I Bask in the Light of Forever

Dedicated to Brigid, upon the loss of her beloved Barkley, 

in the hope that this brings her peace. 

I Bask In The Light Of Forever

I know my owner misses me,
And I sure miss her, too.
I hope she knows I'm doing fine,
And I know I'll see her soon.

You made me feel so safe, mom,
You surrounded me with peace.
Going to sleep within your arms
Was the way I'd choose to leave.

I woke up in a lovely place,
And all my aches had fled.
Waiting there was a kind-faced man
Who scratched me on my head.

"Welcome to heaven, young pup," He said ,
I hope that you don't mind
Staying and playing with me for a while
Until it's your master's time."

Jesus is so good to me, mom,
He plays with me every day.
I run and I chase and I play ball and dig
And eternity just melts away.

I don't lack for playmates, mom,
There are so many friends for me here;
Doggies and kitties and children and birds,
And we romp, all love and no fear.

I bask in the light of forever,
Resting at Jesus' feet.
But every day I ask the Lord,
"When will my mom and I meet?"

He smiles and then pats me kindly
And He says "Oh, it won't be long now."
I know that He is telling the truth
Because time here flows different, somehow.

Heaven's a wonderful place, mom,
It's the perfect doggie resort.
So while I can't wait to see you,
Don't you dare cut your time on earth short!

When your time comes I will be waiting,
All wagging tail and kisses and love,
And together my joy will be complete:
I and my master, with the Master Above.

Been meaning to do this for a while...

... but I've been putting it off for no good reason.  

Anyway, Shelby shared a very painful story with us about the death of her brother 11 years ago, and that finally motivated to post these.  Some of you may remember this poem from a few years ago; after much procrastination, I have had them prettied up under the expert hand of Nathan Bechtold.

You are free to print these, or email them, or use them in any other way you wish, just so long as the words aren't changed and I'm still listed as the author.

Dominus Vobiscum

Within the past month there have been two deaths within the gunblog community. First it was Neptunus Lex, and now I hear that Newbius has passed. I'm sad to say that I never knew either of them, but that doesn't matter; the death of even the least of us diminishes us all.

Not knowing what to say about this, but wishing to pay my respects to fellow members of my tribe, I'll go to my old standby: a poem I made last year for a funeral service of a friend.

CHRYSALIS

To all things there is a season

Even trials which, for no reason,

Seem to strike us down without remorse;

And when our time has run its course

We must remember, through our fears

That we are allocated only years.

We are born into this world

Larval, incomplete, and furled

With no knowledge of what awaits us soon;

And then we crawl into cocoons

Of wood and earth, and thence to die

While all around us, mourners ask God why.

In our rebirth, they cannot see

Our souls borne into eternity

As we emerge from our chrysalis.

And so, my love, I tell you this:

As from eternal grace hope springs

A butterfly begins to spread its wings.

It is my sincerest wish that as they go on to their eternal rewards, they receive a "welcome home" as loving and joyful as this one:

Too damn many people I know have died this year. In the span of a week I've already attended two funerals for friends of family, and at the end of the month my friend Jeannie is going to bury her mother-in-law.

Not really knowing what to say about these deaths, but feeling the need to say something, I wrote this. It just kind of came to me this afternoon while I was putting dishes away. I don't even know if it's any good, but it made me feel better after having written it.

CHRYSALIS

To all things there is a season

Even trials which, for no reason,

Seem to strike us down without remorse;

And when our time has run its course

We must remember, through our fears

That we are allocated only years.

We are born into this world

Larval, incomplete, and furled

With no knowledge of what awaits us soon;

And then we crawl into cocoons

Of wood and earth, and thence to die

While all around us, mourners ask God why.

In our rebirth, they cannot see

Our souls borne into eternity

As we emerge from our chrysalis.

And so, my love, I tell you this:

As from eternal grace hope springs

A butterfly begins to spread its wings.

Lie to Me

(spoken)

Hey.
You there.
Tell me I'm the one who sets your world on fire.
Say that I'm the only one that you desire.
Lie to me.

(singing in a minor key)

Hey.
You on the street.
Say that I'm the kind of girl you'd like to meet.
Tell me I make you tingle from your head down to your feet.
Lie to me.

(up tempo)

Tell me that you love me.
Tell me that you care.
Tell me that you need me
Like you need the air.

I know that it's a lie
But it's what I need to hear
To make it through the night
When the Wolf is at my ear.

Hey.
You there.
Lie to me.

(instrumental bridge; key change upward; faster tempo )

Feel like I've been lied to all my whole life
Don't see why that should change even now
Never gonna get to be someone's wife
So lie and say I make your heart go "wow!"

(spoken)
Because even cows get milked once in a while...

(back to original key)

Hey.
You at the bar.
Wanna take me home in your fancy car?
You can even hit me -- it won't leave a scar.
Just lie to me.

Hey.
You on the phone.
Won't you please throw a dog a fucking bone?
All I know is I don't wanna be alone.
Lie, lie to me.

Tell me that you love me.
Tell me that you care.
Tell me that you need me
Like you need the air.

I know that it's a lie
But it's what I need to hear
To make it through the night
When the Wolf is at my ear.

Hey.
You there.
Lie to me.

(fade out)

(spoken; no music; original tempo)

Hey.
You there.
Lie to me.

Waka Waka Waka

It amazes me
When I have nothing to say
And yet I still blog;
As if my constant talking
Will invoke my muse.
Any fool can fake haiku.
Structured poetry, you say?
Syllabic masturbation.

Waka.

A Sestina for Tool and Ass

A Sestina, as I'm sure you're all aware, is a kind of poem created by Arnaut Daniel in the late 12th century. Wikipedia defines it as "a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by a tercet (called its envoy or tornada), for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time."

A writer on a forum I frequent said that he had considered making a Sestina about someone he despised using the words tool, ass, loser, scumbag, putz and freak, but he decided against it because he was lazy.

Naturally, I accepted the challenge.

I present it to you here, that you may use it the next time you get into a flamewar with someone. Just replace the relevant names and change the pronouns as appropriate.

Because nothing says "class" quite so much as insulting someone with poetry.

A Sestina for Tool and Ass

I speak to you today of a gigantic tool;
One whose words are the braying of an ass:
He calls himself [name], but we name him "loser".
Would that we could fit him with a verbal scumbag
To contain the vile ejaculate of his words. Surely this putz
Dons a full-body condom before women willingly submit to this freak.

If he came near me in such an unprotected state I would freak;
The thought of being touched by his naked tool
Makes me ill. Who in their right mind would jack his putz?
I would rather have sexual relations with a horse or an ass
Before I allowed this sickening scumbag
To penetrate me with the genitalia of a loser.

Rational arguments separate a winner from a loser
But when confronted with logic, [name] will freak
And thence resort to ad hominem attacks. "Scumbag!"
He will call you, then chuckle at his cunning use of this tool
Of debate. But will [name of moderator] ever ban his ass?
Of course not, for he too is a putz.

Did you know that the Yiddish word for "dick" is putz?
Of course you did. You're not a loser
Who makes negative ass-
Sumptions. Wasn't that clever? Sometimes I freak
Myself out with my cleverness. By the way, [name] is a tool
And, lest I repeat myself, a scumbag.

Speaking of a scumbag,
The best part of [name] oozed from his father's putz.
He should have covered his tool
With a rubber and spared us from meeting his loser
Child. Sir, next time you wish to get nasty and freak
Your wife, please do her in the ass.

The world can't bear another ass
Like [name]. Keep your corrupt seed in a scumbag
Where it belongs, you genetic freak,
Or get a vasectomy on your putz.
At the game of life, you are a loser!
For your son is a giant tool.

Thus ends "Sestina for Tool and Ass;"
I am sick of talking about this loser [name], a scumbag
Whose putz, we all hope, will never get to freak.

(Yes, I know it's not in iambic pentameter. Sue me.)

Poetry for the Emotionally Exhausted

The universe whispers
Of chains and shadows
Beneath a delicate sky
Manipulating the apparatus
Of worship and need

Self-indulgent poetry sung to Nine Inch Nails

You call me broken
You dys my function
Mock my attention-whoring ways
But let me tell you
At least I'm still true
To what I said when you first met me

I tried to make us work
Unlike you, who always shirked
From anything that even seemed like conflict
Instead, you threw us both away
Too much trouble, as if to say
All our years of love were so much shit!

FUCK OFF AND DIE YOU SELF-CENTERED ABORTION!
AT LEAST I'M ME, NOT SOME DRUG-CRAFTED ZOMBIE
STEPFORD-WIFE PERFECTION YOU DESIRE!
THIS IS WHO I AM 'TILL THE DAY I DIE
AND ON MY GRAVE MY HEADSTONE WILL WAVE
MY FREAK FLAG, REGARDLESS OF YOUR IRE!

DO YOU LOOK BACK WITH ANY SHRED OF EMOTION?
REGRET, LOSS, SADNESS, RAGE, ANY HUMAN FEELING?
OR ARE YOU WARM IN YOUR COCOON OF "ME, ME, ME"?
I'M SORRY THAT MY NEEDS AND FEELINGS GOT IN THE WAY
OF THE ILLUSIONARY WORLD IN WHICH YOU LOVE TO PLAY
BUT BY GOD, NOW AT LEAST I'M FREE!

To say I don't care would be a lie
I want you to suffer, I want you to cry
I want you to hurt as much as I have!
But that will never happen, you're too shallow to feel
Anything that others might proclaim as "real"
So go back to your fake world to live and die

I'll never apologize for being me
And maybe on your deathbed you'll finally see
What a stupid, tragic waste your life has been
And when my inchoate existence ends
I will be surrounded by my friends
And you'll have stuffed animals in your tomb.