The Ugly

My New Year's Resolution was to be honest, and sometimes honest is ugly.

There is now nowhere to turn

where I might hide safe and escape

the fevers that do daily burn

the days that I have left, and shape 

me into something I detest,

a whining hypochondriac fool

who takes up worst to shame the best,

and ransoms hope for ridicule.

Lord, please set me on my feet

once more that I may yet remain 

something that is still complete,

and someone who can bear the pain

as I once did, and bear it still 

in honour of Your holy will.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is JOURNEY.

When I say that I am beat,

when I whine "This isn't fair!"

that's the thing that sets my feet

on the journey to despair.

When I dwell on what I've lost,

all the cool stuff I can't do,

it's thinking that bears a cost

that will poison and run through 

the life that yet to me remains,

toss the blessings to the floor,

make naught of the small gains,

and quite firmly shut the door 

in God's disappointed face

when He comes to offer grace.

Syl's worried. I'm not the Dad she knew.

You've Gotta Stop Somewhere (Tell His Story)

 The common expression, you've got to start somewhere, has a corollary.

You've got to stop somewhere.

Every earthly journey 

has got to have an end,

until you reach Eternity 

and walk on with your Friend 

through forests of Forever

down streets of beaten gold

where you know you'll never

bow to heat or cold,

so let the things you cherish

here on God's good Earth 

fall away and perish,

for they'll receive rebirth

like the tears God saved for you

to anoint what's fresh and new.

Fresh-churned ice cream. Woof!

 

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Risen Every Day

 Barb recently said she wished the cancer would go away.

Yes, but there are blessings in the situation, some unseen, and I would not want the good things to go away.

It's hard, both physically, and walking the tightrope over the pit of despair, but...

I raise my eyes unto the hills

whence myriad blessings flow.

All of this is as God wills,

and by His will I go

down these roads of blood and pain,

dread sessions in the dunny

(where for hours I remain...

OK, that's kind of funny),

but through it all He lifts me up

and holds me to His golden heart,

gives blood-wine communion cup,

and with this He makes me part

of the timeless victory 

He won for me at Calvary.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is PURSUE.

Auto-spell tried to convince me it was PURDUE...

I did not pursue admittance 

to the college of Purdue,

and the regents said Good Riddance

and they thought that they were through 

with that threat that I presented 

to their staid and quiet life,

but then the hand of God was entered,

and I got an Indiana wife,

and therefore I was forced to choose

a place of higher education 

where I could become the news,

a pub-wrecking thuggish sensation,

but the faculty could take their ease

when I blew my SATs.

Yeah, well, five minutes, what are you gonna do?

Ice cream, says Syl. Don't forget the ice cream.

 

We All Make Misteaks (Tell His Story)

 This was written last week, when I thought I had messed up the Inlinkz timing.

But, you know, I was only wrong once in my life, when I thought I had made a mistake, and it turned out I hadn't.

God sure does not make mistakes,

but you can bet I do,

but hey, there, baby, that's the breaks,

and would you believe I blew

the linkup time for Tell His Story

(last week's link is still alive).

and thus I am not wreathed in glory,

but be sure I will arrive

with a Tell His Story link

early upon Wednesday's morn

when the sky is fading pink

and a new day will be born

upon which you can link to great

folk you find here, one day late.

Sylvia, don't roll your eyes like that. They'll get stuck.

 

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Put Away The Shame

 People talk 'bout getting right 

with Almighty God.

I wish I may, I wish I might,

but I'm too badly flawed,

and 'holiness' is not a word

that is used 'round here.

Sitting 'neath Damocles' sword,

it's all so very clear

that sincere repentance 

is all the I can give.

The Christ took on my sentence,

He died so I could live

and I must put away my shame

to honour His bright holy name.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is ORIGINAL.

After what ol' Adam did,

no sin can be original 

because his action truly hid

the unblemished aboriginal

and put in its noble place

the cunning scheming man

who thought that it was earthly grace

to undermine God's plan.

Well, that whole thing sure went wrong,

and bore a crushing fearful cost.

No more with God did he belong,

and paradise was lost,

but God is quite a schemer, too,

and gave His Son for me and you.

Dogs never fell, says Sylvia, so they can't sin. Therefore, you should give me more ice cream.

 

Sadness And Hate (Tell His Story)

Pain and stuff have been outrageous this week, and I have found myself tempted to a kind of sorrow.

The bad kind, that's a doppelganger with resentment of my situation, and resentment of those who don't share it.

"You have to protect yourself from sadness. Sadness is very close to hate. Let me tell you this. This is the thing I learned. If you take in someone else's poison – thinking you can cure them by sharing it – you will instead store it within you." - Michael Ondaatje 

The author of 'The English Patient'

once compared sadness to hate,

concluding that they are adjacent,

and self-poisoning's the fate

of those, who with heart full of care

see another's grief and sorrow 

and are thereby moved to share

something they should never borrow.

I have learned that this is true,

and though I must treat with compassion 

that sadness which may well place you 

into a yoke that hell did fashion,

to pass beyond must be my duty,

for only thus is shared God's beauty.

Sylvia doesn't do sadness.

 

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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

. 

Climbing The Tree Of Hope (Tell His Story)

 Despair's been big on my mind lately, and I try to keep it warded off with long-term projects. Not easy to do when you're tied to an oxygen hose and having a Diet Coke really hurts the gut, but there you go.

It's tempting, sometimes, to over-reach, to get to ambitious for the day's abilities, on the theory that it's better to aim high and miss the mark than aim low and make it.

Pardon my French, but bollocks.

A failed attempt, however noble, is still a failure, and builds a foundation of doubt.

A small success, however small, is success, and builds a foundation of confidence.

And sitting here with the pain and fatigue and incontinence (truth hurts!), I need to build confidence, and never discouragement.

Climbing up the tree of hope,

so slender and so tall;

tie yourself off with a rope,

for if you slip and fall

it's a long way to that hard cold ground,

and tough to get back up,

and one thing in this life I've found,

that caution's a grace-cup

to hold you in the tired hours,

when you're apt to take a chance 

for which you do not have the powers

to keep footing and balance.

It's not weakness to stop and rest;

that pause may be you at your best.

Sylvia says, yeah, pause and have some ice cream!

 

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Songs Made New

Cancer's cost me a lot since the beginning of the year, so I thought I'd have some fun.

While I can, said the melodramatic poet.

Barb's wakeup tune on her phone got modified...

Lord, I lift Your name on High

with a fifth of Southern Rye.

You had better drink it neat

before You have to meet 

 me and all of my mad mates

at those big pearly gates 

'cause we know You're gonna cry

when we drink Your Heaven dry!

Oh, very well. Here's the original.

More?

Well, the 5 am Chihuahuas are an inspiration...

Let Chihuahuas run,

let all their barking

wake the neighbours!

They sleep too long

any...way!

I feel kinda bad for Carly Simon.

Syl doesn't feel bad at all.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is FAVOUR.

The Good Lord has done me the favour 

of granting humour to resist 

the galling path of cancer's labour,

but there are those who might insist

that I back off on the laughs,

and pay meet homage to the sacred,

but I will sign death's autographs

with a grin, and make the naked

admission that there's naught to lose,

for God must have a sense of fun,

and maybe sometimes wears clown shoes 

and snaps a wad of bubble gum,

and if I'm wrong as about said bubble,

boy, might I be in big trouble.

Syl has no words, but she's a dog.

 

For Pity's Sake (Tell His Story)

 What do you do when you are past

the strength that you depended on?

What do you do when the last

reserves of faith have fled, are gone?

What do you do when each demand

is piled onto things left undone,

and no-one seems to understand 

that at last your race is run?

Do you beg for pity's sake

from your bended knees,

asking that God please not break

the soul that's now the least of these?

The better me knew, long ago,

but now I know that I don't know.

Sylvia doesn't know, either.

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Penance

 God's given me the City's keys,

and this I have been told,

that I need not walk on bended knees

upon the Streets of Gold,

for down here Someone did my time,

and paid my dues in full

for my grand-dad Adam's crime,

and that I need not pull

that weight of sin upon my back

up penance's hard cliff.

God will now give me the slack

to know the when (not if!)

of my arrival by His side 

as He beams and laughs with pride.

The Five Minute Friday prompt this week is EFFORT. I'll have a try.

There are times I wonder why

I still make an effort

to touch my blue and long-lost sky,

to find the joys I used to court

of flight in the empyrean,

dancing 'tween the clouds so white,

partaking of the golden dream,

the soaring soul, the gift of flight.

My body's burning down to ash,

and looking up just hurts my heart,

but I am not prepared to trash

that world of which I was a part,

so I'll believe just for today

that my Lord will make a way.

Here's a clip from The Mission that kinda describes what I mean.

Sylvia says the only panance I need practice is for the times I was slow in getting her ice cream.