It's Crazy Out There (Tell His Story)

The days march by, each weirder yet,

and talking heads have naught to say,

but just what you gonna bet

that they will jabber anyway 

to try to make some kind of sense

of what's senseless in the end,

thinking there is recompense

in that which even God can't mend.

This all reminds me of a tale,

here in this bewildered hour,

of that great construction fail,

the raising up of Babel's Tower

when on display there came to be

just how dumb people can be.

Sylvia knows dogs are SO MUCH smarter.

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Almost

 The Five Minute Friday keyword this week is ALMOST.

I almost had a future,

I almost had a life 

except for one slipped suture 

beneath a surgeon's knife,

and all the rest just fell apart,

and only dreams remain.

I'm left as master of the art

of coping with the pain.

I guess I should be furious

at that mistake which went unseen,

but I'm not even curious 

'bout everything that might have been,

and I turn away because 

it's futile, that which never was.

Four minutes.

Music from Andy Williams, with Almost There

College Kids (Tell His Story)

 Originally, there was here something of a diatribe (in sonnet form) against the Ivy League college kids and their current 'political' protestations.

But I cut the thing, for I understand their motivations better, after a night of reflection, and ice cream shared with Sylvia.

This is just a way to cut classes, and maybe get exams postponed 

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Barb Has A Beau

 

This sonnet first appeared as a comment to the Steve Laube Agency blog on April 18, and I had so much fun writing it that I decided to re-use it.

Yes, I’m having a great day,

and laughing through the pain,

all because, I’ve got to say,

we got a new Great Dane!

His name is Beau, and he is large,

with drooly massive head,

and he’s shown that he's in charge

by sleeping on Barb’s bed,

and my oh my, the springs did groan

‘neath Beau’s colossal weight,

and my oh my, poor Barb did moan

in seeing that her fate

would be to sleep upon the rug

with her cheerful gassy Pug.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is LONELY. Which I never am.

There's a dog on every chair,

and projects piled throughout the place.

I live without a lonely care,

for I live in a state of grace,

tied, yes, to the oxygen 

that lets me live and breathe away.

There's no point in Remember When,

for I've more blessings on this day 

than most will see,their whole lives through,

so I've let go the cherished past.

Each hour now brings something new,

and though I wasn't built to last

I will go fast instead of far,

and burn out as a shooting star.

Just a few ticks past three minutes.

Music from Bob Lind, with Elusive Butterfly

Sylvia just saw the first butterfly of spring!

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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