When We Tolerate Hate (Tell His Story)

 The thugs with torches soon will come

for the despised Jew.

Next they'll take the Muslim,

and then they'll turn on you,

for we thought we should tolerate 

the thought with which we disagree,

even that embracing hate,

ignoring history 

that should have taught us discernment 

had we the wit to hear

without this misplaced sentiment

that long has been held dear,

the notion that beneath the skin

evil men are yet our kin.

Sylvia knows evil first-hand. She was abandoned to die with a broken leg and a dead puppy in her womb in a July Texas field.

  In the absence of music (Blogger won't let me link a video on my phone), here are a couple of things pictures of Sylvia, my blog's public face, on an ice-cream run.

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Gimli's Lament

Yes, I am an imposing person.

Not, unfortunately, Dwayne-Johnson-imposing.

With a height of 68 inches and a shoulder span of 28 inches, I look a lot more like Gimli

Athletics always were my thing,

a kind of comforting home port,

and I had a lot to bring

to most every contact sport

with its grunting and its sweat,

anxious doctor standing by,

but I say in truth I've yet

to see dudes messed up to die.

We all did this for its sake

'cause dames did not stand by to see

faces mashed, hear femurs break;

at the beach they'd rather be,

but when you're wide as you are tall

you just don't do beach volleyball.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is LIMIT.

Not feeling too well this morning, do may I offer a haiku?

Limitless skies of desert winter

surrender to warm haze

of spring.

Sylvia's short and wide too. She doesn't mind.

Taxing Times (Tell His Story)

 Render unto Caesar 

that which belongs to him

even when your empty freezer 

is looking pretty grim,

even when you don't agree

with your taxes' ute'lization,

'cause you've a mansion they can't see

as your final destination.

So simmer down effrontery,

go ahead and dial it back

even if the country 

is down the wrongest track,

and lift your heart and soul and eyes 

to His love, the greatest prize.

Music from the Bellamy Brothers, with Jesus Is Coming

Sylvia thinks all tax revenue should be spent on ice cream.

For her.

But she'll share.

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The Tears Of Captain America

I'm on oxygen now

So, it seems is my poor, belaboured country, the last Gulliver, set upon by Lilliputians.

If everything is possible

then nothing can be true,

then Styx is therefore crossable

for liberty is through.

If every fancy truly matters

and virtue is just taste,

then our Constitution's tatters,

and it was all a foolish waste,

the courage and the discipline

attending that which we held dear,

so pass the nitroglycerin

and run it into Lincoln's ear

to get behind each Rushmore face

and blow the thing to outer space.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is COMPLICATE. I'll keep it simple.

Republicans and Democrats

and Independents too

are haughty proud elitist cats,

nothing like me and you.

Term limits might have done the trick

way back in the day,

but those in power now will pick

a Xeroxed protegé.

The Founding Fathers roll their eyes,

and pour another gin,

for it is no surprise,

the trap that we are in,

accepting betters' simple tales

gifting us with complicated fails.

Five minutes, just. The last couplet was hard.

Music from Aaron Lewis, with Am I The Only One?

Sylvia is there, too. In almost any other country, she, an ailing Pit Bull, would have been left to die.

Not here.

Easter Hangover (Tell His Story)

Sorry this is a day late. Had some technical difficulties, and now need to be on oxygen much of the time.

 Easter Day has come and gone

and Jesus Christ is risen,

so why'd you think you still belong

in the same old prison?

He didn't suffer for your right

to a hurts-so-darn-good wallow,

which would make Good Friday night

a little hard to swallow,

so please don't ask JC to fix

that which He made new.

Old dogs, they can learn new tricks,

and Bubba, so can you,

so ditch the teary altar call

'cause you already have it all.

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The Sasquatch Beautification Project

The other day Barb was combing her hair in preparation for church, and I said, "Oh, it's the Sasquatch Beautification Project, eh?"

So I had to write the poem below as penance.

It's better than a full-body cast.

I have come to the conclusion

that eyes are privileged to see;

Barb must be optic delusion,

none can be lovely as she.

I thought that she was pretty hot

on the morning that we met,

a feeling that I'll truly not

be able ever to forget,

but now I am forced to say

that the years exert a cost

on all others every day;

compared to Barb their cause is lost,

and their envy makes them green

beside cutest Sasquatch I have seen.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ALREADY.

So have your dried your hair already?

C'mon, c'mon, you gotta go!

Just stand right there, still and steady,

and I will let the dryer blow,

but hey, there's lots of sparks a-flyin'

and the thing seems really dead,

but I know your hair needs drying,

and I have just the thing instead!

I'll just fetch my tanks and torch

and my trusty heating tip.

They're right out there on the porch,

I'll get them in and then let rip

and start you out upon your day

with hair that's dried the redneck way.

Three minutes thirty, and you're telling me you've NEVER done this?

Music from The Charlie Daniels Band, with The Legend Of Wooley Swamp

Sylvia is glad I didn't need a body cast. Bites don't heal well beneath plaster.

 

The Joy Of Sects (Tell His Story)

 There's Baptists and there's Nazarenes,

and Holy Rollers too.

There's Jesuits (the Lord's Marines!);

which one of them are you?

Are you feller bilong Pope

(that's Nugini Pidgin)?

Just where do you place your hope

in this Café of Religion?

I know, I know, our hope's in God,

and not in man-made scaffolding,

but we're human, and we're flawed,

and need a set of rules to bring

us to that mighty Throne of Grace

with courage left to see His Face.

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