Idol Worship

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Idol worship is alive and well.

We worship at the alter of

stardom for any who are

brave enough to face the

bright lights and harsh

glare of our fandom and

ultimate judgement at

their utter failure to be

anything less than an

imperfect, fallible, 100%

human being attempting

to please our insatiable

greed for not only their

glory but our bloodlust

that would blanch a

Roman’s soul to dust

for their failure to be,

to do, to accomplish.

 

Our idols are carved from

flesh and blood. Living

large in make up and

‘unscripted’ scripted lives.

We know more about

their personal business

than we do our own

and seem to own

their success as we,

at the same time, decry

their failure to keep

us satisfied in our

constant unending

need for their blood,

sweat, tears, and lives.

 

We lose them too soon.

Our young people.

They seek to achieve

the lie that is key to

the worship of idols.

They fail, thinking that

they are the only, and

their failure should

somehow spell the

end for an entire world.

 

We dance on their graves.

Worshiping still their

unhallowed and common

ground that says, “I, too,

am human. But unlike you

I am not permitted to

be seen as i am but as

you wish me to be, which

is what you are unable or

unwilling to strive for.”

 

Success or failure we would

rather sit on the sidelines

of our lives, at the same

time we worship we also

get ready to cry for the

sweet sweat and blood

of their failure. And then

wounded we shoot them.

Or leave them to die.

No compassion here.

Old sins or new ones.

Neither are forgotten

nor forgiven easily.

 

It is hard to imagine

the worship of a statue

of king or calf in our

multi-media age of

living idols. Sadly they

are also a sacrifice that

would please the most

bloodthirsty pagan god.

“Throw me your best.

I will consume them.”

they cry, lusting for it.

 

Let them dance.

They are children still.

Let them play.

Their talent is not gold.

Let them laugh.

Their joy is their own.

 

So very tired of the commentary on Miley and the rest of our ‘celebs’.  Thanks for getting through this poetic rant.   I pray that people can, one day, stop making the talented and gifted and unusual into idols that so many build up to impossible heights only to rejoice in tearing them down when they are proven to be no more, or no less, than we. Humans, fallible and soiled, but with gifts that should belong to them without the heavy price of being a celebrity.  Playing in the pub with the great folks of dVerse!

(not a) river monster

At The Harbor by Judith Clay

I found him at the market.

A rare turquoise troute.

At the harbor he gasped

for the water,  instead

breathing in death air.

 

I found him at the market.

I named him Jeremy Wade.

At the harbor I held him

and we went to the water,

finding life for he and I.

 

I found him at the market.

I found in saving him I

saved myself as well.

One gasping fish away

from an empty sea

and death for us all.

 

I found him at the market.

We danced to the shore

past the wharf and ships.

Past the fishermen’s laugh.

Straight to freedom.

Into the water he dove.

 

i wait there at Pier 3 for him.

He comes for the sunshine

and berries bright. I come

for his shining freedom

and a single turquoise

scale adorns my throat.

 

In freeing the fish I found

a way to free myself.

From the nets of expectations.

From the hooks and bait.

I saved him but in truth

he did more to save me.

 

Playing along at dVerse with the whimsical and lovely artwork of Judith Clay. Come by to read some poetry and enjoy some art!  And yes I admire the River Monsters host Jeremy Wade.  He is very dedicated to not only understanding river monsters but in saving our rivers, streams and lakes which will, in turn, save us all.

 

Word limit 55

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They battle the lovely and the deadly.

Over the sweet nectar hidden behind

A clear plastic neck from a pot hanging.

Ms. Wasp and Mama Hummingbird.

Both seeking the sweetness, needing it.

Eager to drink from the sticky sweet

Fighting for the right to call that place

Their own. To fly. To fight. To live.

 

and this for Brian, a graphical 55, Happy Birthday buddy! [load cake: failed] 

Fullscreen capture 8222013 21922 PM.bmp

 

Having a party at the dVerse Pub tonight with Brian, the Birthday Boy, tending bar. Make sure you buy him a drink before closing!  A double link up, reverse surprise party in the key of 55.  Join in, won’t you?

[enter title here]

20130819_175553[add media]

[select file]

[enter random thoughts]

drawing a blank. BUT not really a BLANK.

more of a [searching for content] message

many thoughts SOME poetic

many NOT poetic at all

picking raspberries so ripe

the slightest tremble

makes them fall fat and wet

to the delight of ants and birds

baking [select item] and waiting [file loading]

smells of the oven delight

eating alone sometimes a treat

dirty dogs sleeping sound

dead lawn mower [confirm delete file]

should shoot it [cannot delete selected file]

falling asleep at the starting gate [error: starting pistol failed to load]

and yet HOPEful

drawing a blank [enter title here]

watching hummingbirds and bees through

a dirty window [windows failed to load]

and thinking about clouds and storms

[save file to cloud drive] press enter

impatient pokes and peeks [close file]

waiting for baking to be ready

[warning: contents may be hot]

thinking that life can be randomly POETic

[save file] and sometimes in the hate

[discard hate letter] and violence

[ignore command] we find sunflowers

growing beside the road

and can [loading faith] believe still

[save file]

[enter title here]

 

Postmarked “Memories”

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Every time I grab my camera to ‘capture the moment’

I am sending a letter to my future self. To him. To us.

The letter, postmarked “Memories” is to remind us

that these moments need to be treasured as joy.

 

Every time I grab my camera to ‘preserve the memory’

I am sending a letter to my future self. To him. To us.

The letter, filled with memories, is holding one single

message that is needful, important so very true.

 

The most important ‘things’ in life are not things at all!

 

Every time I think of the thousands of photos saved

I smile and think of some future date when he sees.

Like a letter postmarked “Memories” he will know

without a doubt he mattered. We made the time.

 

Every first, every next, every ‘we gotta do that again’

is a little letter postmarked “This is important” and

we remember that it wasn’t an extra hour of work.

It wasn’t the things and the stuff. It was we. It was us.

 

Every time we look back and laugh, and story tell

we are reading our memories, like  packet of letters.

Faded, and wrapped in ribbon scented with our

laughter, our memories and our time together.

 

With dVerse and Mary tending bar we are talking about letters, stamps and postmarks.  I’m a bit late, but like the postal service I guess I eventually deliver! 🙂  

Add it up

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It was eight years

ago today he cut

and baled the hay.

Eight years ago today.

It was eight years

ago today I bled

and bore our boy.

Eight years ago today.

~~

Dancing against my ribs for weeks he

finally decided it was time

to arrive in his own fine way.

~~

Holding him.

Hearing first cries.

Saying, “Welcome to the

world little one” and hearing his

silence at my voice, first heard outside

of the womb he dwelled in for months long and

darkly swimming growing bigger and stronger

Knowing his heart beat as well as my own.

~~

“Mama when will the eight year old boy arrive?” he asks.

Serious question, for this transformation time.

One year young moving to one year older.

Big thoughts, I ponder, and tell him so.

“Buddy the eight year old boy will arrive, ” I pause.

“When you are sleeping and it is close to the

special hour when you arrived in my arms.”

He smiles, moving on to other thoughts.

“Mama why do we count the years?” he asks.

“What else shall we count?” I ask back with a smile.

“Laughs, Legos, maybe fun things that matter more,

Can’t we count those and still have birthdays?”

~~

The math is there, maybe in lines or words, or maybe the word…did you catch my theme for Tony’s Form For All challenge?  Tomorrow my son, the one the medical experts said I would never have but God laughed and said, “You’ll have him!”, turns eight. Hope you’ll indulge me as I wander down a Mama’s memory lane!

A Guy Thing

Stay Calm Lawn

I’m a wife. I worry. Kinda goes with the job.

He is a guy. All guy. He makes me worry.

His answer to my worries is so simple.

“It is a guy thing. I do guy stuff.”

 

 

I’m a woman. I love him. It is my job.

He is the guy who has my heart.

He does guy stuff I don’t get.

I don’t get AT ALL.

 

 

I’m not immune to doing crazy stuff.

Neither is he. But I think sometimes

We need to talk about what that

really means in guy, to guys.

 

 

I worry. I fret. I get mad at times too.

He shushes me, and says, “You can’t

stop me. I’m a guy. I do guy things.”

I can’t stop him. I know.

 

 

I’m the the family medic. On call. 24/7.

His bruised this. The dislocated that.

The laugh as he says, “This doesn’t

look quite right, does it?”

 

 

I’m the one who gets the last laugh.

He gets to be a guy. Do guy stuff.

I’m the audience of shots never

to be seen on TV. Ha! Ha!

 

 

I’m in love with a guy who does guy stuff.

We are raising a little guy who

is learning to do guy stuff.

Life is good, And fun!

 

 

Today I have been reading on The Respect Dare facebook page, and on a blog by Rev. Brent L. White about guys, guy stuff and how some of the things that we tomboy/cowgirls and our mates can take for granted that everyone knows. Or most should.  It got me thinking about the lawn tractor incident where my darling hubby rode it down into the ditch, narrowly missing breaking his leg.  To my frustration he laughed, reminding me it is a guy thing. And he, being a guy, sometimes does crazy guy stuff. I have to let him. He is a grown up guy. And I get to fix him up for the next time, and the time after that.  I like it that way – a bit of rough and tumble is a good thing. For all of us!

Saddle Butter

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I

Barbed wire broke it up, our wild western plains.

Farmers, damn them, busted up the sod too.

Their heavy horses laboured hard and deep.

Growing their crops for city folks (and us).

Ranching ain’t what it used to be, ya know.

Hardly anymore big outfits with brandings.

But a few, in the wilds and remotes, I hear.

 

Barbed wire broke it up, our wild western plains.

Farmers, damn them, I eat too so I forgive em.

Their heavy horses pulled a plow not many can.

Growing food instead of graveyards knight’s rides.

Ranching ain’t what it used to be, ya know.

Hardly a few don’t take dudes out for cash.

But a few, in the wilds and opens, remain.

 

II

We moved the tack today, outta the old barn.

Fingers danced across old hames and collars.

Brass and silver dully gleamed, faded memories.

 

We lifted them heavy today, into the truck.

Fingers gripped tight those old bits and reins.

Jingles and dancers sang low of horses gone.

 

We couldn’t sell them. Nor toss them away.

Fingers held sheepskin and saddle butter.

Polished the suppleness back into them.

 

We remembered as we worked them soft.

Fingers that held reins for seasons long gone.

Gee and haw, step and whoa, easy boy, nice.

 

III

I fell in love with a farmer. Lo.

He has a cowboy’s soul.

I fell in love with a farmer. Oh.

His horses eat diesel and oil.

I fell in love with a farmer. No.

His hands love the soil.

 

IV

Over a hundred years ago she rode as a lady does.

Side saddle proper now, no whorish astride for her.

Gloved hands on reins, dress laying draped just so.

She broke them colts, eased em into being ridable.

They had to learn to be proper with a lady, they did.

Jump them fences, never lost her grip, she soared!

They would buck! Lo they bucked. She stayed.

Every pin came out of her hair, they say, and yet.

She never lost her seat nor a stirrup or her calm.

That woman could ride ya’ll. Like lighting rides

a thunder storm. She smiled the whole time too!

Drove a team, like an iron fisted queen!

Carried a pistol under her apron, loaded too.

No one tried to steal her goods more’n once.

They knew, far and wide, that the lady was tough.

Never rough, mind you, nor calloused, always refined.

That was a horsewoman of a singular kind.

 

V

I can’t watch a western no more without cryin’

Something ’bout those wide spaces draws me.

Something ’bout those wild rides pulls me.

 

I can’t watch a western no more without dyin’

Something old in me rises, aches to breath again.

Something old in me rises, reaches for the open.

 

I can’t watch a western no more without sighin’

Something wild in me wakens, smells the horses.

Something wild in me hollars and whoops loud.

 

I can’t watch a western no more without cryin’

Something in me longs for the wild rides fast.

Something in me longs for the windy freedom.

 

I can’t watch a western no more without achin’

Something in me reaches for reins, breathes leather.

Something in me dances to spur jingle tunes.

 

VII

Win me a lottery, a thousand million bucks.

Still buy me a hunk of land and a coupla trucks.

Win me a lottery, a few hundred thousand bills.

Still buy me whatever horses my heart wills!

Win me a lottery,  fifty or a hundred bucks.

Still buy me some gas for the old trucks.

Win me a lottery, ten or twenty bills.

Still buy them ponies apples to their fills.

Down to my last dollar and I’d be happy.

Cause I got me a nice bay, no short tailed appy!

 

I hosted to night at dVerse (dversepoets.com) and we were playing with the legend and lore and our own take on Cowboy Poetry.   Having some fun – with memories and and horse stories.  Hope you enjoyed, and stop by again sometime. Don’t forget to stop in at dVerse and see what the rest were able to rope and drag to the fire for brandin’

 

Watching over me

20130731_182000Sometimes I need a sign.

Not a street sign saying

my name. Not that.

Not even a “Men at Work”

sign.  Only men put

up signs saying they

are working. ha ha

 

Sometimes I need a sign.

A sign that God is there.

Watching over me.

Over us. You and I and he.

Something to make me

look up and see Him.

 

Sometimes I need a sign.

“Mow the Lawn” is not

it. I know I have to do that.

So I mow. Going slow for

baby frogs and salamanders.

Dodging little critters.

Taking a lot of time and

I’m singing and praying.

 

Sometimes I need a sign.

And I get one. BAM. THERE!

I wasn’t going to mow that

part. It didn’t seem that long.

Didn’t really ‘need’ it. I was

tired and sore. But I went

over and did it anyway.

 

Sometimes I need a sign.

“Good job” works. And

“Thank you!” and always

“I love you”.  Tonight I

got two signs for me and

little he.  Feathers, one each.

Right where I didn’t want

to go. Didn’t want to mow.

 

Sometimes I need a sign.

God knows this, and is

everlastingly good to me.

He sends me birds and

feathers when I need

a sign most. Like an angel

just dropped a little

feathered reminder

where I could see.

 

Sometimes I need a sign.

Feeling down, discouraged.

Trying to be strong and

really just wanting to

give it up and hide at

the beach. In the sand.

With a book and an

iced coffee and tunes.

Instead I mow, and I

dodge the baby frogs.

 

And add another sign.

Another feather to my

collection of reminders

that God doesn’t break

His promises. To us, or

to sparrows. Not one

ever falls without Him

knowing and caring.

 

Sometimes I need a sign.

That I am worth more

than a sparrow. Or an

eagle, hawk or owl.

Raven or vulture.

Hummingbird or wren.

Sometimes I need that.

 

I’ve always been fascinated by birds and flight, and while early life discouraging words (disguised as wisdom – HA!) said I’d be dumb to ache for flight as i would be mistaken for a fat duck and shot were ignored, I started to collect feathers. Reminders of these verses: Luke 12: 6-7 where God promises that of all His creation, He does not forget a single one. Ever. Every feather. Every hair. Wow!