Triage

In Love’s service, only wounded soldiers can serve.” – Brennan Manning, Abba’s Child

He jests at scars that never felt a wound.” William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
I gather the wounded, from near and far
Giving my gift, no matter who you are
There are those who hurt, rip, break and maim
Even when slashed deep, I’m still the same
Reaching out in the raging battles night
With calm words healing, bringing compassions light
Warriors hardened with ease they kill
My talents bind the bloody that is my skill
So go with your swords, by them you’ll die
I come with second life, breaths from on high
I’ll relax on that day, with friends all around
People I never knew, in the field I found
They made it through with unsightly stitches
My helping hand, pulled them from the ditches
Triage is my name, and I wear it with pride
The next skin I save, may be your ugly hide

Imp – Making the best of your vile thoughts

“ ‘Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
When not to be receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed
Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing.”
Welcome my dark intruder. Let me tell you about myself. An evil little imp I am, born in the refuse of evil thoughts amassed. Yawn. What awaits this beautiful horrid world today? I grow strong pushing these carts of petty human imaginations. Thinking with no care, they litter my world with debris of vacant, selfish, and wicked thoughts. The perverse thoughts are the best, they’re so malevolent. I love to share these with my friends, with glee showing those thoughts aglow with an undead life, delightful in green and yellow decomposition. I wander through your churches, finding the best pulsating cast off there. Their thoughts never disappear, though let go, they stick to the walls and ceilings of their abodes or float through the air in a stinking mist. My job, of which I am quite partial, is to pick through these thoughts. If humans could see the clutter of stinging stench bearing piles of vain and perverse thoughts they thought no one knew, perhaps they would think with more vigilance. No matter, I love them, collecting them for the fires that burn cold and brewing a thick stew that never satisfies the hungry, nor quenches the thirst of parched wayfarers. That is the end result of their foolish contemplations, dissatisfaction and endless wandering to the next exciting vanity. I take my leave now of your company, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Now until we meet again, go easy with those vile thoughts of yours, I grow tired of my chore (wink)! Party on my dear fellow, and be sure to let your mind get the best of you, be undisciplined with it as you like for I need a few more trinkets of pulsating collectibles to fulfill my impish delight.

Imp – Making the best of your vile thoughts

“ ‘Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
When not to be receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed
Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing.”
Welcome my dark intruder. Let me tell you about myself. An evil little imp I am, born in the refuse of evil thoughts amassed. Yawn. What awaits this beautiful horrid world today? I grow strong pushing these carts of petty human imaginations. Thinking with no care, they litter my world with debris of vacant, selfish, and wicked thoughts. The perverse thoughts are the best, they’re so malevolent. I love to share these with my friends, with glee showing those thoughts aglow with an undead life, delightful in green and yellow decomposition. I wander through your churches, finding the best pulsating cast off there. Their thoughts never disappear, though let go, they stick to the walls and ceilings of their abodes or float through the air in a stinking mist. My job, of which I am quite partial, is to pick through these thoughts. If humans could see the clutter of stinging stench bearing piles of vain and perverse thoughts they thought no one knew, perhaps they would think with more vigilance. No matter, I love them, collecting them for the fires that burn cold and brewing a thick stew that never satisfies the hungry, nor quenches the thirst of parched wayfarers. That is the end result of their foolish contemplations, dissatisfaction and endless wandering to the next exciting vanity. I take my leave now of your company, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Now until we meet again, go easy with those vile thoughts of yours, I grow tired of my chore (wink)! Party on my dear fellow, and be sure to let your mind get the best of you, be undisciplined with it as you like for I need a few more trinkets of pulsating collectibles to fulfill my impish delight.

Ode to My Flame – An exposition of my muse

O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest 
heaven of invention. –  William Shakespeare

“In the early part of my life I carried the flame for fiery women: 
perky women who were not dumb.”Debra Winger
 
To the casual eye, a fire is a fire. There is much more to the flame, than what is taken for granted. My flame lives, breathing a jealous breath. It reaches out for more in hungry, at times violent, lustful hunts. My flame can be patient, lying dormant in embers of anticipation. It’s tongues lap gently at the air, crackles of passion beginning, growing with intensity, the climax a promise if given more; the afterglow a certainty, soft colors showing the lovers dance of death. Creating as it rolls and frolics, anything exposed to its playful antics will be changed. Sweet gentle animal, raging storm, my flame inspires awe and reverence. From ages beyond and before, men will court you. I use you sweet flame, and likewise you use me. Perpetuating my affair, I sit for hours watching you dance. A lustful patron, I eagerly throw you my supply to see you sway. Though my offering is consumable, without a care you eagerly consume my soul. Youre always faithful to perform, licking seductively, swaying, teasing. Spreading your heat, I feel your glow against me as I come close. My inspiring muse to create all, you bring romance to my cold nights and warm ambiance to chilled emotion. My flame, let me hold you, spinning around with joy, shedding your tears of laughter, sparks that disappear within seconds. Without you, I perish for want of nurture. You are my sustenance for long days; my lover flame, satiate me with your enduring comfort; you are my fire, you are my flame, you are my woman.

Ode to My Flame – An exposition of my muse

O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest 
heaven of invention. –  William Shakespeare

“In the early part of my life I carried the flame for fiery women: 
perky women who were not dumb.”Debra Winger
 
To the casual eye, a fire is a fire. There is much more to the flame, than what is taken for granted. My flame lives, breathing a jealous breath. It reaches out for more in hungry, at times violent, lustful hunts. My flame can be patient, lying dormant in embers of anticipation. It’s tongues lap gently at the air, crackles of passion beginning, growing with intensity, the climax a promise if given more; the afterglow a certainty, soft colors showing the lovers dance of death. Creating as it rolls and frolics, anything exposed to its playful antics will be changed. Sweet gentle animal, raging storm, my flame inspires awe and reverence. From ages beyond and before, men will court you. I use you sweet flame, and likewise you use me. Perpetuating my affair, I sit for hours watching you dance. A lustful patron, I eagerly throw you my supply to see you sway. Though my offering is consumable, without a care you eagerly consume my soul. Youre always faithful to perform, licking seductively, swaying, teasing. Spreading your heat, I feel your glow against me as I come close. My inspiring muse to create all, you bring romance to my cold nights and warm ambiance to chilled emotion. My flame, let me hold you, spinning around with joy, shedding your tears of laughter, sparks that disappear within seconds. Without you, I perish for want of nurture. You are my sustenance for long days; my lover flame, satiate me with your enduring comfort; you are my fire, you are my flame, you are my woman.

Seven Faults Of Foolishness – Fault #3 A Multitude of Words

Fault #3 – A Multitude of Words

When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.”
William Shakespeare

The water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark. The small truth has words which are clear; the great truth has great silence.”
Rabindranath Tagore

‘When there are many words, transgression is unavoidable, but he who restrains his lips is wise.’ – Proverbs 10:19
There is a babble of words in the mouth of the foolish not unlike a dripping on a rainy afternoon; endlessly flowing, each word declaring its presence noisily. Not knowing the end of their desire for admiration and a delight in showing their knowledge, the fool will not put an end to his conversation. I’ve seen it, from my own mouth, where speaking, I said to much, to the wrong people, and a peaceful situation became inflamed with the babbling brook of a foolish tongue. Not only the number of words, but the timing, revealing secrets of those around, gossiping without concern, throwing fuel on the fires of contention. Nothing is sacred in the foolish discussions engaged and promoted.
Finding the foolish in a crowd is easy. Look for the one talking endlessly, with jokes pouring out and gossip spewing forth. This person will “know” everything or most certainly have an opinion that they will share vehemently on any subject, professing their endless knowledge of all subjects. Turning easy conversation into platforms of self aggrandization, the audience shake their heads, the fool not noticing the tide of acceptance turning against him. Contention will certainly surround this person.
Holding the tongue is difficult, success in it determined by long periods of self discipline, and a constant vigilance against the errors of it in common conversation, which things the fool is concerned with.