Waiting Game

The red tape is there for a good reason, but it sure takes a while to run it all out. Months will go by before the 501(C)3 will be approved, if it is approved at all. We will move forward to achieve the goal, in any case, but raising funds is so much more difficult without the 501(C)3 status.

In the meantime, in just a few days, the illustrations will be finished and the manuscript submitted to the publisher.

Here are a couple of the latest songs:

Now’s the Time

There is no end to all the good things that we want
There is no end to all the treasures that we see
And if you strive enough you can be
All you want to be….

But it’s not time to be everything you want
It’s not time to do anything you dream
Although we’re free to try anything
It isn’t what we’re born to do now
And it isn’t how to serve our King

There is no end to all the people who need you
There is no end to all the sadness that we see
And if you strive enough you can be
What He needs us to be….

For now’s the time to do everything He dreams
Now’s the time to warn everyone He loves
Now’s the time to call them to be
All He wants us all to be
Now’s the time we must serve our King


Ask Him to Make You Wise

Despair and sadness fill the world
Enveloping humanity
Lives succumb to deprivation
Persecution and starvation.

But the answer to their pain
Lies in our Father’s hand
He has told us what to do
How to help our fellow man.

Many cannot help themselves
They require our aid
Can you bring yourself to give
So your brother yet might live?

I could tell you what to do
But if you have God’s Spirit too
Ask Him to open your eyes
To let you see and make you wise.

Yes, life ensues beyond the grave
For each one who has been saved
Life like we have never known
Treasure we can call our own.

But the question still remains for me
As to who throughout eternity
Will enjoy eternal blessing
If when he saw his brother sinking
Closed his eyes
Turned away
Heard his cries
But didn’t say
Don’t despair, God is there
And I am here for you.

Don’t close your eyes
Don’t turn away
Hear his cries
And to him say
Don’t despair, God is there
And I am here for you.


Today the paperwork was submitted to found End Starvation Foundation, Inc., to feed the starving and transform the world for God’s glory. It is time to transform the world. The cure is to care.

We eat what we wish
They eat what they must
We lie down quite full
They cry in the dust
The tears on their cheeks
Convict and accuse
While nothing we do
Could ever excuse
The failure
Our failure to care
It wouldn’t take much
A little would do
To transform the world
Into something new
A little, no more
From each who could give
So those who now die
Could eat well and live
All it takes
Is for each one to care


Make Amends

Make amends for your sins
Make amends for your crimes
Don’t you know we are living
In perilous time
When we need to use well
Every ounce of the mind
And the spirit in order
To finally find
The answers to why
We were ever brought here
As the time’s growing short
While the end’s drawing near.

We have all fallen short
Of perfection and so
Need to make better choices
In order to grow
Into what we were always
Expected to be
Beings willing to serve
Throughout eternity
Slaves to righteousness
Serving our God night and day
Forever till
Heaven and Earth pass away.

Stop and think, look ahead
On the road you are on
Opportunity flies
All your time will be gone
Which you could have used well
In the struggle to be
What God wants us to be
Throughout eternity
Makes amends for your crimes
Make amends for your sins
So you’ll see the real life
When it finally begins.

Every day is a challenge
Every day brings travail
In this war in our being
We sometimes do fail
But in every case
It’s our job to decide
To do what is right
In his Spirit abide
Where we’re blessed in his love
As we’re kept in his hand
In his grace we remain
In his favor we stand.

If that’s not where you are
It is by your own choice
But if you want to hear
You can hear his own voice
Which can guide you to be
Where you should be today
Stop and listen before
Your time has flown away
Put his righteousness first
Leave your old self behind
And I promise that life
Love and peace you will find.

There is nothing so fine
As his Spirit in you
And He wants to live there
But He needs you to do
What his true love requires
Which requires that you
Warn the world, feed his sheep
And be vigilant, too
For whatever instruction
He might sometime give you
To fulfill his will
As we were designed to.

He is willing to help
In your struggle today
But He does not insist
That you follow his way
That leads to true life
As it is meant to be
That brings blessing now
And through eternity
You are still free to live
In rebellion and pain
But your life you will lose
Though the whole world you gain.

He is willing to help
But you must choose his way
To follow his standards
And not go astray
To remain in his love
To seek peace and forgive
And to live in the way
Those in Paradise live
He is willing to help
Through his Spirit of grace
But it first falls to you
Righteousness to embrace.

There’s nothing impossible
For God to do
He is willing to move
Earth and Heaven for you
He loves even sinners
And so gave his Son
To open the way
For his will to be done
He is calling you and
He has opened the door
To salvation, so do not
His compassion ignore.

Justice requires
That no evil reside
In any place where
God’s sons will abide
In peace and in love
Where his Spirit will be
Imparting his light
Throughout eternity
True life is in Him
And this life can be yours
But it’s not for whomever
His justice ignores.

A small clarification: Despite the lyrics of this song, we cannot “make amends” for our sins to gain salvation by doing good works. We do good works because we agree with God that we were created for good works. We are given the gift of salvation by his grace through our faith, following our having come to understand that we needed to convert to his way of righteousness. Then we do works out of gratitude, and because we see that we should. If in any way we “make amends” it is through following Jesus Christ. Ephesians 2:10, Hebrews 13:16, Matthew 25:31-46, etc.


Finally Getting Organized

We have five members and can finally incorporate the 501(C)3. The paperwork is being prepared for the incorporation now. Then the real work can begin. It will be interesting. God help us meet success according to his will. It is really exciting.

I have been writing more letters to potential major collaborators.

I hope the government accepts approves the incorporation.

I am getting over severe asthmatic bronchitis which slowed me down for a few days. Could hardly breathe for 5 or 6 days.

I will end with this song that I wrote in about 1976. It sounds great on banjo and should end with the closing bars of the Beverly Hillbillies Theme:


Burn my body when I’m gone, don’t pay the undertaker
Don’t say another prayer, don’t buy a fancy box
Just build a pyre high with a fire to the sky
And on my ashes place a little pile of rocks
Then once or twice a year, or if by chance you pass near
Place a flower or shed a tear

Burn my body when I’m gone, bring the cocoa and marshmallows
Don’t dress up all in black, like somber sorry fellows
Bring lots and lots of wood so I’ll burn really good
And take a good last look ’cause I won’t be comin’ back
Then once or twice a year, or if by chance you pass near
Place a flower or shed a tear

(Please be sure I am gone before you burn me.)

A Dollar a Day

Millions of children are dying right now
For lack of some beans or a bowlful of grain
The cost of survival’s so low but somehow
It seems that so few are aware of their pain.

I think that so few are aware because I
Prefer to believe they don’t know what goes on
Don’t know that so many poor people must die
Because they don’t have enough food to live on.

And I think that because the world isn’t aware
That for this sole reason the world doesn’t give
And that it’s not because they just do not care
That children are dying whom we could help live.

If the world knew the starving ones all could be fed
Sufficiently on what we daily discard
On some black beans and rice or a loaf of stale bread-
I know it’s not due to their hearts being hard.

I know that you will do what’s within your power
To transform the world at this critical hour
When one person in nine is now fading away
For the terrible lack of a dollar a day.

A dollar a day is what it takes to feed
A starving young child in this hour of need
For a dollar a day you could be that ones saint
Save his life, change his world, and end his lament.

A dollar a day you now throw away
A dollar a day you don’t need
But a dollar a day is a miracle
That all of the starving could feed.

A beautiful sunset bore witness today
Of one hundred thousand who faded away
Because they had nothing to drink or to eat
They starved slowly to death and fell at our feet.

Millions of children are starving to death
As one in nine people are starving on Earth
And we could save them all with a dollar a day
But we avert our eyes while they’re fading away.

Remember we’ll stand someday before the throne
Of the One whom these victims describes as his own
And his anger will burn as He judges those who
Did not feed his sheep as He told us to do.

Good News

It looks as though the incorporation can go ahead very soon. God is providing the required directors and the paperwork should be prepared in about a week. It looks like this will be called “End Starvation Foundation, Inc”.

I am taking one step at a time, not knowing where the path will lead, but only knowing that it is the right path, and that God will open the way before us to do the work He said we should do. I hope you will join in it, either with us or without us.

It is an exciting time. God is moving.

Stephen Bening introduced be to a musical group named Broken Walls, which I suggest you look up on Youtube. Try the songs Ride the Wind and Jesus Christ is Good Medicine and Song for the Creator.

I have been really busy

I have been really busy with a variety of things, some of which are not important enough to continue doing. I hope to very shortly incorporate the 501(C)3, so that the project that really matters most can get rolling. While we waste time in many things that ultimately mean little, the starving continue to die. Each of us is able to do something meaningful to bring an end to starvation, the one ongoing tragedy that could be eradicated, if we only really wanted to do it. We cannot say that about diseases, wars, crime, or other causes of human suffering, at least not in the same sense. So I will budget my time more wisely, and you do the same.


Fools and idiots abound
And lots of liars are around
Many of who fail to see
Of Jesus the reality
But teach about what they don’t know
And fulfill in doing so
The prophecies that said they’d come
With evil fruit and conscience numb.
Those wolves that often dress like sheep
Mislead the flock, but soon will reap
A cup filled with the wrath divine
For those who’d come to undermine
His holy purpose, where He forgave
All those whom He came to save.
God, have mercy on the dumb
But deal with all the lying scum
Who without conscience do defame
Those persisting in your name
To follow Christ and do as you
In righteousness would have us do.
Fools and idiots can be
Filled with wisdom and come to see
But prophets false who love to lie
And don’t repent will have to die
Not once but twice, and face the flame
For failing to respect his name.
God, have mercy on fools like me
And teach me your reality.


Life is good, but what is life?
Struggling with daily strife
While hanging on the tree of woe?
Oh, no, I really don’t think so.
Sometimes grief is in the heart
But we can choose the better part
Simply by remembering
That He will give us everything.
If we would see better days
We really must amend our ways
And do as He’d have us to do
Until our days on Earth are through.
The life we live we live to God
Until we’re placed beneath the sod
Later called to rise again
Rejoicing with obedient men
Rewarded with felicity
In life as it was meant to be.
But some prefer a punishment
Together with the arrogant
Who having no humility
Toss aside felicity
To hang upon the tree of woe
Just because they wouldn’t go
And enter by the narrow gate
Delaying till it is too late
Repentance from a life of sin
Which long they chose to remain in.
Any person could be saved
Despite how they might have behaved
If they have humbly walked with God
Before they’re placed beneath the sod.
Your body, you must realize
Before too long will fertilize
After you have lain in state
So wisely do not hesitate.
This very day you should repent
So you will not have to be sent
To where you gnash your teeth and weep
But rather where you get to keep
The blessings of joy, peace, and love
As promised by the Lord above.
The choice you make is up to you.
Choose life, before your life is through.

Stan Deman Meets The Man In Yonkers (A Christian Thriller)

By David L. Rosenthal

Stan couldn’t stand not having someone to torture, taunt or incite. So he got up and irritably began to plan a night of diversion. He did not bother to shave, change his underwear, or brush his teeth, as this night he was in a mood to blow dirty breath from an unkempt face at whoever he might meet and make uncomfortable. He did not have far to go.

Stan Deman was certainly not your typical piece of work, a very sly, witty, and deeply intelligent bugger from a perfectly stable background, having come from the best of families, with a loving, attentive father who displayed all the finest qualities, and brothers who naturally adopted them. But not Stan. Stan was…special.

The seedy, squalid hotel room in a Downtown brick low-rise in desperate need of pointing, lacking none of the trappings of filth and poverty that only the privileged enjoy, was not home, but merely his base of operations for these recreational outings that gave his existence meaning. He pulled the tattered, nicotine-impregnated drapes wide to gaze down from the third storey window, almost immediately finding what must become his first victim of the night. And his mood improved at once.

From his smiling lips emerged a cheery “Do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight!” And away he went, not bothering to close the door behind him, almost skipping down the stinking hallway with its drab threadbare carpet and its walls decorated with suggestive limericks hastily scrawled by some modern urban, Shakespearean tweeker. So joyful had he become that he carefully stomped forcefully on each step as he descended the noisy stairway, waking other residents who had become accustomed to this nightly signal that sadism once again had taken flight.

The stale, fetid air of the inner city was customarily suffocatingly hot and dank, just as Stan preferred it for his favorite avocational outings, as it set the proper tone, assisting to predispose potential victims to misery even before he could target them. And since the place appeared a bit too orderly for his taste, Stan overturned a few public waste receptacles, strewing the contents hither and thither, giving a final artistic touch to the setting. The night seemed just about perfect and he was just getting warmed up.

From the window of his sordid headquarters, Stan had seen his unsuspecting victim shuffle into the neighborhood greasy spoon, and knew that he’d delay there for at least long enough to swallow some of its finest bitter brew, complete with grinds, and who knew what else, let to spill carelessly into the grimy, chipped cup. (The nocturnal rats that prowled there, foraging for whatever remained of the day’s droppings, never failed to avoid whatever puddles of coffee remained unswabbed, recalling the ill effects it had previously visited on them.)

Shuffling toward that illustrious establishment in his best imitation of the feckless wretch on whom he had focused his merciless whim, Stan murmured softly to himself, “This one is truly lost in Yonkers.” And he glanced upward with a feigned look of winsomeness, lips slightly pursed, brows half frowned, and mock worry in his eyes, gently shaking his head. Then he sighed with exaggerated exhalation and strode energetically through the decrepit front door of what perhaps a century earlier might have been a decent family eatery.

The old fellow sat hunched over a bowl of what the menu classified as pottage, which appeared to contain more beans than anything else, a stale hunk of Italian loaf in one hand and a spoon precariously balanced in the other hand that shook noticeably as he brought it toward his puffy lips, as the ceiling fan caused the few wisps of longish, thin, gray hair to dance to and fro across his otherwise bald, freckled pate. Stan stood contemplating his prey with pleasure, repeating the same counterfeit gesture he had just made before entering the dive, though his inner self was licking its lips in anticipation of the gruesome chase about to ensue.

Then placing his bestial hand on the old man’s shoulder, Stan exclaimed in mock concern, “Morris?! Is that you? You look in terrible shape, my friend!”

The spoon fell from his hand into the bowl of bean soup, creating a splash that sent a spray of broth across Morris’ old blue blazer, that had been new when Chuck Berry began his career, and a tie that in no sense resembled anything but a rag. Morris stared in something approaching enervated consternation at the unknown intruder, who had interrupted his main meal of the day and soiled his best suit of clothes to boot.

“Do I know you?”, asked the aged fellow, now attempting somewhat futilely to soak up the spatter from his jacket and tie with a ragged cloth napkin of dubious color.

Stan did not at once reply, but stood shaking his head as though he had just witnessed a tragic event or heard that a friend had died. Then he slowly drawled, “Oh, Morris…I am so sad to see you in this condition,” and almost broke down in tears, lower lip trembling slightly, sniffling audibly, and then grasping the old man by the ears as he crushed him in a tight embrace that left Morris gasping for breath.

“Please let go of me! I don’t know you! Who are you?! Please go away!” stammered the frightened man, pushing back from Stan’s grasping hands, almost falling off the wobbly counter stool. Stan, hardly able to keep from exploding into guffaws, had to force his mouth into a downward frown that must have resembled a clown’s face.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry, Morris,” he said, gesticulating in apparent dismay, placing one open palm against his cheek. “It has been a long time, my friend…but I never expected to see you so close to death!” Morris’ mouth dropped fully open and his features twisted into an expression of undefined mangled emotion, so that Stan had now to drop his face almost parallel to the floor to hide his glee.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” mumbled Morris almost to himself. Abandoning his half finished supper, he placed a few crinkled dollar bills onto the counter and swiftly shuffled toward the door, with Stan in hot pursuit, almost floating over the old man like a harpie over a deathbed.

“Please, Morris, don’t run off like this! I only want to help you! I have been looking for you for weeks!” Stan followed Morris down the cracked, gray slate pavement, cajoling him to halt his retreat.

Morris’ curiosity got the better of him and so he stopped, against his better judgment, and turning to face Stan, already almost exhausted from the encounter and his attempt to escape it, asked, “Why have you been looking for me for weeks? I do not even know you! You must be insane!”

“Morris! Morris! Please!”, gasped Stan in the most forceful manner he could project. “Don’t tell me that you do not know your own grandchild!” Here Stan displayed perhaps the most artful semblance of horror that any student of Shakespeare ever has. Then supplicating he added, “Morris, please…don’t run off. I can see you are not yourself. Come up to my hotel room, and I will order some supper and explain everything.”

“You are not my grandson. I do not know you,” replied Morris in stiffly defiant undertones, eyes squinting as he stared directly into Stan’s, who hid his own intense delight behind a façade of concern. But once the words were spoken, Morris’ resolve faded with the last vestige of the energy he had summoned to face the madman. He now simply stood there, wondering how to get away, or what to do next. And Stan just savored the moment for a while, seeing victory approaching in the foreground. Life was good, indeed.

“Just come upstairs with me, Grampa,” Stan whispered tenderly. “You can eat and relax. You can have anything you want. It’s OK. I am here now.” Stan finally had to throw himself onto Morris’ shoulder and feign a forceful whimper to hide the outburst of laughter that he could no longer contain. Morris, staring wide-eyed at this bizarre stranger who clung to him with heaving movements of weeping (that unbeknownst to him was hidden laughter), gave up the struggle, telling himself that perhaps a free good meal, and maybe a bath, were worth tolerating this demented man who, after all, did not seem to present any danger. And maybe he could even convince him to send out his clothes to be cleaned. In any case, it did not appear that he had much choice in the matter. So up to the room they went.

As they climbed the dimly lit stairway together, and walked down the depressingly dingy hallway, Morris felt no specific concern, as a good deal of the time he had nowhere to stay, and other times he spent the night in places not as welcoming as this ramshackle hotel. In any case, his flight mechanism had already shut down from fatigue. His tired mind now focused on the promise of good food, good rest, and clean clothes. Maybe this chance encounter had turned out to be nothing less than an impoverished man’s windfall. He almost began to feel at ease.

No sooner did he shut the door to the disheveled habitation than Stan, as though he had read Morris’ mind, said, “Now Morris, get out of those dirty clothes so I can send them out to be cleaned,” which impressed Morris as a fortuitous turn of events and a harbinger of good things to come. “And tell me what you want to eat. I think we can do better than a bowl of…what was that anyway? You don’t eat that all the time, do you?”

The pottage of questionable origin was not Morris’ favorite dish, but due to economic considerations, it certainly was a regular part of his diet. “No, not at all. I was just in the mood for something light. But I am hungry now. I could eat a horse, I think. Do you think they have shrimp salad on rye with a salad on the side? With Thousand Island Dressing. And a couple of beers?”

A minute later he was handing over his outerwear, which Stan unceremoniously bagged as though disposing of a musty clump of dead chrysanthemums, handing it over to a young woman who came to collect it. “And please hurry with the order,” he said to her, winking conspiratorially as he closed the door. The young woman disappeared around the corner, and Morris’ clothes disappeared into the garbage can.

Now, as Morris sat back on the overstuffed couch, in discolored tank top and boxer shorts, wondering whether to bathe before or after the meal, and feeling as carefree as he had in years, Stan stood over him and, looking down into his eyes, said in a rasping voice that could have been a low hiss, “You know, old fool…I am not your grandson.” And then he smiled with obvious menace. Morris’ lightness dissipated instantly, as he found himself nearly naked and penniless in the hotel room of a hostile predator, who before his eyes had transformed from a benevolent, if eccentric stranger into what he now apprehended as an eager sadist. Reality had begun to set in.

Morris moved as though to stand and Stan swiftly slapped him with more than enough force to knock him back onto the couch, where he sat inert in wide-eyed horror, while over him Stan almost growled.

“Not so fast, my friend,” Stan sneered with mock amity. “We have only just begun. Just an hour ago we met, but you have yet to get to know me the way I wish to have you know me. Don’t be in such a hurry. We have all night.”

With that Stan grabbed Morris by the neck, lifted him easily up and spun him around like a broom and, dropping him face-down on the bed, bound his arms behind him with the top sheet. Then he flipped him over, lifted his ankles to the top of the headboard and, with another sheet, bound them to it, so that Morris lay uncomfortably face up, his arms tied under him, behind his back, as blood rushed to his head.. Stan then began to giggle as he yanked at the wisps that hung from Morris’ bare skull, but his reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. Pulling Morris’ thick cotton socks from his feet, he balled them up and shoved them into Morris’s mouth, patted him on the head, and turned to answer the knock at the door.

Taking the tray, Stan slammed the door with enthusiastic anticipation, and balancing it on one hand, as though he were an attentive waiter, strutted with feigned elegance to where his supine customer awaited. Morris trembled noticeably, watching Stan’s every move with trepidation. Sweat ran from every part of him. The taste of dirty socks nauseated him, as well.

“We are going to have a lot of fun, tonight, Grampa,” Stan sweetly sang, laying the tray down on Morris’ belly. “I have a long list of games to play and parts to pull.” Now he pulled Morris’ left ear till he squealed through the socks. “But first you should have a bite.” Now he bit Morris’ right ear, drawing blood and a long, pathetic, muffled wail. “I meant a bite to eat. How silly of me.” Morris began to cry quietly as he gently shuddered.

As Stan stood watching Morris weep and quake, he suddenly felt bored, and decided to search for a more challenging victim. Dropping his façade of humanity, Stan transformed into Satan, and becoming quietly somber, bent over far enough to whisper into Morris’ bloody ear in his normally grave, raspy voice.

“My friend,” he said, “You really bore me to tears, so I will put you out of your misery and find someone who’ll at least pretend to be a man, the torturing of whom perhaps might provide some pleasure. Flaying a wreck of a man is no challenge at all. The night is still young enough and shows much promise.” And with that he flipped open a rusty, old straight razor that often served as his tool of choice in finalizing executions.

“But at least we can make your departure a memorable one,” he quipped and, first pulling the dirty socks from Morris’ mouth, then grabbing Morris’ left ear, he lopped it off, with cold, conscienceless grace, leaving the pitiable old derelict screaming in pain and fright. In quick order the right ear joined the left on the blood-stained carpet. Then the nose. “Beg me to kill you whenever you’ve had enough.” Satan crooned in an acrid falsetto, lopping of Morris’ thumbs in quick succession.

“Pleeeeeeeeease,” Morris screamed, ‘Please end this!!” Satan smiled.

“Alright, dear man, alright.” And he drew the blade slowly toward the jugular that seemed almost to be trying to burst from Morris’ neck.

The end was imminent, but just as Satan was about to finish him, Morris began to laugh, a quiet, peaceful kind of chuckle really, as a wide, bright smile lit up his face like a streetlamp, as his countenance began to transform from that of a dried up old wretch into a virile young man in the prime of life. Satan was taken aback, and fell silent as his eyes bugged open in bitter astonishment.

The bonds fell from Morris’ limbs and he sat up in bed, pulled Satan’s face close to his own, and kissed him on both cheeks. Satan then began to weep and almost whimpered, “It is not fair. You have done it again.”

The person on the bed, now fully revealed as Jesus Christ, patted Satan gently on the cheek.

“I apologize, brother,” he said, almost in earnest, “but I cannot simply let you roam freely to abuse my sheep.”