“Be still and know that I am God.”
“Be still and know that I am God.”
It’s time to go to bed little man
Cover up your head little man
I’ll see you when the sun breaks in the morn.
Say your prayers and close your eyes,
I’ve locked the monsters all outside,
She’d sang those words to him since he was born.
He grew to be a brave young lad
And followed after his ole dad
Beneath a flag of pride his oath was sworn.
They brought him home in silk lined wood,
And all around him soldiers stood,
While Butterfield’s Lullaby played on the horn.
It’s time to go ahead little man,
I know that you weren’t scared little man,
My heart breaks I can’t see you and I mourn.
I’ve said my prayers for your closed eyes,
I’ve tucked my feelings deep inside… She sang into a folded flag of thorns.
Little Man from Getting Me Back.
Before I share let me say, I am aware of the cynical tone of this piece.
I said, “of this piece” because I am not a cynical person. Sarcastic, yes, but not cynical.
It’s not the quarantine or the Covid 19 bug that is bugging me, hell it’s not even the empty shelves in the grocery stores or having to wipe with an oak leaf. That is not a big deal, remember I was a piss poor country bumpkin so this just reminds me of happier days as a child.
So what brought about this Friday’s Free-For-All on this Good Friday? It’s the peee-puuul! Well not ALL the people – and definitely not you friend. (Insert winky face, smiley face and through in a bunch of virtual hugs)
Sigh. People never fail to amuse me.
So while I am feeling amused during this holy time I thought I’d get up on my Hickory stump podium and compose a poem. (And a picture)
You look for your Jesus in a cheap red suit in December and a bunny suit come Easter.
You dress Him in costumes and [unknowingly?] mock His sacrifice.
You keep Him naked, wounded and nailed to a cross; not to remind you that he was the Passover Lamb but to have him languish in his suffering. You sacrifice him over and over again, creating molten images to hold him on the cross.
You have married Him to Santa and a goddess named Easter/Ishtar; you worship their imaginary offspring of pretty packages and hard boiled eggs, savory sweets and bunny rabbits… none of which can save you. Ha! These objects of your affection are inanimate – they cannot even save themselves!
You dress for the occasion – Sunday’s best. Is this your costume?
Donned in your fetching attire you sit down to feast and stuff your belly with unclean meats and your spirit starves. But it’s “holy”. .. So holy! You take it all in and shit it out. Cleansing?
Amidst fearful news you fret over toilet paper and regurgitate biblical verses [verses you haven’t taken the time to read, much less comprehend] and warn of Christ’s coming… of the great rapture.
Ohhh child, you are ripe for the devil’s picking.
Have a blessed Good Friday & Happy Easter Y’all
Painting is a lot like story telling. Some would say it is the same. I, personally see a few differences- but only a few. What I have learned is that with both you start out with an idea and an outline and then the darn thing takes on a life of it’s own.
And this too is true for both, some blossom and go forth to see the world while others (despite your vision) fail to bloom – these gather forgotten dust or must [sometimes begrudgingly] be destroyed.
Well there’s no partying for me tonight, unless you count Jimmy and me shaking our shoulders to Dick Clark’s New Years Rockin’ Eve.
I have succumbed to the winter crud. I don’t know if it is the flu, pneumonia, some foreign undiscovered disease or the common cold, but it has snapped the ‘party’ right out of me.
It is winter and `tis the season so… Que sera sera. I [or we] have to stay positive and find something to look forward to.
So here is a little something out of Getting Me Back for the home-bound whether by choice or circumstance. (The rest of you pArTy oN!)
Winter in Texas
The first frost arrived this week
Spit forth from the infinite stars like a sneeze leaving sprinkles of sugary ice on the landscape.
The remaining blades and leafs gave way and withered at daybreak leaving nothing but the scattered evergreens to give us hope…
No blooms worthy of expectancy.
However there is hardly anything more beautiful than a berry laden Juniper dotted with Cardinals; the Christmas tree with all of her ornaments pales in comparison.
Oh Christmas, we have that to look forward to – with the Santa Claus fable, the forgotten Jesus and colorful lights draped over bare limbs and the cherished red-nosed reindeer standing pretentiously on brown turf.
And New Year’s Eve – ah, the kissing; corks and fireworks detonate in unison to commemorate the failed promises yet to come. We gorge on black-eyed peas and cabbage, not earnestly expecting anything more than flatulence.
Let us not forget Valentine’s Day – the heart shaped holiday; a cardboard cutout of romantic blossoms; proven love with sentimental cards and candy and flowers…
V-day — a cruel occasion for the lonely and broken hearted who would today be happy with
that so-so dinner date and obligatory sex.
The days are so short – yet so long.
Alas, a reason to utilize the fireplace – don’t forget to plant your potatoes.
Gaudy clumps of snow, bulky and shaped as if they had been intended for hail, tumble down like chopped feathers. The pansies are happy, their pastel petals rise and smirk beneath the thin white blanket of ice mocking the frost bitten flowers beside them.
Next week’s forecast is warm and dry. We will take it, we have no choice.
We will ride the weather-coaster, counting the birthdays of dead leaders and full moons and scattered days of sunny and seventy-five while we wait for the ides of March to come marching in.