In  response to David Egger’s satirical novella,
 The Captain and the Glory: an Entertainment, I present:

A Look Behind the Curtains at the The Certains of Girdton
(a Dr. Seussian-style allegorical assessment of America’s heartland)
by Barbara Sue Andrus Blackhurst an Advisor to President Donald J. Trump

Now the Certains of Girdton kept things under wraps;
never let things tear loose, burst their seams, widen gaps;
always kept things in check, zipped their lips, held their peace;
made sure things were  proper, controlled, on a leash.
They were neither free spirits, nor puffed up by pride,
They deplored things indulgent, never sought a free ride.
You would not call them cut-ups for their minds were not light.
They were not jerked by cravings. They called things black and white.
All their pasts were unsullied, and their motives were clean.
They moved onward and upward, with minds clear and keen.
They dined upon Truth.  Their convictions were sure.
They rallied to standards kind, noble and pure.
They avoided all bribery, for bribes were unseemly.
And they never did anything spiteful or meanly
or low-down or common or lame or pathetic.
Their brain-waves were tuned to things pure and poetic,
which is why they were joyful, engaged,  energetic.
There was Truth in their wisdom and light in their steps,
and harmonious lines filled their minds while they slept.
To make sure that their judgments were honest and fair;
their decisions were prefaced by fasting and prayer.

When things catastrophic came into their lives,
they chose to stay calm and composed and act wise.
They never would brown-nose, nor kiss-up, nor  flatter
nor flirt with temptations that might make them fatter,
or lead to infections of kidneys or bladder.
For they knew in the end they would feel a lot sadder.
They relied upon principles, standards, and pledges
to keep them from sliding off steep canyon ledges.
They were bounded by laws  that were proven and centered,
and they all worked as one to make sure those who entered
their land known as Girdton were approved by a card
which confirmed they were true, or removed by a guard.
If removed, they’d return when they’d passed all the tests
which allowed them to live as full Certains, not guests.
Yes! The Certains of Girdton were all of one mind
and that mind was inclined to be gentle and kind;
was rarely disturbed, never angry or brooding.
So given were they to ejecting, excluding
anything that might vex them, might cause them to stumble,
might sever their tethers, cause  moorings to rumble;
that gentle civility reigned unrestrained.
The will-power of Certains was so well contained,
that the land known as Girdton in majesty reigned.

Then a Mullet of Bullet somehow ascertained
an impaired  underbelly, an underground hole
and into this passage he silently stole.
He implanted himself as an alien mole;
a blower of whistles which did not need blowing;
a cutter of grass-lands where cattle were lowing
and chewing on grasses in lieu of grass-mowing.
At their passing of gas, he was clearly perturbed.
Their flatulence must not remain undisturbed.
Such natural expulsions must clearly be curbed!

Under cover of night he began to untether
Girdton’s wraps, and their check points, their notes showing whether
this person was certified-- had shown he was not
some drug-dealing pervert who’d crept in uncaught.
With this Mullet let loose in uncertain disguise,
the land began heaving and giving off sighs
as its laws became riddled with loop-holes and lies.
Yes. The land grew unsteady; it seemed quite distraught
for something repugnant, some nebulous blot
was blasting its airwaves with radical rot.
This rot, filled with things which were blurry and gray,
began fogging standards, began bearing sway
in this nation from which things like smoke screens were blocked.
A fissure developed  beneath Girdton’s rock.
Deep, dark, dank and dirty this fissure kept growing.
The Mullet was cunning; no trace of him showing.
Yet his tails with their tendrils, his sharp pointy horns,
his heels which were pitted with deep-slashing thorns,
kept slashing agendas, kept  secretly throwing
a pall over Girdton, its murky mists growing.

The clouds above Girdton were forecasting storm
and nothing to Certains seemed cozy and warm.
Instead there were scary and frightful predictions
of down turns, recessions, confirmed by evictions.
It was into this setting of things going sour,
that a bombshell demolished the land’s tallest tower.
Then a battle ensued as a contest for power,
and a rumor was raised that a wolf in sheep’s skin
had somehow, through stealth and deception, crept in.
Yes. The marks of the beast had been sited for sure;
Girdton’s statutes, for one thing, were growing impure.
This was proof that a wolf, with a bunch of his cronies,
were handing down laws filled with phony baloney.
Mullets occupied benches quite stealthily placed
to accomplish a coup, and they did it bold faced.
Their underground network designed to erase
all the moorings that tethered the land’s constitution,
set things all akimbo, invoked  devolutions.

Now the sensible Certains found this really revolting.
But what should they do?  They deplored things insulting.
Things that smacked of a fight,  or a scene of contention,
to Certains were banished, were deplored, never mentioned.
Nonetheless they would not stick their heads in the sand.
With mischief afoot, they would rise up and stand.
So they gathered their forces, and smelled out the mole,
then calmly established their paramount goal,
before it caused death, they must  root out this cancer.
They must do it at once!  Surgery was the answer.
Yes! Alternative values which Mullets embraced,
must be plucked in a way that completely erased,
their malevolent toxins which, should they increase,
would cause Girdton to fail.  Bring on war.  End their peace.
Wolfie must  be expelled with his faux-card and fleece!

With scalpel and scissors they carefully chopped
making sure the financial hemorrhaging stopped.
In their homes and their parlors the Certains increased
their allegiance to things that they knew had released
the powers that had made and preserved them a nation
had blessed them with long-lasting peace and  salvation.
They battened down  hatches, one- by-one made it clear
they could not be befuddled, nor crippled by fear;
that the ways of the Certains were not going to change;
that life would go on in their home, on the range,
as it always had done, nothing novel nor strange
would level foundations that on heart-strings were sown;
foundations that had with the Light of Truth shown.
These had, in the trying times, passed every test
to assure that with freedom each Certain was blessed.

What was done without sword or the use of a bullet,
confirmed that the land could get rid of a Mullet
without raising a voice or an ax or a mallet.
It was peacefully done by a mark on a ballet.
And the quiet, but resolute guard on the tower
who sealed up the holes where the Mole got his powers.
And the man whom they voted to stand at their head
did not look upon Mullets or things that they said
as something to cause him to tremble with fear.
He was, in a word, a bold man, with no peer.
A man of few words, but a man of conviction
who looked upon Girton and made this prediction:
that the land know as Girton would once more be strong
by returning to values that had for so long
been bulwarks for vanquishing bastions of wrong.

Entitlements, hand outs, gratuitous  perks
were replaced by belt-tightening, thrift and good works.
Sustainable energy flowed in the veins
of Certains whose labors ignited their brains.
Their renewable fuels, know as Study and Work
were once more enthroned, not dumbed down  by a perk.
These fuels gave the Certains competitive edges.
They steered them through land mines, ‘round quick sands, passed ledges.
Where  tumults  of lies, double-speaking,  gang-banging,
had left the land’s laws by the sheerest  threads hanging,
the guards on the towers and the voters at polls,
used means both pure and civil for flushing out moles.
Leaning hard on their moorings, the Certains made clear
that God’s roles for His children were things to revere.
The Certains found Truth, underneath what appeared
to be cesspools and eddies of muddied up hopes
which ended in  life-styles that mimicked the soaps.

The Truth was quite clear, quite direct, quite unsullied;
not entangled by compromise, not apt to be bullied.
In homes and in tea-parties, in small institutes,
the Certains retrenched. They rose up from grass roots
to re-bar their foundations, to engage new recruits;
in enshrining old values, giving virtues  reboots;
virtues that championed stellar behavior
virtues they’d learned from their Lord and their Savior.

With these virtues in vogue, all the Certains rejoiced
As they watched  Lady Liberty rise to give voice
to the standard:  “no slandering person, who flatters,
shall ever indoctrinate, threaten nor shatter
the Truth; for Truth is that liberty which sets men free.”
The Certains of Girdton knew Liberty’s Tree.
They knew life from  death--were pro-life, not pro-death.
They knew that  pro-choice smelled of Mullet’s bad breath.
Yes. The Certains of Girdton knew truth when they saw it.
They knew the beast too and had ways to declaw it.

Thus, the once-mighty Certains, freed of moles and addictions,
returned to their moorings, their long held convictions
that things held in check, tethered down, and kept leashed,
were Republican means for restoring lost peace.

Emma’s Song

Let me tell you why I wrote Emma’s Song.

In 1990, when I was expecting my 10th child, Matthew James, I was asked by our stake Relief Society President to write a vignette of the first Relief Society to be performed at the stake Relief Society Conference.  She gave me a copy of minutes of that first meeting and I was impressed with many of the statements made by the sisters.  I did my best to put together a vignette worthy of that historic gathering where the key was turned for the sisters of the church.

The Vignette was generally well received. However, a member of the stake presidency approached me afterward and asked me why I had not included Emma Smith in the play.  Emma was  the wife of the prophet Joseph Smith and first president of the Relief Society.  I told him I had not found any lines from her in the minutes that were comparable to the ones I had chosen to share.  I did not tell him I was not happy with Emma, whose legacy for her children had to me been disappointing. Unlike her sister-in-law, Mary Fielding Smith, Emma had not followed the prophet Brigham Young to Utah, nor raised her children in the church, but had married a non-member and supported those who established The Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day-Saints with her son at the head. I found the legacy unacceptable.

This was in the spring of 1990.  In the summer I give birth to my son, Matthew James.  He died 5 days later and I was given just a glimpse into the pain and suffering that had characterized much of Emma’s life.  She had not only lost children in death, but had seen her husband tarred and feathered, and persecuted by those who had once been his friends.  She had seen him take on other women as wives in plural marriage, and had heard Brigham Young, the new prophet of the church, cast disparaging comments on her.  She had stayed behind the saints as they migrated west under Brigham Young’s banner.  She had lingered in Nauvoo to take care of an ailing mother-in-law and to pick up the pieces of her life after her husband’s martyrdom.  The crosses she had been given to bear were heavier by far than anything that I had ever borne, and I began to think that perhaps I had judged a woman whom I knew nothing about unwisely and unrighteously.

Several years passed and I met a relative of the Hales, a descendent of the family of Hales of which Emma was a member.  This woman, Rada Matthews, was very proud of Emma.  Rada radiated a light and a love for all people. She was especially kind to me.  I wondered if Emma had been like Rada as she had ministered to the new converts as they came to the Nauvoo House.  Certainly there was something redeeming about Emma that had drawn the young prophet Joseph Smith to take her for his bride.  Stories were told that on her death bed she had reached up her hand and cried, “Joseph, Joseph.” Was there hope for Emma? Had Joseph come  to welcome her into eternity?

I decided I needed to revisit Emma, not in a play, but in a poem, not in a spirit of judgment, but in a spirit of reconciliation.  I would put it to the words of a hymn because she had put together a book of hymns. I would use the hymn, “We Ever Pray for Thee, our Prophet Dear,” as they music behind the lyrics, and I would pray for me, to be forgiven for judging unrighteously, and for Emma, that the Lord would look with mercy upon her.  This is the poem: It is to be sung as a duet between Emma Smith and Jesus Christ.

Emma Smith:   When in the realms above prayers enter in,
My prayers are filled with love for mercies given.
In humble penitence I seek thy throne
Where wisdom meted out trials foreknown.

O’er me a family, sun, moon, and stars
Beacons me home to them through din of wars.
Round me a shroud appears covered in gray,
Then comes a voice of peace ,

Jesus Christ: “Be not afraid.
My love shall carry thee through stormy blasts,
Borne as on eagle’s wings till night is passed.
Homeward thy spirit comes out of the clouds
With songs like lightening broken and bowed.

Tears like torrential rains stain thy poor face,
As one so meek and low bows in disgrace.
For a small moment sin weighs like a stone
As at the judgment seat all is made known.

None knows what lies within, no man can judge
Save one who knows thy heart, who’s kept in touch
I thine afflictions saw, thy sorrows bore,
Hear what I say to thee, ‘Go sin no more.’

Hilltops may be removed, mountains depart
My covenants made with thee shall peace impart
Though comforts flee away, youthful dreams die,
Hope hovers over thee, I hear thy cry.

Patience possess thy soul, all is not lost
Thy heart shall yet be calm though tempest tossed.
All of thy children shall be taught of me
Angels shall preach to them, Truth set them free.”

Emma Smith: Oh, Lord, who lends me life, lend me a heart,
Replete with thankfulness like David’s harp.
My soul ascends to thee on wings of Grace
As I from bended knees seek thine embrace.

No grief hangs over me thou hast not known.
No sin that grappled me left unatoned.
As thou hast been to me healer and friend,
My tongue shall honor Thee worlds without end.

After Matthew died, the Lord, in mercy, sent two  more children, Jessica Ruth and Nathaniel Andrus. With the birth of these children, I experienced the healing that comes from the power of the atonement to forgive sins. Though their names are not engraved on Matthew's headstone, they are engraved on my heart.  Emma's song is my song.  It is a mother's song for her children, that the power of the atonement will reach out and bless them wherever they are.

Let Angels Lift Your Wings to Free a Child Whose Temperament is Gentle, Meek and Mild

Unfold your wings. Be born again a child;

familiar as a newborn with God’s peace.

Let from your heart flow mercies, meek and mild.

Let their deep pathos and their sweet increase

through godly passions multiply your gifts. 

Let fullness of  fair beauty’s child set free, 

like strains of music reach out to uplift.

Let them be bread to succor hungry souls

Let them be tears that weep with those who mourn.

Let them be hands which reach deep down to pull

from depths, fair hopes which once from men were torn.

Let them be words which lift men from despair.

Let them be ears which hear and comprehend.

Let them be deeds which seek means to repair

the breach between the foe and would-be friend.

Let them be drink which quenches famine’s thirsts.

Let them be prayers that summon angels near.

Let them be smiles that with compassions burst

through deepening mists of grief, men's anguished tears.

Let them be joy where sorrows have been sown.

Let them be peace where fears did long reside.

Let them be beauty where no beauty’s known.

Let them be liberty where chains abide. 

Let those thus freed from bonds and scorns and chains,

look up and see the light of unfeigned love.

Let them be cleansed of sin and sorrow’s bane  

till they gain peace through mercies from above.

Let angels lift your wings to free a child  

through whom God works His mercies meek and mild.

Establish a House, Even a House of Prayer

 “If there’s some other way to gain experience,
Then grant that I may find that way.”
This was my constant prayer.  Unlike my peers
Who wanted to grow up, I would have stayed
A child in that vast Dome of Innocence
Where God preserves the Purest of the Pure.
He answered my request, “I send thee hence
My child to build thy home and to secure
Thy crown.”  The Father’s plan was this: I’d work
To build a home where He was known, where faith
And works made sure foundation stones, where words
Were more than sounds on air.  They were the lathe
And plaster holding up the walls.  To bear
Up Truth, experience became the stairs.

Each step in agency was laid–most whole,
Some half, most up, some down, but none a platform
Made.  I found that windows were the goals
I’d framed.  Most held God’s light; a few had slats
That darkened them, but in the nursery drapes
Were folds of fun. The outside walls were
Variously done.  Steel frames and fire escapes
Ascending up witnessed my constant prayer
For strength to be prepared.  Rock walls held out
The elements.  Weak joists fell prey to bores
And mouse’s holes and yet there rose about
That home the dome I long had labored for.
And though my home’s no castle in the air,
The Purest of the Pure are sheltered there.

This I Believe:

How beautiful are dreams that have great powers,

when glimpsed as blooming buds from fallen flowers.

I’m a cracked mirror reflecting all that I have been,

so how can I become brand new? Let me

propose that there is more than mere descents

to cracked and fallen things. Falls hold complexities.

It’s my belief, we fall to rise again.

We make mistakes and we repent of them.

Repentance is what makes what’s been a fall,

become a call to rise, to change, to be

one turned around, to grow new shoots and in

the process find our roots have not

forsaken us. Their essence lives within.

Unbounded is the firmament and we,  beneath, are no less free.

Under an open sky, we see nature’s astir with new awakenings.

It breathes the breath of fire that’s turned to wind,

as do repentant souls who once had sinned.

As fallen pedals blend into earth’s soils, they’ve wrought       

a change, brought nourishment to roots of budding plants.

The soul which blooms is nourished by the thoughts

which in remorse, it’s dropped.  The circumstance

is one which we observe. The wrinkled bloom which  falls,

has hit a nerve, becomes the nourisher of brand new buds.

We too can bloom in recognition of 

that plant’s rebirth.  It lives not in the tombs of what once was,

but in awakenings that breathe of faith’s  ascensions out of death.  

Be unashamed to bury the old you.  Be done with him! Become brand new. 

Let your old man breathe out on flaming winds the times you fell.

Nurture repentance till with Mercy’s ransomed ones you come to dwell

as an unblemished alabaster bloom whose mastered passion burst from Triumph’s womb.

Mr. Frog Prince

Mr. Frog Prince tell me why

you change your ways to catch a fly.

Your charms, it seems, go underground.

You cease to hippy-hop around,

and use your lovely ribbet sound.

You hide that song and dance routine, 

to turn into a sly machine.

You float about on pad of lily,

looking really rather silly;

eyes agog, and mouth agape,

tongue just waiting to escape

out your mouth when buzzing sound

lets you know a fly’s around.

Out pops your tongue and down the hatch

goes your latest mid-day catch. 

Your diet, sir, unmasks your air,

for being suave and debonaire.

If a true frog-prince you’d become,

I recommend you hold your tongue.

The Soul Takes Wing on Ashes of its Former Self

How gratefully I rise to greet the dawn
in glory rising on another day.
The shades of past mistakes are all but gone.
New vistas share their promise which conveys
not only hope that past is past, but that
there rises now in richness, wakenings
of mind and body framing welcome mat
to resolutions made.  



The soul takes wing on ashes of its former self.
In depths of pain, and sickness and disease, much wrestling
can bring forth new resolve; to make a gain
of restless nights and of that suffering
which humbles and in crucibles refines.
That soul which bursts asunder linings cast
for pathogens through purges which align
repentant’s urge with pure and cleansing fasts,
leaves prison house to try out wings of wars;
lays claim to Suffering’s means to healing cures.