The Saddest Words Of All

 

The cancer thing is rough and horrible, and I don't want to write about it today.

Still, it does leave room for thinking, and regret.

The saddest words were ever spoken,

words that flaming hell portend

illume a grace that has been broken,

and chill the soul, 'a former friend'.

What fell road led to this place

in which we see fellowship killed?

Can we still not find a trace

of love, or has the heart been stilled?

What is it, that is worth the fight

that comes between what should be whole?

Why pick we Egyptian night,

and let it fester on the soul

when we might yet chose to forbear

insult, and still consent to care?

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is SUFFER. Can you suffer through another sonnet?

Will you bow, and choose to suffer

through an insult meant to wound?

Will you let God be your buffer,

when you've wept enough, and swooned

into the arms of black despair,

into the vale that floods with tears.

Will you let Him find you there,

let Him shield you from your fears?

Let the pride go out and pass,

let surrender be your all

that you may lay the looking glass,

and with fresh eyes behold the wall

behind which for years you have hidden,

and to surmount you now are bidden.

Three minutes thirty.

Barb does say I make her climb the walls, sometimes.

Music from The Sandpipers, with Come Saturday Morning

Come bearing ice cream, and all insult is forgotten.

Will You Say Hullo? (Tell His Story)

 He slipped into the rearmost pew,

a denim vest, no shirt.

No telling what he had gone through,

but clearly he'd been hurt

by the turns his life had taken 

by drugs and fights and alcohol.

Not broken yet, but he was breaking,

and he'd hit a wall

in which, by some wonderment

a door had opened wide.

Was it choice, or was he sent?

No matter now, he stepped inside,

and when it was collection time,

he offered up his final dime.

Music from Switchfoot, with Love Alone Is Worth The Fight

Sylvia says ice cream is worth the fight, as well.

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From Good To Great To Really Stupid

Tolstoy said it best.

If everything is possible, then nothing is true.

This country's gotten very weird

with stranger days to come.

I'll bet that's not how it appeared

to ol' George Washington.

They want us in electric cars

(Stop global warming! Do your part!),

and though their dreams reach to the stars,

in winter they won't start,

which proves that you can't legislate

Mother Nature's laws,

but the self-proclaiming great

just cannot see the flaws,

or that it's a load of bull,

to say that All Is Possible.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is RESPITE. Yeah, I need a break. Not happening.

I wish that we might have a respite

from the morons in DC,

who daily have a happy fit

when they think of doing me

some damage with their regulations

to make the whole wide world so green,

and so they offer strangulations

on each and every good machine

that makes the rural life worth living,

gas stoves and cheaper ceiling fans.

It seems they think we should be giving

carbon credits to the lands

that would happily replace

our nation, once held in God's grace.

Three and a half minutes of real irritation. 

How do YOU feel?

Music from The Monkees, with I'm A Believer

Sylvia is happy to eat ice cream when it's cold. She has a warm heart.

What Heaven Awaits? (Tell His Story)

 What is your Heavenly vision,

what is the Paradise you see

beyond this life, this fallen prison...

what will come, what is to be?

Is it like King Arthur's court,

vasty halls and angel choirs,

or is it more Valhalla's fort,

swords and mead and roaring fires?

Are there streets all paved in gold,

or is there grass beneath bare feet?

Is it warm, or ski-ing cold,

and is there chocolate to eat?

Will you arrive by flight or stair,

and who'll be first to greet you there?

Please share your thoughts in the comments!

Music from the Alan Parsons Project, with Closer To Heaven

Sylvia expects ice cream and belly rubs.

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Lesson From An Elephant

 These days I am on the brink,

stuck upon the downhill track,

and as I write these words I think

that I just had a heart attack.

Pressure like an elephant

taking his ease on my chest;

full-grown bull, not a runt,

administering me this test:

will I quail, and will I cry

out to God to make it pass?

That I do not want to die

and be, to Him, pain in the (donkey)?

Or will it be that I cash in

my final chips, wearing a grin?

I think that I'm kinda spoiled,

facing stuff like heart attack

and cancer that has really roiled

my life, but I don't feel the lack

of golden opportunity;

I had enough in olden days

to know that it is not for me,

and I far prefer the maze

of pain and fright and good ol' dread

because it is a challenge.

Sure, I'm gonna wind up dead,

but being dead I'll manage

to give the Holy Lord a laugh

by giving Him my autograph.

Four minutes of fun.

Music from 30 Seconds To Mars, with Do Or Die

Sylvia forbids my dying. Period, Pit Bull Style.

The Prodigals Among Us (Tell His Story)

 They will do the worst of things,

viciousness to make you weep,

but to our gentle King of Kings

they're the lost and precious sheep

for whom Heaven will rejoice

if after having been astray,

they return, and angel voice

will in triumph mark the day.

And what is it we will have done

as the Good Lord chased them down?

We will be that elder son,

standing, arms crossed, with a frown,

resenting Father's greatest joy,

the once lost and new-found boy?

Music from Lacrae, with Church Clothes

Sylvia will celebrate with anyone, as long as Ice Cream is invited.

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No, The Grapes Aren't Sour

'The grapes are probably sour, anyway,' said Aesop's immortal fox.

When your dreams drift completely out of reach, the temptation is to dismiss and devalue them.

And sure, maybe they were vain and self-serving, but you know...probably not. Like those grapes.

They were probably pretty worthwhile.

Some people will tell you, 'let it go'. Great advice, but it's not that easy.

You have to say goodbye, with love and longing.

A shibboleth I'd like to shatter

is that all those things what never was

did not, do not really matter,

'cause they really did, and does.

And you have to reach that point;

on this, I must be sadly clear

that it's no good to light a joint

and down another case of beer,

for chickens will come home to roost

in the corner of your mind,

and no escape lies in 'confused',

and no relief in being blind.

Face the monsters, now, of sorrow,

'cause they'll only grow until tomorrow.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is CONSUME. Eat this!

The fox could not consume the grapes

for they were much too high,

suited better for great apes,

and jumpers such as I.

Now we all know white men can't jump,

but I'm not white, you see,

and you really should not lump

white folks in with Chinese me,

who can leap unto the stars

on legs of banded steel,

trained well upon the monkey bars

and thus can make a meal

of the grapes upon the vine,

and I won't share, they're mine, all mine!

Oh, very well, fox. Here ya go.

Four minutes.

Music from Jackson Dean, Don't Come Lookin'

Sylvia WILL come lookin'.

Dancing King (Tell His Story)

 

Will you live out loud for God?

Will you dance before the Lord,

as Dave the King was bidden?

Or do you think you can't afford

this show, and must keep hidden

your faith and trust, and yes, your love,

that you might not be flamed

on Facebook for the One Above...

are you, dear heart, ashamed

of all the things that you believe

(I might lose some friends!)?

Will by omission, you deceive

those who would condemn your ends

to make them think you're like them too,

faint of heart, and not quite true?

And yes, of course, here's ABBA with Dancing Queen

Sylvia is the ORIGINAL Dancing Queen. If you ain't seen a Pibble dance, you ain't seen nuthin'.

  

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Nope

 

I'm really sorry that I've been negligent in responding to y'all's comments, and haven't commented on as many of your posts as I'd like to. It's gotten pretty hard to concentrate when I try to write.

But...

Every moment's glorious,

every hour holds it all,

and that's why I'm notorious

in standing hard against the fall

that so many have predicted

is coming down the no lane;

why not let go when life's inflicted

so much heartache, so much pain?

The answer ain't so very tough,

and I will give it here:

I will never have enough

of all that I hold dear,

God's palette of bright sunrise skies,

and the glow of loving eyes.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is WASTE. Let's not waste any time!

Let us not waste any time

in the spread of the Good News

by spoken word, by prose or rhyme

to dissipate the leaden blues

of those who have not yet found Christ,

or those who failed to heed the call.

Our comfort must be sacrificed,

and we must dare to cross the wall

and go into the wilds beyond

to meet doubt and grim skepticism

with that Sunday's gay palm frond

and, week later, He Is Risen!

to give those feeling misbegotten

the knowledge that they're not forgotten.

Four minutes and change, because I got hung up on a rhyme for beyond.

Music from the Foo Fighters, with Walk

Sylvia says, Ice Cream. Don't forget ice cream.