Not Going Gentle

 

 

It's been a really hard week, and I can only express it through analogy.

From the King I took my shilling,

and I am on my Oerlikon.

I'm in the fight and I am willing,

and the Carley floats are gone

as water laps across the deck;

right bugger has this night become 

on this listing burning wreck,

but load another drum

and engage with gritted teeth

the savage enemy,

wondering what might lie beneath

the waves that roil once-peaceful sea.

If needs must I will sell life dear,

but someone GET ME OUT OF HERE!

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ADVANTAGE.

They say it's advantageous

to claim an attitude 

that marks one as courageous,

but I think it's just rude

to beat the drum, one's own behalf,

a real one-man parade.

It kinda sorta makes me laugh,

'cause that ain't how life is made.

Climb high above humility,

thinking you have it all,

and soon you'll fall from Eden's tree

and God will break your fall

with the cushion of His hand,

and some stern words of reprimand.

Just over four minutes.

And, by the way, Peanut's celebrity grows, courtesy Woman's World

If you go to the article, you also get to see a current picture of me. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Sylvia would get me out of this, if she but could.

Celebrity (Tell His Story)

 Almost went to meet Jesus today, but He rescheduled. Feeling pretty rough, so over to Peanut, courtesy of an article in Women's World.

And you even get to see a picture of Belle, and me.

Sylvia is too cool for mass media 

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On The Other Side Of Calvary

 Last night when the screaming ended

(the kind after I try to eat),

it felt that all this could be mended

only at God's judgement seat,

and meanwhile I must endure

for sake of those placed in my care,

and write witness, clean and pure,

that these trials are not unfair,

but that they fold unto the story

of a world that lost its way,

and reflect the love and glory 

that walks us through the darkest day

and takes our hand to help us see

the sunrise beyond Calvary.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is MATTER.

Sometimes the pain is so intense,

I feel like glass, about to shatter,

Humpty Dumpty on the fence,

but really, does that even matter?

I know, yeah, that to God I do,

but He loves me, not my deeds,

and when this weird-ass life is through,

was I the thing that someone needs?

I'd like to think that maybe, yes,

someone out there found some meaning

in my words, but I oft guess

that when I think this, I am dreaming,

but I'll go on against the night

because it's fun to do what's right.

Four minutes, and I don't quite know what I was trying to say.

Sylvia has no words, but she does have ice cream.

Is This Really Us? (Tell His Story)

 They say that MAGA must be stopped,

that the movement is a crime,

and thus Trump was nearly topped,

for Pete's sake, for the second time,

and it never ceases to cause wonder,

never ceases to amaze 

that the ones who call the thunder 

do not see the end of days

in which the wish becomes the deed

and what goes out will come around,

and I think we really need 

to find ourselves some common ground

before this country, once called great,

has name prefaced by 'the late'.

Sylvia really hates violence. She was the victim of it, before God brought her to us.

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Let's Make A Deal

 We want something for something,

a deal whose outcome we can see,

but in this want we dare to fling

aside the gift, obtained for free,

held out to us in nail-scarred Hand,

held out to us with trembling Smile,

and still we cannot understand 

that there's no agenda, guile,

or any condition that is hidden,

a bondage to which we need submit,

obligation to we are bidden

except to give our heart to it,

the Love our Saviour wants to give,

and an eternal life to live.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PRESERVE.

We think we can preserve our dreams

in the aspic of our labout,

and it truly often seems

that God looks on our work with favour,

and self-assurance comes thereby,

pride in our exalted state,

and we see no reason why

we should not leap from good to great,

but we see blessing where there's chance,

and in good luck see His approval

when He would rather circumstance 

would guide us to the quick removal

of the haughty beam that's in our eye

ere it comes our time to die.

Four minutes thirty and a bit. Slow, but I made it!

Sylvia likes free stuff, especially if it's ice cream.

A Bit Of Humour (Tell His Story)

 

It's been a really rough week. I need a laugh. How about you?

How did Jesus keep track of His Apostles and disciples?

He used an evangel-list.

After Jesus renamed Simon, did He hum the theme from 'Rocky' whenever Peter entered the room?

What are Jesus' favourite karate moves?

Lamb chops.

When Jesus cleansed the temple, did the merchants and moneychangers get Lambinated?

Sylvia's groaning. But I had fun.

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My Wife The Build-A-Bear

 My wife has so many skills,

juggles crises with great care

soothing church and workplace ills...

Barbara is a Build-A-Bear!

She updates software in her mind,

then passes fixes to IT.

To troubled colleagues she is kind,

good example for the world to see.

She segues to another role

so seamlessly, with a bright smile 

to keep all functional and whole 

in grace and love and peace and style,

and when at last her day is done,

she's everything to everyone.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is YOUTH.

Forever young is what I'll be,

no point in any other choice.

Pull up a chair and you will see

it in my dancing feet and voice,

'cause growing up is just a bummer,

encroaching on adulting turf.

For me it's always endless summer,

on the beachy road to surf

at Rincon and at Malibu,

point break up at Coal Oil Point,

and if I run into you,

I'll offer up a Maui joint

so we can stay high, young, and strong,

and live our lives all summer long.

Three minutes, and that flowed. Scary.

But, for the record, I don't smoke weed. Never did. The smell makes me puke.

She's certainly everything to Sylvia. And me.

Render Unto Caesar (Tell His Story)

 When I think about rendering unto Caesar that which is Caesar's, I usually think, painfully, of taxes.

But there's another instance in which we owe Caesar something.

Our vote.

If I enjoy the fruits of the society in which I live, like, say, paved roads, I am participating.

And the price for participation is, well... participation.

Guess that's why they call it a civic duty.

We are, after all, privileged to have a say when so many don't, and that confers a larger responsibility, to make one's vote count.

Don't waste it on a candidate who simply can't win. A symbolic vote is actually a vote for one's own pride, the I Know Better voice.

Maybe the candidates are all crooks and crackpots, but you've got to believe that one of them may be less awful than the other.

If you can't see that, educate yourself more deeply.

And maybe next go-round, you can run for office yourself.

Sylvia's not old enough to vote, and glad of it.

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