.

The method of your leaving, no disdain.
Six years ago from this world did depart.
Your own life took, the overwhelming pain.
I found today you living in my heart.

Forgot how much, Scarlatti, you enjoyed.
He wrote sonatas similar to Bach’s.
For solo piano, instrument employed
to make your music. Joy, that you unlocked.

This ancient author of melodic verse.
Appreciation, now, I understand.
The many hours, for concerts, you rehearsed.
Each Christmas time, inviting all your friends.

Biography of Horowitz upon your shelf.
His album that I’m playing while I write.
Scarlatti played no better than yourself.
To my trained ear, the differences are trite.

Your seizures, at the keyboard, were allayed.
Your padded Steinway bench I have still haunts.
In Greg’ry Gym you saw Van Cliburn play.
You told your dad, a seat like that, your want.

Ascending scale, reminds us of our goal.
The resurrection where you are for sure.
The life you lead to me was charmed and full.
From minor turns to major, Christ our cure.

The Thief On The Cross (Rhyming Luke: Chapter 23.38-43)

With Jesus, too, were two thieves crucified.
The crowd, their insults, loud, hurled up at them.
One thief, as well, at Jesus, this he cried:
“If you, the Christ, then rescue us condemned!”

The other, in rebuke, to him these words:
“Do you fear God? Our sentences are just.
This man, his sentence, not what he deserves.
An innocent, the Romans should not touch.”

Continuing, these words, he desp’rate plead:
“My Lord, your kingdom, when you realize,
remember me.” Responding, Jesus said
to him: “This day with me in paradise.”