I was helpless,
I was shining.
You were knowing.
and bestowing.
When my steps were unsteady,
you held my hand.
You were ready.
Age is just a number, you said
grinning broadly like a
little girl repeating a loving fib.
You wanted a protector,
a guardian of devotion.
But I am not your Paul Bunyan,
the mighty timberman in your dreams.
In my twilight, I remember so many
mighty forests burning to cinder.
Frailty disintegrates the will.
Big-strong-protecting-men wilt with age.
They offer their pleading eyes,
longing to be cradled.
Maturity is mortality ticking.
I was helpless,
I was shining.
You were knowing,
and bestowing.
When my steps were unsteady,
you held my hand.
Full of warmth
Reflections back
Holidays contribute to that
Feel the holiday flavor
Ingredient added Joy and Happiness to savor
The thought of Lumber jacks
Paul Bunyan being just that
Fireplace center red and black bricks
A wish for snow
Night stars that shine
Holiday preparation
Fireplace jacket delight
The holiday season taking flight
Monday I'm a lady
Tuesday I'll be a fish
As for the weekend
Paul Bunyan, if I wish
My friend is Mickey Mouse
His brother's Donald Duck
Turn around and they'll be soldiers
Or maybe pick-up trucks...
Were our parents worried
Not a bit, you see
We were all so lucky ~
born in 1953
JOHN BUNYAN anticipated future, OUR neutral nomenclature
Some say God is "too male" - 'twere better "goddess" and "Mother"
My "preacher" saw sins since Adam and Eve, Face of Salvation:
"Such a comfort to call Grace, 'Abba, Father' - beyond ONE generation."
NOTES:
1. J. Bunyan, Works, I, pp. 627 ff. He adds, the one word spoken in faith us worth more than thousands filled with pride, "Father"
2. I am a Christ follower according to the Scriptures (both Testaments) but I empathise with those who, for want of a sensitive father in Earth, have doubts about the Goodness of our Father in heaven
No pity, please
for the oft-maligned onion
It single-handedly brought tears
to the eyes of Paul Bunyan
Bunyan and blue Babe
water crossing through water
pine scent combs Paul’s beard
U.S. curling capital
stalks of sunflowers
fanboy sun towards heaven
logger’s cold sets in
hard Winter in the North Woods*
mosquito frostbites
Babe and the lumberjack thrash
thunder and earthquakes —
quench me with life and legend
9/25/2020
*A legend is told of the giant Paul Bunyan and Babe, his blue ox.
soapy syllables smeared
by punctured peer
bounty biddings busted
callous crisp crushed
dainty debut drooled
fondling fingers fooled
sporty spills drenched
crumbling ink clenched
hoisting hankering etched
lanky lurch sustained
puking porous pain
pulpy poetry crave
his dark dribbles
lit rustic riddles.
'20:03:05:14:56
Note: Dedicated to John Bunyan.
It's wonderful~how some women's
shoes are delightful and feminine.
Yet women dress more and more
like men each day.
It's very sad in the USA, to watch
femininity quickly pass way.
Why wear pretty underwear inside
while dressing Paul Bunyan on the
outside?
Why get facial waxes, when a beard
and a mustache, matches your mannish
clothes and shoes?
What's the need for Dooney and Burke
expensive purses?
When sweaters your deceased grandpa
would not wear, you flash
with unabashed flair!
What happened to daughters who once
dressed as girls?
All have fallen and been totally destroyed
in a giant, omnivorous jean-factory world.
Why do sons and daughters dress like
fathers?
And why this fetish for masculinity?
And the crushing decimation of our
femininity?
January 24, 2020
11am PST
No fue mi plan, cuando tomé la pluma
para dedicar la obra que te ofrezco.
[...]
En esta variedad de pareceres,
Y o me encontraba como en un estrecho,
Y pensé: Pues están tan divididos,
Lo imprimiré, y asunto ya resuelto.
Não havia nada elitista ou sofisticado sobre Bunyan, mas havia algo excepcionalmente profundo.
Bunyan mostrou as eternas verdades eternas da Sagrada Escritura - a
milagre da graça redentora e a batalha que todo peregrino deve empreender
antes que ele chegue na Cidade Celestial.
E ele fez isso de uma forma que até mesmo a criança mais simples poderia entender.
Desde a idade de nove anos, meu apreço e minha paixão por as obras de Bunyan, especialmente Pilgrim's Progress cresceram.
Muitas das ilustrações me guiaram minha própria peregrinação. Mas, infelizmente, o que foi um benefício tão grande para mim é apreciado por apenas alguns parentes hoje.
Quem sabe aumentamos com a divulgação do livro.
http://bit.ly/2019_EL_progreso_del_Peregrino_Ilustrado_Espanhol
Pro Patria Mori
Missouri volunteers bit bullets, watched
as Santa Ana's baggage washed
their brazen hair, hip deep
in the Rio Grande.
The ancient river moved across the land
Like slow drool down a leather cheek.
Bang! Paul Bunyan's balls
rolled down the Great Divide, rattled
across the porcelain sea.
Oh, the girls!
Hair hot and black, Whoopee!
Their tongues as pink as baby fat.
Now tongs drop a hissing crepe
on the defoliated plate. Butter complicates
our fingers, soils the bib.
We crack a claw. Like a crib
at Benin, wary and dull,
the eagle fills his nest with skulls.
Thump, thump...thump, thump
Your heart beats with internal impediment
Making each breath a struggle.
I see your pain, I feel your anguish,
I dearly love your determination to endure.
I can only imagine how difficult it is to
relinquish days of youth when your strength
was the marvel of the men you worked with
side by side...celebrated as the Paul Bunyan
of the shipyard whose power knew no bounds.
Advancing years have garnered fears of
imminent shadows from the Grim Reaper
inching closer day by day until you can
feel his breath on the nape of your neck.
Past regrets loom before you of missed
opportunities, and so many things left
unaccomplished, unattended projects that
act as brutish reminders of failing health.
You think I don't understand the dilemmas
you face in just getting through another
hellish night of insomnia to sleepwalk
through another day plagued by doubts of
Time slipping away like a thief in the night.
I want to be here for you...with you.
Please let me be.
7-26-18
9/9/17
Don't f*****
Push my buttons
Really, really buzzin
Often high and drunken
Just trying to function
Stand in the way, and your ship will be sunken
No time for interruptions
If it is not about cash, end of discussion
Cold blooded
Leaving others gutted
Especially those that can't be trusted
A bunch of gluttons
And so much corruption
By the hundreds
Not dozens
They've been bluffin'
And frontin'
I wasn't
Really came up from nothin'
Did my own thing, got somethin'
And my name buzzin'
I blame myself for any self-destruction
No time for assumptions
Even after disruptions
And conundrums
Experiments continually conducted
Tools eventually rusted
Volcanoes erupted
Animals got hunted
Areas flooded
What some people just did
Left me disgusted
Which is why they quickly got punished
Since no one else did, I stood up to such rubbish
I was way down in a dungeon
Then clarity, came all of a sudden
Got out of there, and reached the summit
Way above it
With no intention to plummet
Or kick the bucket
While saying "f*** it"
Got strong like Paul Bunyan
Inside and out, no matter the obstruction
©2010 (Jim Sularz)
Was it by chance or pure circumstance,
that the path I took, led me far out West?
An island hop, a drifting castaway,
with treasured moments, of bygone yesterdays.
Where family, friends, who all grew old,
there, one by one died, as I was told.
Faint northern lights, where Paul Bunyan swings,
I’ll take back from time, my boyhood dreams.
I’ll renew the love, my heart holds high,
and celebrate in life, what remains of time.
I’ll turn back this vessel, that’s been adrift,
to a warm embrace, a last-forgotten kiss.
And when this journey draws near complete,
I’ll feel the soft Earth, cool, beneath my feet.
On that final hour, deep within my soul,
will live a place I once left, I’ll still call – home.
So, bury me high within the hills,
with the purple lilacs and the daffodils.
Where loons wail, and sighing willows weep,
where Hiawatha, rocks us fast asleep.
My mountain man was born in June.
He could do everything, even lasso the moon.
No problem was too big for him to undertake,
Even if it was a fixture that he had to make.
He was like Paul Bunyan, chopping trees and cutting wood,
To keep his little house as warm as he could.
In business he was about as hard a worker as they come.
To be astute and shrewd was his rule of thumb.
He and his wife owned a business and did all right.
Lots of good things were bought to their delight.
But the most important thing that had the highest cost,
Was the love they had for each other they somehow lost.
Now the two people that loved each other for years,
Cannot be in the same room without valid fears.
What happened to their love that began years ago?
Greed crept in, and they did not even know.
They should have been retiring together, holding hands on the beach.
Instead they are going separate ways, and thinking of the breach.
Money is not everything, there is only so much life you live.
Value the love you have, and in your heart forgive.
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
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