Fight your way up…
Take it to the top,
Yet never keep your dreams,
They dissipate for you.
The seasoned flavor changed,
And bitter taste remains,
Why do we have to cry,
To regenerate inside?
To taste these bitter tears…
Too numb with pain to know,This astringent medicine will
Cure your soul.
Discover purpose’s path,
How bitter pain can heal,
Medicinal tears impart,
If they open your heart.
Our heartbreaks will end,
The healing running from our eyes
Depression’s death arrives,
When Jesus is inside.
Drink in these bitter tears…
I can’t resist its flow,
This astringent medicine will
Cure your soul.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Sunday, August 12, 2007
The Joys of Love
Cupid’s Workshop
Narrator: Yes, beloved, Cupid hath a workshop. It be in the Sistine chapel, mortalized by Michelangelo. In his lair he wandereth, he mixeth, he stirreth his potions and coatings for his arrows. He carves and fletches, exams and stretches his bow, looking for any impurity that might necessitate it’s replacement. But he does not practice on bulls-eyes. His practice is his prey.
Cupid: Dancing, twirling, spinning, stirring,
Carving, fletching, examining, stretching,
In here my lair I set my blade,
Out in the world I ply my trade.
Customers unwitting,
Though perhaps desiring,
And unknowing what this is,
My gift they’re receiving.
Skin and flesh,
Bone and marrow,
Though these I pierce,
I set my arrow.
And though my scheme
They seldom see,
They think they’re guests,
My prey they be.
My appearance,
Unseen is seldom,
But on my arrows,
A joyful venom,
For bliss they hope,
But all in vain,
I take what’s theirs,
And give them pain.
Ah, joyful, delightful,
To see them try,
To find their way,
Ahh… wish to die.
Narrator: Cupid cackles maniacally, then exits the chapel. We follow him, our host delighted to demonstrate his trade.
Man: Ahh, I wish,
To have, just once,
The joy of love.
Cupid: You see this dunce?
But now, just watch,
Listen what he now says.
Man: For this sweet love,
I’d wear a fez.
You see that woman,
Her face so pure,
Her eyes so sweet,
Lips so sure?
Bodily perfection,
Through love’s eyes,
I want this one.
Cupid: It’s best she dies.
For when I strike his heart,
With my arrow true,
Coated with poison,
That this love grew.
Narrator: Cupid produces a jar of a curious red substance. With a sneer, he opens the lid.
Cupid: Ah, now, just watch,
This one’s most venomous,
Let’s not miss the fun,
Put lots, be generous,
For I do wonder,
If pain more profound,
This one will receive,
Then the last I found.
Display agony,
So my blade can gleam,
So that I can laugh,
And watch you scream.
Narrator: Cupid releases the poisoned arrow, striking the man’s heart. The immense pain stuns him. He chokes on his breath, then with a scream collapses on the ground!
Cupid: Ah, ha ha ha ha ha!
Well done, well done,
Splendid performance,
I do like this one,
Come now, take a bow,
Yes, now I’ll give you more,
For one’s not enough,
I must have my encore.
Encore! Encore!
Narrator: The second arrow is released, striking the woman this time. She too collapses on the street, screaming. The man’s pain is doubled, and he finds himself lacking breath to scream.
Woman:Oh, death be mine!
Come now, give me ease,
I beg of you, dear Death
Show me release!
I did think I knew,
What the man’s thinking of,
I wanted joy and bliss!
Cupid: And you find yourself with love.
Forgive me, my darling,
It was all for him, there,
Because of his love,
Your pain he’ll share.
Ah, my poor little love,
Take that arrow from your heart,
Though, I’m afraid, the poison,
Will not so soon depart.
But it’s not so fun, really,
If his pain makes him unable,
To show his truthful feeling,
And make relief a fable.
There, there, dear boy,
Some of the pain’s gone,
Come, show me your scream,
A trophy you have won.
Man: Though her love for me has gone,
And her pain relieved as well,
Should I now myself resign,
And submit the poor to hell?
For my service for the King,
Must outweigh the pain I feel,
For compared to what He had,
It is a Great White to an eel.
For my love for Him,
And Him for me,
Is no love Cupid can,
Bring about to give me pain,
As it would within his plan.
So pain aside, I stand again,
To work for Heaven’s will,
And perhaps someday,
The blonde will gray,
On Cupid’s evil skull.
And then, maybe, in Heaven,
On mountaintop or beach,
I’ll see my love,
And hold her where,
Cupid’s arrow cannot reach.
The End!
Narrator: Yes, beloved, Cupid hath a workshop. It be in the Sistine chapel, mortalized by Michelangelo. In his lair he wandereth, he mixeth, he stirreth his potions and coatings for his arrows. He carves and fletches, exams and stretches his bow, looking for any impurity that might necessitate it’s replacement. But he does not practice on bulls-eyes. His practice is his prey.
Cupid: Dancing, twirling, spinning, stirring,
Carving, fletching, examining, stretching,
In here my lair I set my blade,
Out in the world I ply my trade.
Customers unwitting,
Though perhaps desiring,
And unknowing what this is,
My gift they’re receiving.
Skin and flesh,
Bone and marrow,
Though these I pierce,
I set my arrow.
And though my scheme
They seldom see,
They think they’re guests,
My prey they be.
My appearance,
Unseen is seldom,
But on my arrows,
A joyful venom,
For bliss they hope,
But all in vain,
I take what’s theirs,
And give them pain.
Ah, joyful, delightful,
To see them try,
To find their way,
Ahh… wish to die.
Narrator: Cupid cackles maniacally, then exits the chapel. We follow him, our host delighted to demonstrate his trade.
Man: Ahh, I wish,
To have, just once,
The joy of love.
Cupid: You see this dunce?
But now, just watch,
Listen what he now says.
Man: For this sweet love,
I’d wear a fez.
You see that woman,
Her face so pure,
Her eyes so sweet,
Lips so sure?
Bodily perfection,
Through love’s eyes,
I want this one.
Cupid: It’s best she dies.
For when I strike his heart,
With my arrow true,
Coated with poison,
That this love grew.
Narrator: Cupid produces a jar of a curious red substance. With a sneer, he opens the lid.
Cupid: Ah, now, just watch,
This one’s most venomous,
Let’s not miss the fun,
Put lots, be generous,
For I do wonder,
If pain more profound,
This one will receive,
Then the last I found.
Display agony,
So my blade can gleam,
So that I can laugh,
And watch you scream.
Narrator: Cupid releases the poisoned arrow, striking the man’s heart. The immense pain stuns him. He chokes on his breath, then with a scream collapses on the ground!
Cupid: Ah, ha ha ha ha ha!
Well done, well done,
Splendid performance,
I do like this one,
Come now, take a bow,
Yes, now I’ll give you more,
For one’s not enough,
I must have my encore.
Encore! Encore!
Narrator: The second arrow is released, striking the woman this time. She too collapses on the street, screaming. The man’s pain is doubled, and he finds himself lacking breath to scream.
Woman:Oh, death be mine!
Come now, give me ease,
I beg of you, dear Death
Show me release!
I did think I knew,
What the man’s thinking of,
I wanted joy and bliss!
Cupid: And you find yourself with love.
Forgive me, my darling,
It was all for him, there,
Because of his love,
Your pain he’ll share.
Ah, my poor little love,
Take that arrow from your heart,
Though, I’m afraid, the poison,
Will not so soon depart.
But it’s not so fun, really,
If his pain makes him unable,
To show his truthful feeling,
And make relief a fable.
There, there, dear boy,
Some of the pain’s gone,
Come, show me your scream,
A trophy you have won.
Man: Though her love for me has gone,
And her pain relieved as well,
Should I now myself resign,
And submit the poor to hell?
For my service for the King,
Must outweigh the pain I feel,
For compared to what He had,
It is a Great White to an eel.
For my love for Him,
And Him for me,
Is no love Cupid can,
Bring about to give me pain,
As it would within his plan.
So pain aside, I stand again,
To work for Heaven’s will,
And perhaps someday,
The blonde will gray,
On Cupid’s evil skull.
And then, maybe, in Heaven,
On mountaintop or beach,
I’ll see my love,
And hold her where,
Cupid’s arrow cannot reach.
The End!
Saturday, April 21, 2007
The Oddestey
This is an odd story... the oddest story you will ever hear.
There once was a farmgirl. Her name was Melissa. Every day, after she had done her chores, she would look up at the pretty colors in the sky, watching the sunset in it's full array of reds and purples and pinks. She twirled a daisy in her hands, wondering if she would ever hold something so colorful, so astoundingly beautiful, in her hands.
There once was a traveling mage. His name was Andre. Every day, he would take a twilight walk thought the hills and watch the sky. He watched the billowing clouds, observed their direction, noting the wind, and considered in his mind what the following day's weather would be like. With the setting sun right behind him, he knew he was traveling east. Finally, taking a last look at the sky, he said, "Darn big storm coming up."
There once was a painter. His name was John Paul. Every day he would take his canvas and brush, and sit outside to watch the sun sink behind the mountains. The light, shimmering through the atmosphere, splashed an array of color and light onto the clouds, which he was sure had never been more red before.
And so these people, gazing at the same sky that night, each saw something in it that none of the others had seen. That night a storm ripped through their land. Lightning and thunder raged in the sky. The mage, huddled miserably in a soaking heap, shivered as the shower of water collected in the leaves and dripped gleefully onto his face. The farmgirl, sleeping in her bed that night, suddenly jumped up in fright as lightning seared the roof, and barely made it out the door in her nightclothes as the house burned to the ground. The wild gale ravaged the painter's impoverished house, ripping out the paintings and scattering them to the wind.
The moral of the story is three-fold: To the farmgirl, staring at nice things can make you neglect to notice important details, such as stormclouds. To the mage, when you see something bad coming, do something about it. To the painter, when you are blindly opinionated, you tend to only see one side of the circumstance, and neglect the other.
Apologies to Melissa, Andre, and John Paul for my use of their names in my story.
*Quote of the day:
"Know that life is not a haven; you live to weather storms."
Chiss the Cook*
There once was a farmgirl. Her name was Melissa. Every day, after she had done her chores, she would look up at the pretty colors in the sky, watching the sunset in it's full array of reds and purples and pinks. She twirled a daisy in her hands, wondering if she would ever hold something so colorful, so astoundingly beautiful, in her hands.
There once was a traveling mage. His name was Andre. Every day, he would take a twilight walk thought the hills and watch the sky. He watched the billowing clouds, observed their direction, noting the wind, and considered in his mind what the following day's weather would be like. With the setting sun right behind him, he knew he was traveling east. Finally, taking a last look at the sky, he said, "Darn big storm coming up."
There once was a painter. His name was John Paul. Every day he would take his canvas and brush, and sit outside to watch the sun sink behind the mountains. The light, shimmering through the atmosphere, splashed an array of color and light onto the clouds, which he was sure had never been more red before.
And so these people, gazing at the same sky that night, each saw something in it that none of the others had seen. That night a storm ripped through their land. Lightning and thunder raged in the sky. The mage, huddled miserably in a soaking heap, shivered as the shower of water collected in the leaves and dripped gleefully onto his face. The farmgirl, sleeping in her bed that night, suddenly jumped up in fright as lightning seared the roof, and barely made it out the door in her nightclothes as the house burned to the ground. The wild gale ravaged the painter's impoverished house, ripping out the paintings and scattering them to the wind.
The moral of the story is three-fold: To the farmgirl, staring at nice things can make you neglect to notice important details, such as stormclouds. To the mage, when you see something bad coming, do something about it. To the painter, when you are blindly opinionated, you tend to only see one side of the circumstance, and neglect the other.
Apologies to Melissa, Andre, and John Paul for my use of their names in my story.
*Quote of the day:
"Know that life is not a haven; you live to weather storms."
Chiss the Cook*
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Have fun... or die!
So life goes on...
It seems that every time you look one way, the light comes up the other way. So it is with me. No matter where I look, the excitement, fun, and joy are bouncing up in another quarter of the world. And it doesn't seem like just staying in one place helps any either. Don't want to cement in the wrong place, but neither want to run round the world chasing the proverbial carrot. I guess excitement and fun only come up where you look for them, so they say, but I've been looking VERY hard. And all I see is dots. Lots of dots.
That could also be due to the fact that I wear contact lenses, (without which, though it may be hard to believe, I'd be a lot uglier).
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Do it well
Today was Sunday, my day off. Now, naturally, on a day off you'd want to have it off, no? And after a full week, which mine certainly was, it was quite a wonderful one too.
To rest means spending most of my day on the computer, doing things that are, of course, entirly useless. Really, what is the point of having a day off if the things you do are useful? So reading, resting, praying, playing, and all that, is basically all my day is comprised off. No doing anything useful.
And the highlight of it all, billiards out in town. This evening, in true respect for useless activities, five of us (humans, that is) went out to the mall to play billiards. Amidst the discourse, we actually managed to get a game or two in, the first of which was tragically glorious. See, I did a perfectly good angle shot... only it was the 8 ball in the wrong hole.
The moral of this story is: if you must loose, do it well.
To rest means spending most of my day on the computer, doing things that are, of course, entirly useless. Really, what is the point of having a day off if the things you do are useful? So reading, resting, praying, playing, and all that, is basically all my day is comprised off. No doing anything useful.
And the highlight of it all, billiards out in town. This evening, in true respect for useless activities, five of us (humans, that is) went out to the mall to play billiards. Amidst the discourse, we actually managed to get a game or two in, the first of which was tragically glorious. See, I did a perfectly good angle shot... only it was the 8 ball in the wrong hole.
The moral of this story is: if you must loose, do it well.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Imaginative Brain
Such are the joys of living. You know, like is a lot like a dream. In what way, I'm not exactly sure, but trust me, it is.
I've recently had a dream that I was so sure was real, but I thought, "Hey. What if this is just a dream?" So, of course, I knocked myself on the head with my knuckles, and when I didn't feel it, I knew it was just a dream.
That, I think, is the only thing that seperates dreams from reality. The senses. Smell. Taste. Touch. Those are senses most often missing from the world in your mind, and the ways to define dreams from reality. Which brings us back to the age-old question, do blind people dream? Bah, never mind.
So anyway, when I realized it was a dream, I realized two things as well:
1. I was in the world of my own thoughts.
2. I can think anything.
Which leads to the conclusion that I can do anything in my dreams. So, of course, I set about altering the world around me. First, everything cement turned to dust. Next, a forest grew out of the ashes. Next, there were no people in existance other then me and a scad of women. Next... well, I woke up.
But dreaming is more exciting then reality. Especially when you realize you're dreaming.
*Quote of the day:
I will always have bigger muscles then Andy.
Chiss the Cook *
I've recently had a dream that I was so sure was real, but I thought, "Hey. What if this is just a dream?" So, of course, I knocked myself on the head with my knuckles, and when I didn't feel it, I knew it was just a dream.
That, I think, is the only thing that seperates dreams from reality. The senses. Smell. Taste. Touch. Those are senses most often missing from the world in your mind, and the ways to define dreams from reality. Which brings us back to the age-old question, do blind people dream? Bah, never mind.
So anyway, when I realized it was a dream, I realized two things as well:
1. I was in the world of my own thoughts.
2. I can think anything.
Which leads to the conclusion that I can do anything in my dreams. So, of course, I set about altering the world around me. First, everything cement turned to dust. Next, a forest grew out of the ashes. Next, there were no people in existance other then me and a scad of women. Next... well, I woke up.
But dreaming is more exciting then reality. Especially when you realize you're dreaming.
*Quote of the day:
I will always have bigger muscles then Andy.
Chiss the Cook *
Friday, March 23, 2007
To Rain
Rain. What a wonderful thing. Wonderful when taking a walk by the countryside, and just about anytime. Of course, there are a few little things that rain ruins like nothing else:
1. Camping. There were two times I've taken a hammok out to the forest to go camping. Each time, because of lack of rope, I've been forced to use ingenious methods to attach my bed to the trees. Each time, by hard work and divinely inspired contraptions including belts, boughs, and tree sap, I managed to get it up beautifully. Of course, when the rain comes, it seems less so. And crawling into the others' tent soaking wet at two in the morning somehow seemed to lessen their affection for me at the moment, though I'm still at loss why.
2. With children. Ever been out to the part on a perfectly deceptive sunny afternoon, and then, when you are 30 minutes walk away from the house, you see an ominous black belching cloud of darkness coming toward you. Naturally, the first thought is something like... "Oh fough. We're going to die." Second thought is, "Their parents are going to kill me," in which case this thought is immidiately followed by, "Oh, fough. I'm going to die."
3. When out in the city. Rain is not a bad thing, but when you are dressed in a dashing green coat and silver pants, hands full of posters sauntering past the people in the town thinking, "Look a'me!" And then. Water starts trickling from the sky. Now, you know that a drop of water with stick out on your green coat like a black permnant marker. Soon you have so many of these spots on your jacket that you grimace and point to the sky, thinking, "Look a'that!"
But there's really nothing we can do. So we might as well enjoy the rain, because... well, it's enjoyable. And whether or not you enjoy it...
The rain must fall.
*Quote:
It's probably going to rain today. And tomorrow. And the next day. All day long. Chiss the Cook *
1. Camping. There were two times I've taken a hammok out to the forest to go camping. Each time, because of lack of rope, I've been forced to use ingenious methods to attach my bed to the trees. Each time, by hard work and divinely inspired contraptions including belts, boughs, and tree sap, I managed to get it up beautifully. Of course, when the rain comes, it seems less so. And crawling into the others' tent soaking wet at two in the morning somehow seemed to lessen their affection for me at the moment, though I'm still at loss why.
2. With children. Ever been out to the part on a perfectly deceptive sunny afternoon, and then, when you are 30 minutes walk away from the house, you see an ominous black belching cloud of darkness coming toward you. Naturally, the first thought is something like... "Oh fough. We're going to die." Second thought is, "Their parents are going to kill me," in which case this thought is immidiately followed by, "Oh, fough. I'm going to die."
3. When out in the city. Rain is not a bad thing, but when you are dressed in a dashing green coat and silver pants, hands full of posters sauntering past the people in the town thinking, "Look a'me!" And then. Water starts trickling from the sky. Now, you know that a drop of water with stick out on your green coat like a black permnant marker. Soon you have so many of these spots on your jacket that you grimace and point to the sky, thinking, "Look a'that!"
But there's really nothing we can do. So we might as well enjoy the rain, because... well, it's enjoyable. And whether or not you enjoy it...
The rain must fall.
*Quote:
It's probably going to rain today. And tomorrow. And the next day. All day long. Chiss the Cook *
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)