The Purpose Of The Moon

 What is the purpose of the moon,

to give the sailor tides?

Or is it to make the lovers swoon

in its fragile glow where grace abides?

Is it perhaps a beacon

for those who travel in the night

that they find what they are seeking

beneath its lime-green light?

What did the Good Lord have in mind 

when He fashioned it in space?

Is it there so we might find

lost history of this Earthly place,

or does He rest there for awhile,

watching us with loving smile?

Two notes...furst, the lime-green light reference alludes to Frederick Remington's discovery that nocturnes could only be made convincing by giving moonlight a lime tinge.

Second, the moon's selenography preserves...perhaps...the primordial history of Earth, erased by aeons of weather.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is WORSHIP.

I knew a dude who worshipped nights

in the glowing of the moon,

smoked weed to see some holy sights,

and I thought he was a loon,

'cause that big block of green cheese 

that circles in the sky

can't give grace or sweet release 

however hard the stoners try

to make it way more than it is,

some night-time personality,

run by some weird Oz-like wiz

all caught up in banality.

But if that is where they wanna go,

well, it ain't my rodeo.

Sylvia likes the moon. Its light reminds her of vanilla ice cream.

 

The Beat Of Angel-Wing (Tell His Story)

 

I'm not sure how much longer

I can still go on.

Cancer's getting stronger 

instead of getting gone,

but I still enjoy my days

as long as I remain,

arms upraised in thanks and praise,

and singing through the pain.

I would not change anything,

for each hour's treasure.

I hear the beat of angel-wing,

a blessing beyond measure

that reminds me of the Home

to which, one day, I will be goin'.

Sylvia likes angela, especially when they bring ice cream.

 

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Wishing On A Star

Barb got me flowers for Valentine's Day!

To wish upon a star is wrong,

for stars are balls of burning gas

with lives that are so very long,

but one day they will pass

into God's eternity,

where they will be transformed,

and there we all will truly see

that Heaven is adorned

with lighthouses of the sky

that call with friendly voice

across a night that that you and I 

may through and rejoice 

the decision made that day on Earth

to accept our Lord's rebirth.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is BUT. So have a seat, hahaha.

Neil deGrasse Tyson

and dead Carl Sagan too

always have been fightin'

to strip your faith from you

by saying that the night-time sky

is so very, very large 

that there could hardly be one Guy

who made it all and is in charge

of this multitude of matter

and entropying energy.

Surely that must shatter

any belief in such as He?

But I just laugh and turn away

to see a baby born just yesterday.

Sylvia likes to lie on her back and look at the Milky Way. It reminds her of ice cream.

 

Courage (Tell His Story)

 Why, pray tell, do some rush in

where angels fear to go?

Is something there that they might win,

a prize we cannot know,

we the stolid men of earth,

who plow our heavy days

from the morning of our birth

until our evening haze?

What calls the brave we might call fools

unto their destiny?

What makes them scoff at homely rules

that rule the likes of me,

and in mad courage will they stand

with heads unbowed at God's right hand?

Sylvia is the bravest of the brave, especially when ice cream is the reward.

 

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Heaven Is Like Barbara

So I went to Heaven a couple of nights ago. Pain that had me screaming, Barb didn't know what to do, and I faded into the Reality.

Want specifics? Light and colour and dancing and music, angels and friends and anticipation. A blue sky and a sandy warm beach, cars and aeroplanes (running, yes, on gas).

And God. He is not the picture, He's the pigment and the binder and the canvas and the brush, and the frame and the wire for hanging, and the nails in the wall on which portrait is hung.

It was disappointing to be sent back, but there had to be a reason, maybe just to give assurance that Heaven is a real place, a place that when you get there, you'll know that you've always known it, and you'll know that it's always new and surprising.

I mean, didn't Jesus say, "Behold, I make all things new?"

Heaven's what you always knew,

but surprising, just like life,

so I guess, when day is through,

that Heaven's like my wife,

whom I had met before we met

(I'm sure you understand),

whom I have learned so well and yet

is undiscovered land

with laughter hiding in the trees

and grace in every grassy swale.

She stands much taller on her knees 

than some tap-dancing whale,

and thus I know Heaven above

is mirrored by the one I love.

Heaven also has a soundtrack. Here's a typical song.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is NOISE.

I can hear a lot of noise

just beyond those pearly gates.

Sounds like Jesus and the boys 

have got a party on their plates,

with shouting, laughter, and more fun

than we ever saw on Earth,

which is maybe how the Son

shows us just what faith is worth.

There are no shrinking violets here,

no wallflowers stand in the shade,

for God has made it very clear

that on arrival here we trade

the hesitancy and the quiet

for a dancing, loving riot.

For Sylvia, vanilla ice cream is always new.

 

God's Duct Tape (Tell His Story)

 Sometimes upon the worst of days

when breath comes hard and painful,

that's the time to offer praise,

the time when it's most gainful,

not for brownie points, for sure,

'cause that's not how God works;

no, it makes the mind secure

against the spastic jerks

that befall the carnal man

in seeking an escape;

focused praise takes him in hand

to bind him in divine duct tape,

and places him on bended knee

where he can be truly free.

Sylvia kneels for God too, especially when He brings ice cream.

 

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A Prayer For The Dying

 I had something else planned for today, but I think a lament for the victims of the midair collision at Reagan National Airport in Washington, DC, is more appropriate.

A long time ago I collided with powerlines while flying a light aeroplane. While both the aeroplane and I were damaged, we remained flyable, and I had a chance to think about things on the way to a safe but weird landing at a local airfield.

The video footage I have seen makes it unlikely that anyone survived, and I pray the grace of God covered the victims with numbness as they fell from the sky. Last moments of clarity really, really suck.

Please close the eyes and minds and hearts

of those about to die

as the hold on life departs 

against a darkling sky.

Let not sharp fear be their embrace

in this last and worst of harms;

I pray they see Your smiling Face,

safe now in Your arms,

carried through the shining gates

and on the streets of gold

where a multitude awaits,

a warmth that fades the Earthly cold

and clothes them in garments that shine

which mark them as forever Thine.

Music from James Taylor, with Fire And Rain 

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is SECOND.

How much fits into a second,

can we really know?

Is it what we've always reckoned,

or is there something deep below

the pass of time that we assume,

the clock's infernal ticking?

Is there some possible room

for us to be picking 

the way we follow the broad stream

of God's river of will?

Is this viewpoint too extreme,

or is there somewhere a calm still

pool of beauty and time's grace

in which we see God's changeless face?

Sylvia admits that some things are beyond ice cream's power, and require God

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