Of Wives And Nicknames

Cancer's bad, and the best antidote is humour...in this case, thinking up nicknames for my dear wife.

 I shall now sing a hosanna

to celebrate my marriage luck,

for I am wed to Hambone Hannah,

Reigning Queen Of The Taco Truck.

She's faithful, kind, and gentle,

and cuts the fire-logs;

her faith is fundamental,

and she shares tacos with the dogs,

for they are her chosen fare

(she eats them by the bag),

and when you see her you will stare

for they do not make her figure sag,

so as a nickname, this one's fitter

than her previous, which was Critter.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is EXPECTATION.

I know what I now must face,

a fell dark expectation,

but I live in a state of grace,

and my heart holds elation

arising not from deep within,

but coming from above,

from the God who is my kin

and when push comes to shove

will be there to take my side

when life just gets too hard,

and I'll confront what will betide

with my Bodyguard

who at my final earthly breath

will take me home, defeating death.

Between five and six minutes. But better finished than not.

Music from Wall Of Voodoo, with 'Mexican Radio'.

Sylvia would rather have ice cream than tacos.

 

Not In Shame

On this Thanksgiving Day, I'm grateful for the end of pride.

I've had several bad falls lately, causing concussions, and now, while walking the dogs, I wear a hard hat. It looks dorky, but believe me, TBI is dorkier still.

If the poem seems familiar, it's because I wrote it as a comment for last week's Five Minute Friday home page, with the prompt HIDE.

It does say all I need to say.

Infirmity is something that

I would prefer to hide,

but now I wear a hard hat

when I walk outside.

My cancer'd leg will let me down,

so I won't be fussing;

even though I look the clown,

it's better than concussion,

and so I'd like to say to you

that there's no need for shame

in doing what you have to do,

just treat it as a game,

and go on with your head held high,

and bid your prickly pride goodbye.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is NOURISH. Alrighty then.

Each little congregation

is in a constant lurch,

so go ye, take your station,

and nourish your small church.

Take up a chosen ministry,

or go where you are sent

to serve, on Earth, Eternity,

and live the sacrament

of being hands and heart of Christ,

of spreading the good news;

some see it as sacrifice,

but you won't sing the blues,

for you'll see God's smiling face

when you're cheerful in your place.

Five minutes, plus a few seconds.

Music from Brewer and Shipley, with One Toke Over The Line.

Sylvia doesn't care if I look dorky. First things first, like ice cream.

 

In Praise Of Cows

We have cows. Not our own, mind; our home is on the open range, and cows regularly drift through to munch on the sage, and on the desert willow that Barb is trying to keep alive.

They play with the dogs, and will sometimes peer in through the windows.

And last winter, I slipped on a patch of ice, and couldn't get up. A cow ambled over to offer a horn, and pulled me to my feet.

I like cows.

I wandered, lonely as a cow

far from the madding herd,

banished, for I would not bow

to that which they preferred.

They got themselves in such a state

when I forswore my cud,

and chose, instead to liberate

the rancher's case of Bud.

What followed, to them, was more crass

in what was now evoked,

my saying, 'staid of eating grass

that it should perforce be smoked,

but my case was truly torn

by my tooting my own horn.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is HIDE. Ok.

Cancer came and done for me,

there ain't no place to hide,

and it is no mystery

that it's kicking my backside.

The metastasis that's in my leg's

now clear unto the eye,

and it's tempting, yeah, to wail and beg,

"Lord, please don't let me die!"

But death has got to come to all,

and that's the Gospel truth.

Maybe Eve done tripped the Fall,

but that ain't no excuse

for whinin' like a hungry pup

when it's time to cowboy up.

Five minutes flat. Yee-ha.

For music, here's 'Deep In The Heart Of Texas'. Yeah, I'm in New Mexico. Close enough.

Sylvia appreciates cows, for they are the source of ice cream.

 

Veterans' Day At The Wall

 As you walk on down the slope

past reflected years,

can you feel the once-bright hope

and hear the fallen tears?

Look behind each graven name;

please give them this small grace.

Lit by an eternal flame,

you will behold a face

whose eyes will dare to hold your gaze,

so dare not look away

and listen as the dead man says,

"Will you, on this sacred day

honour we who gave our all

to earn our place upon the Wall?"

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is WANDER. Well, ok. Same theme.

As you walk through quiet gloaming,

can you hear the distant thunder,

and see all the ghosts a-roaming,

but where is it they wander?

Do they go to milkshake bars,

where lettermen would come together,

or glide among the souped-up cars,

a poison to dear mother?

Do they visit high-school fields

where they found early glory

before the war would come and steal

the ending to their story?

Just know the shades you walk among

had loved their lives, and they were young.

Five minutes, and I wouldn't change a word.

Music from the soundtrack to We Were Soldiers... the haunting Scots ballad 'Sgt. McKenzie'.

Sylvia just appreciates her ice cream.

 

Skating Through It

One of the hardest things about keeping one's chin up on the cancer road is the need to be not just active, but proactive about morale. It's so easy to fall into despair.

Especially now. My 'good hours' in the day are measured in minutes, and the rest of the time is spent trying to skate through the pain. I can't focus on a movie, and it's getting hard to read... just getting to the next moment, until fatigue overwhelms, is everything.

I'm not saying this to garner sympathy. It's simply true, and I have to work at planning ahead to use the hours I have in a productive manner.

It's no longer working upon aeroplanes, or even writing (there are novels that are finished, but I lack the energy to bring them to the light of day, and writing sonnets, always a challenge, is now very much an uphill climb).

So now it's custom gunstocks, made with hand tools, care, and, yes, love. Red oak (cheap!), laminated, and stained to taste with wine, then treated and polished with tung oil.

There is something almost mystical in listening to the wood, learning how it wants to be shaped. Grain is a language, and texture is poetry, far deeper than I can hope to write.

Or maybe it's all hokum, make-work for my End Of Days, but I don't think so.

Care about wood, you care about trees, and you care about Creation. And yes, I do see the irony of showing a love for Creation by working on weapons.

Works for me, and it had better. I'm running on empty.

 It can be tough when chips are down

to find a middle path ahead

between the moper and the clown,

the vivid and the dead.

You can fix eyes on the Hereafter,

but only for so long,

and then must find your love and laughter

in this life's ongoing song,

so take each given hour

and drink down every drop,

for when you're in the Looming Tower

time won't slow, nor stop

for you to find new ways of feeling

about the fate with which you're dealing.

The Looming Tower is a Qu'ranic reference (4:78); "Death will find you, even in the looming (or lofty) tower."

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PRAYER. So...

I may still be living,

longing for the air up there,

taking what God's giving,

living on a prayer.

I am daily praying,

for strength and hope and healing,

but, well, this might be saying,

or even more, revealing

the things that give me animation,

that sparkle in my soul,

and though I offer protestation

I know it makes me whole,

this life to which I yearn and cling,

to see grace that the morning brings.

There, five minutes (and it shows), but I also worked in last week's prompt, MORNING, so there!

Music from Kool And The Gang, with 'Celebration', through this link.

Let's celebrate with Sylvia, and ice cream.

 

 

Victory By Night

Nights can be hard, but Satan can't win if we call for help. 

In this dark and blood-dimmed night

the devil comes to call,

and with ember'd finger writes

these words upon my wall,

"You are failure, you are fraud,

a loser fit to beat the band;

where, now, is your precious God,

to stop the running sand?

You write of faith but not of truth

that's in my sight fulfilled,

and your dying's living proof

that those who hope are killed..."

These words his last, for in the East

rises the Son, to slay the beast.

Appropriately, the Five Minute Friday prompt for this week is MORNING. Here goeth nothin...

Although I know it's evening

that I am moving toward,

I still can't help believing

that it's the Morning of the World.

Metastasis is in my leg,

makes me shuffle feet,

but for healing I won't beg

because my life's so sweet.

Breath comes hard, I won't deny,

but air is cool and clean,

and if it's what it means to die,

then death's not cold and mean,

but a warm breeze from an open door

scented by what was loved before.

Five minutes! SnOoPyDaNcE!

And..

Barb's reply to the first poem and inclusive of the Five minute word.

Devil you may speak of flesh

As much as you desire

But in the end eternity

Is in the Savior's realm

For He is more

Then the Morning Star

you once were

and Hell is built 

For the likes of your

Prideful Lust 

and followers thus.

Ladron the Chief Service Dog has developed a liking for classic Westerns, especially Tales Of The Wells Fargo, so here's a link to 'Wells Fargo Wagon' from The Music Man.

Dogs are smart; they always know when they need a hand, even if it's just to hold the ice cream.

 

Dying Day

Do you ever think about the day you'll die?

I tend not to, but with tumours growing hideously now, and the metastasis in my leg making me unsteady on my feet (and causing bad falls), I guess I have to think about it.

In my own way.

A day of scarlet thunder

tearing through the sky.

A day of awe and wonder,

the day I am to die.

Should I treat this with respect,

or take it as a joke?

I don't know what I might expect

so I'll pour a rum-and-coke

and then light up a big cigar,

dropping ashes on the floor,

and sit where the wild things are,

my eyes upon the door,

with my Tommy 'cross my knees

to ensure the Reaper does say 'please'.

I'm so grateful to all of you who visit and comment. You make this life worthwhile.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is STILL. Kind of appropriate.

Perhaps it may not be a crime

against God's Holy Will,

that with all my heart I wish my time

would just stop, and stand still.

Sometimes I hate the run of days

that hurt worse than before,

and while I know that I must praise

I see that open door

behind which I believe and know

that paradise awaits,

but I do not yet want to go

through those Pearly Gates,

for even now, with this much pain,

I love this life, and would remain.

OK, five minutes thirty seconds...on my phone. I'll take it!

Music via link from the Marshall Tucker Band, with 'Heard It In A Love Song'. Why not?

From Sylvia's point of view, love songs should be written about ice cream.