April 12, 2003
I'm always dreaming dreams,
And life is never what it seems;
Or do those dreams divine
Conditions I don't own as mine?
Eighteen months I've lived alone,
My closest friend the telephone;
Which causes me to gravitate
Toward looking for another mate.
But as I think of who I am,
I contemplate the awful jam
I would cause a mate to own
If she displaced my telephone.
The dream that came to me last night
Well may touch upon her plight,
Should some brave soul take on my care
Without much God-directed prayer!
Waiting at the altar, my knee was killing me!
My aching back was close behind, and yet I still could see
Two bridesmaids and my bride, dressed in nurse attire,
Walking down the aisle with cheeks of burning fire!
The bouquets which they carried were not flowers, well arranged,
But all this scent and beauty they subtly had exchanged
For bottles tied in clusters, which they humbly would present,
Which looked and smelled, without a doubt, like Watkins Liniment!
To comfort and to counsel I know a mate must do,
But bringing bottled comfort to the altar is something really new!
Awakened from my dream, with just another groan,
I recommitted one more time to my trusty telephone.
Saturday, April 12, 2003
Saturday, March 15, 2003
WHY THESE TEARS?
March 15, 2003
If I believe my Loved One lives,
The very hope the scripture gives,
Then why these tears upon my cheeks,
That rend my soul for weeks and weeks?
Are they wholly self-concern?
Does my soul refuse to turn
Toward Him who with His every breath
Proclaimed our life; denied our death?
If I have lived the selfless way,
Guided by what scriptures say
And by looking at my Savior,
Why this "All is Lost" behavior?
Where is that enthusiasm
That so often spanned the chasm
Of unknown, uncertain ways
To end in glad triumphant days?
Am I to say, "Without her hand
It is impossible to stand
Against the foes we once defeated,
Before which now I have retreated?
Was it her hand that always led?
Or by God's Spirit were we fed?
If WE ate the Bread of Life,
Can I not stand without my wife?
God's Spirit seems to say to me
That I can be what He can see;
That if my eyes are set on Him,
The way I grope will be less dim.
So, Father God, here am I;
Lift my face toward Heaven's sky;
No more my call let me defer;
In full response, I'll walk with her.
If I believe my Loved One lives,
The very hope the scripture gives,
Then why these tears upon my cheeks,
That rend my soul for weeks and weeks?
Are they wholly self-concern?
Does my soul refuse to turn
Toward Him who with His every breath
Proclaimed our life; denied our death?
If I have lived the selfless way,
Guided by what scriptures say
And by looking at my Savior,
Why this "All is Lost" behavior?
Where is that enthusiasm
That so often spanned the chasm
Of unknown, uncertain ways
To end in glad triumphant days?
Am I to say, "Without her hand
It is impossible to stand
Against the foes we once defeated,
Before which now I have retreated?
Was it her hand that always led?
Or by God's Spirit were we fed?
If WE ate the Bread of Life,
Can I not stand without my wife?
God's Spirit seems to say to me
That I can be what He can see;
That if my eyes are set on Him,
The way I grope will be less dim.
So, Father God, here am I;
Lift my face toward Heaven's sky;
No more my call let me defer;
In full response, I'll walk with her.
Wednesday, March 05, 2003
HOME FROM THE PARTY
March 5, 2003
Again I saw my precious wife,
Not alive, but in a dream;
Again she dulled the painful strife
That renders lives not what they seem.
This dream flashed back across the years:
My youngest child was just fifteen,
An age of laughter, and sometimes tears,
Always child, yet still a queen.
The party over, she said, "Dad,
Let's go home and talk to Mom;
I want to share the fun I've had,
A junior in this senior prom".
Mom, a teacher, tired from grading,
Was asleep on our wide bed,
And gently, not her sleep invading,
Dad laid down at her feet, Glenda at her head.
What comfort those sweet feet gave
As I drifted off to sleep;
How many times they'd rushed to save
From pains that cause strong men to weep!
Her body sleeps and endless sleep,
Which none can say about her soul,
But here's a thought I'll always keep,
Her soul will always make me whole.
And so I know that even now
Angel feet run to our cause,
And I know that she somehow,
In our behalf, gives heaven pause:
She entreats God, in his great love,
To witness pain our sad hearts feel,
And by that love, from heaven above,
His kindest comfort to reveal.
Again I saw my precious wife,
Not alive, but in a dream;
Again she dulled the painful strife
That renders lives not what they seem.
This dream flashed back across the years:
My youngest child was just fifteen,
An age of laughter, and sometimes tears,
Always child, yet still a queen.
The party over, she said, "Dad,
Let's go home and talk to Mom;
I want to share the fun I've had,
A junior in this senior prom".
Mom, a teacher, tired from grading,
Was asleep on our wide bed,
And gently, not her sleep invading,
Dad laid down at her feet, Glenda at her head.
What comfort those sweet feet gave
As I drifted off to sleep;
How many times they'd rushed to save
From pains that cause strong men to weep!
Her body sleeps and endless sleep,
Which none can say about her soul,
But here's a thought I'll always keep,
Her soul will always make me whole.
And so I know that even now
Angel feet run to our cause,
And I know that she somehow,
In our behalf, gives heaven pause:
She entreats God, in his great love,
To witness pain our sad hearts feel,
And by that love, from heaven above,
His kindest comfort to reveal.
Monday, January 27, 2003
MOM'S BREAD
January 27, 2003
My Darling Wife is with me while I make the bread,
For in each step of baking, I recall just what she said:
Three cups nice warm water in a large mixing pan,
Blend one half cup sugar until clear if you can,
One tablespoon of yeast, sprinkled on the water,
Then cover up the pan to keep the water hotter.
Sift four cups of flour, and have it there all ready
To spread it on the fresh bloomed yeast, an stir in soft and steady
Until the sponge is smooth as cream, then cover with a cloth,
Slide it in the slight warmed oven, and turn the oven off.
Thirty minutes in that oven will help the sponge to rise,
Then when you take it out, a fluffy sponge meets your eyes.
Have seven cups of sifted flour in a pan standing by;
A quarter cup of oil, and four teaspoons of salt also nigh.
Mix with salted oil one cup water, nice and warm,
Stir into batter with a mixer, for that will save your arm.
Then with a large wooden spoon, stir the flour in,
Until the sponge is good and stiff, then knead it there and then.
Continue with your kneading until the sponge seems right,
And if it starts to feeling sticky, sprinkle flour, just a mite.
When the sponge feels soft and spongy, no longer clinging to your fingers,
Back into the oven, where it for thirty minutes lingers;
Repeat this process one more time, before you cut the sponge in loaves,
Knowing when the bread is done, you'll have the proudest of all stoves.
Coffee cans with bacon grease, heated nice and hot,
Make a better baking pan than any store has got.
Be sure to roll the grease around, greasing all the sides,
Thus greasing sponge upside and down, as rising loaf abides.
Back into the oven for an hour, or more,
And while the bread is rising, wash the dishes, sweep the floor!
When the sponge then tops the can, looking soft and white,
Set the pans upon the counter; for baking, it is right.
Turn the oven to 450, and when the light is gone,
Set the loaves all back in, and turn the timer on.
Ten minutes at 450 makes the loaves nice and brown;
Set the time for 24 and turn the oven down.
Three twenty five is what Mom said, and she was always right;
Those loaves come out smelling good, and what a glorious sight!
Slip the loaves out of the cans and on the cooling trays;
I'll guarantee you'll count this day among our better days!
This bread Mom taught me how to make keeps my body whole,
But bread like this, which she still sends, is healing for my soul.
My Darling Wife is with me while I make the bread,
For in each step of baking, I recall just what she said:
Three cups nice warm water in a large mixing pan,
Blend one half cup sugar until clear if you can,
One tablespoon of yeast, sprinkled on the water,
Then cover up the pan to keep the water hotter.
Sift four cups of flour, and have it there all ready
To spread it on the fresh bloomed yeast, an stir in soft and steady
Until the sponge is smooth as cream, then cover with a cloth,
Slide it in the slight warmed oven, and turn the oven off.
Thirty minutes in that oven will help the sponge to rise,
Then when you take it out, a fluffy sponge meets your eyes.
Have seven cups of sifted flour in a pan standing by;
A quarter cup of oil, and four teaspoons of salt also nigh.
Mix with salted oil one cup water, nice and warm,
Stir into batter with a mixer, for that will save your arm.
Then with a large wooden spoon, stir the flour in,
Until the sponge is good and stiff, then knead it there and then.
Continue with your kneading until the sponge seems right,
And if it starts to feeling sticky, sprinkle flour, just a mite.
When the sponge feels soft and spongy, no longer clinging to your fingers,
Back into the oven, where it for thirty minutes lingers;
Repeat this process one more time, before you cut the sponge in loaves,
Knowing when the bread is done, you'll have the proudest of all stoves.
Coffee cans with bacon grease, heated nice and hot,
Make a better baking pan than any store has got.
Be sure to roll the grease around, greasing all the sides,
Thus greasing sponge upside and down, as rising loaf abides.
Back into the oven for an hour, or more,
And while the bread is rising, wash the dishes, sweep the floor!
When the sponge then tops the can, looking soft and white,
Set the pans upon the counter; for baking, it is right.
Turn the oven to 450, and when the light is gone,
Set the loaves all back in, and turn the timer on.
Ten minutes at 450 makes the loaves nice and brown;
Set the time for 24 and turn the oven down.
Three twenty five is what Mom said, and she was always right;
Those loaves come out smelling good, and what a glorious sight!
Slip the loaves out of the cans and on the cooling trays;
I'll guarantee you'll count this day among our better days!
This bread Mom taught me how to make keeps my body whole,
But bread like this, which she still sends, is healing for my soul.
Saturday, January 18, 2003
I DONE GOT THERE!
January 18, 2003
Mary, do you remember Dad's old poem...
"Be the task great or small,
Do it well or not at all."
Well here is my line:
Be the task great or small;
When we daily trip and fall;
When cows butt us into their stall.
We're too old to do it all;
Then we'd best to step aside,
Before we lose too much hide!
There to rest, write, reside
And enjoy life's changing tide.
I done got there!
Mary, do you remember Dad's old poem...
"Be the task great or small,
Do it well or not at all."
Well here is my line:
Be the task great or small;
When we daily trip and fall;
When cows butt us into their stall.
We're too old to do it all;
Then we'd best to step aside,
Before we lose too much hide!
There to rest, write, reside
And enjoy life's changing tide.
I done got there!
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
TO MY SISTER
December 24, 2002
Hi, purty lady with the injured paw!
How's our usually fast movin' maw?
First she puts a patch on her eye,
Lookin' mightily like ol' Captain Bly;
And then before she can set down and rock,
Ol' Sawbone's got 'er agin on the block!
What a way to rest through this Season;
Want me to give ya a much better reason?
Take me, fer instance at age eighty two,
And little better off than Robert and you!
My heart sez, "Git"; but my legs sez, "No!"
It gits harder and harder to git up and go!
So I do what I can, then set down and rest;
I reckon after all that plan is the best'
But, Honey, you know that I'm only teasin'
"Cause I really aint got no suggestible reason.
'Cept that wise men rest at a livestock stall
When it cradles a king born to rule over all!
I reckon that He never meant us to worry,
To chase the loose ends and be in a hurry,
So maybe a slit wrist and a patch on yer eye
Will give ya some time to gaze at the sky
And praise the Good Lord fer all that He's done;
What better to do with our race so near run?
Hi, purty lady with the injured paw!
How's our usually fast movin' maw?
First she puts a patch on her eye,
Lookin' mightily like ol' Captain Bly;
And then before she can set down and rock,
Ol' Sawbone's got 'er agin on the block!
What a way to rest through this Season;
Want me to give ya a much better reason?
Take me, fer instance at age eighty two,
And little better off than Robert and you!
My heart sez, "Git"; but my legs sez, "No!"
It gits harder and harder to git up and go!
So I do what I can, then set down and rest;
I reckon after all that plan is the best'
But, Honey, you know that I'm only teasin'
"Cause I really aint got no suggestible reason.
'Cept that wise men rest at a livestock stall
When it cradles a king born to rule over all!
I reckon that He never meant us to worry,
To chase the loose ends and be in a hurry,
So maybe a slit wrist and a patch on yer eye
Will give ya some time to gaze at the sky
And praise the Good Lord fer all that He's done;
What better to do with our race so near run?
Sunday, December 22, 2002
BE SURE WE SEE YOUR SERIOUS SIDE
Our world needs the jokester with his laughter and his bluff;
With the greatest sense of humor life is serious enough.
Facial muscles need the workout that a sense of humor brings;
So, in the midst of trouble let’s be sure our soul still sings1
The world will quickly turn away from him who never laughs,
Who never sees the funny side but simply grieves or chafes;
But if the words we speak to men are to abide;
We must be sure the world can see we have a serious side.
Great thoughts are often given us right behind a funny word,
For laughter gains attention through which our thoughts are heard,
And though we think the speaker is simply blowing smoke,
He may well be quite serious by telling us his joke!
He may be roasting or be toasting concepts he lightly chides,
But either way what we say eternally abides;
So help us, Lord, as we speak, always to reside
In a balanced sense of humor that sees the serious side.
With the greatest sense of humor life is serious enough.
Facial muscles need the workout that a sense of humor brings;
So, in the midst of trouble let’s be sure our soul still sings1
The world will quickly turn away from him who never laughs,
Who never sees the funny side but simply grieves or chafes;
But if the words we speak to men are to abide;
We must be sure the world can see we have a serious side.
Great thoughts are often given us right behind a funny word,
For laughter gains attention through which our thoughts are heard,
And though we think the speaker is simply blowing smoke,
He may well be quite serious by telling us his joke!
He may be roasting or be toasting concepts he lightly chides,
But either way what we say eternally abides;
So help us, Lord, as we speak, always to reside
In a balanced sense of humor that sees the serious side.
Saturday, December 14, 2002
WHEN THE GREAT MOMENT HAS GONE
December 14, 2002
When the Star of Bethlehem is packed in its tray,
Just waiting there ‘til next Christmas day;
When angels are folded in soft paper wraps,
Not to be touched for a whole year perhaps;
When candles, re-pointed, are placed in their box
Beside a sheep, a donkey an ox,
Our thoughts then start to fasten upon
“What do we do when this Moment is gone?”
When the wedding is over and the guests gone away,
And fatigue has set in to end our great day;
When the honeymoon passes and we’ve come back home,
And life is without it’s bubbles and foam;
When the house is in order and we’ve gone back to work
There’s a question that comes with a strange little quirk.
And sits on our hearts like a huge old stone,
“What do we do when this Moment is gone?”
When Christ fills us with love’s dominion,
As he did in the life of Simeon;
When God’s Spirit turns us about
And life now takes a whole new route;
When others are more than simply friends
Employed toward our own personal ends,
Again we come to ponder upon
“What do we do when this Moment is gone?”
When love moves our lives toward days with less sin
And we feel all renewed and cleansed from within;
When joy and peace abide in the heart
As the Holy Spirit does His great part
By letting us know that Jesus is Lord,
Not kings, or queens, or the modern day sword1
Then there is an answer we count upon;
For we know what to do when the Moment is gone.
When the Star of Bethlehem is packed in its tray,
Just waiting there ‘til next Christmas day;
When angels are folded in soft paper wraps,
Not to be touched for a whole year perhaps;
When candles, re-pointed, are placed in their box
Beside a sheep, a donkey an ox,
Our thoughts then start to fasten upon
“What do we do when this Moment is gone?”
When the wedding is over and the guests gone away,
And fatigue has set in to end our great day;
When the honeymoon passes and we’ve come back home,
And life is without it’s bubbles and foam;
When the house is in order and we’ve gone back to work
There’s a question that comes with a strange little quirk.
And sits on our hearts like a huge old stone,
“What do we do when this Moment is gone?”
When Christ fills us with love’s dominion,
As he did in the life of Simeon;
When God’s Spirit turns us about
And life now takes a whole new route;
When others are more than simply friends
Employed toward our own personal ends,
Again we come to ponder upon
“What do we do when this Moment is gone?”
When love moves our lives toward days with less sin
And we feel all renewed and cleansed from within;
When joy and peace abide in the heart
As the Holy Spirit does His great part
By letting us know that Jesus is Lord,
Not kings, or queens, or the modern day sword1
Then there is an answer we count upon;
For we know what to do when the Moment is gone.
Friday, December 06, 2002
GOOSE GRACE II
December 6, 2002
Sixteen degrees and still as a mouse!
A perfect day to stay in the house,
But animals are calling and that quite loudly,
So I walk on out with shoulders back proudly.
Milk in the buckets to feed baby calves,
Each gallon divided exactly in halves,
Nurse bays opened and the babies shoved in;
They'll climb up your back without a nurse pen!
Plastic buckets with nipples in a row;
Stand back and watch those little calves go!
Slurping and sucking 'til no milk left,
Then they look at me as a calf bereft!
Feed mama ewe with her tiny little lamb,
Then ewes in waiting and the big old ram;
Two buckets for steers and one for the cows,
And then with icy fingers I head for the house.
But wait, there are chickens and rabbits to feed;
In sixteen degrees they too are in need;
But goodness! These fingers and the tips of my toes!
I think they are colder than the end of my nose!
And just as I walk away from the barn,
Mother goose calls out, "I'm ready for corn!"
She slept all night on the ice-covered pond,
And with that poor goose I feel such a bond!
Last Spring she and gander led goslings around,
But the goslings are gone and no gander is found.
She is Canadian with black and white head,
Still stately and strong though "Daddy" is dead.
So as I sprinkled her corn on the ice,
It seemed that my God gave me advice:
"Stand stately and strong though cold and alone,
For I'm planning to bring you again to your own."
Sixteen degrees and still as a mouse!
A perfect day to stay in the house,
But animals are calling and that quite loudly,
So I walk on out with shoulders back proudly.
Milk in the buckets to feed baby calves,
Each gallon divided exactly in halves,
Nurse bays opened and the babies shoved in;
They'll climb up your back without a nurse pen!
Plastic buckets with nipples in a row;
Stand back and watch those little calves go!
Slurping and sucking 'til no milk left,
Then they look at me as a calf bereft!
Feed mama ewe with her tiny little lamb,
Then ewes in waiting and the big old ram;
Two buckets for steers and one for the cows,
And then with icy fingers I head for the house.
But wait, there are chickens and rabbits to feed;
In sixteen degrees they too are in need;
But goodness! These fingers and the tips of my toes!
I think they are colder than the end of my nose!
And just as I walk away from the barn,
Mother goose calls out, "I'm ready for corn!"
She slept all night on the ice-covered pond,
And with that poor goose I feel such a bond!
Last Spring she and gander led goslings around,
But the goslings are gone and no gander is found.
She is Canadian with black and white head,
Still stately and strong though "Daddy" is dead.
So as I sprinkled her corn on the ice,
It seemed that my God gave me advice:
"Stand stately and strong though cold and alone,
For I'm planning to bring you again to your own."
Thursday, November 21, 2002
MOM’S WHISTLE
November 21, 2002
In the kitchen or the store, or in the pasture’s wood,
That whistle of my Darling brought me running if I could,
It was always soft and gentle, so enticing in its sound;
But best of all it let me know that love was close around.
How I’ve missed that loving whistle throughout this slow paced year,
So I know you can imagine when I waked today to hear
That whistle in the kitchen; How it bounced me out of bed!
Not for breakfast that was ready, but to feed my soul instead.
No dreams for several months to cheer me on my way,
Though I ask for them as often as I daily kneel to pray;
But this one was a charmer my soul cannot forget,
That tells me that my Sweetheart has not forgotten yet.
The sky in crimson beauty announces this new day;
With Dorothy’s loving whistle I go happy on my way;
And in that Eastern brightness I see a whole new sky
Which says that man is born to live, and not to tire and die.
In the kitchen or the store, or in the pasture’s wood,
That whistle of my Darling brought me running if I could,
It was always soft and gentle, so enticing in its sound;
But best of all it let me know that love was close around.
How I’ve missed that loving whistle throughout this slow paced year,
So I know you can imagine when I waked today to hear
That whistle in the kitchen; How it bounced me out of bed!
Not for breakfast that was ready, but to feed my soul instead.
No dreams for several months to cheer me on my way,
Though I ask for them as often as I daily kneel to pray;
But this one was a charmer my soul cannot forget,
That tells me that my Sweetheart has not forgotten yet.
The sky in crimson beauty announces this new day;
With Dorothy’s loving whistle I go happy on my way;
And in that Eastern brightness I see a whole new sky
Which says that man is born to live, and not to tire and die.
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