Rob Krabbe's Blog: From a Krabbe Desk, page 10
August 23, 2010
On an August Monday Morning
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Would you give a hostage taker the money first? Hand him a million dollars cash when he says, "I'll tell you where she's buried, when you give me the money?" When he gets in the car with the cash, and says, "answer the phone in an hour, and I'll tell you then; if I tell you now, I'm as good as caught." Would you expect the phone to ring in an hour? Would you expect the hostage taker to call and give you the location of the buried hostage? A tried and true plot I'll admit, many...
August 21, 2010
The King Laments (part 5)
Into the great house of God
Up the steps, into the foyer
Odd, it’s pretty bright up ahead in that room
Stop for a moment, think, think, think
And then don’t think anymore for a while
That, my friend is feasting in style
The fools go in to say things, to ask questions
Such important things to say to God
To rant, to rave, mostly they don’t know
How to just be. They have no real clue
The things they really, and truly do.
Quiet, listening, searching, emptiness
Take time, to just be, to listen, to just keep
Hold my freaking breath, as it puts off my freaking death
Time with the Spirit of the ages
The mountain of wisdom from the sage of the sages
What do you really have to say, anyway?
For me, not a damned thing.
I just want God to let me pull the rope to make
The big bell ring, now that would be cool
Most sleepless nights
I dream when my mind won’t shut down
My dreams are not any kind of wisdom
Just rattling around, the crap on the ground
The ravings of a fool, so many words
So many things out loud to the universe
Screamed out boldly as if I had anything to say to the planets
Instead, emptiness, hard to come by,
Lay it down they say, how do I do that in just one moment
In just one lost and lonely day?
But silence and emptiness is gold
It is better, by far, than the meaningless vapors
The meaningless drivel of my own soul
Worse my mind, when it utters a lie
To cover the fact or to hide
My foolishness
Surely I can’t promise anything, say anything,
But my word better be my damned word if I do
Or damned I will be, because, who’s house am I in after all?
Fools rush in and promise the freaking world
Just to get a nod, for a god they barely even believe in
Simpletons, and wanting to die for all time.
I would rather make no promise, no statement
No opinion, things I never really meant, like kindling
I would rather come out of this great house
Having stolen wisdom and words from the creator
The one who placed the stars in the skies and named them all
Then to pretend I have anything at all to offer
Light it up, burn it down, fuel from my own foolish desire
My dreams, my thoughts, are liars
My promises, my intentions, most of them good, but
Still all vapors of lies.
How can I say even one true thing, before I die?
Everything I do then becomes a lie if I open my mouth.
I will stand then, instead
Quiet and dead, open my eyes
Listen with my heart and just
Live in the words and thoughts of God
Rest in the arms of the One
And of this great house of His and His spirit
Which has roamed these halls for all time.
And all of mine, tick tock, going to the fire
So . . . words are crap, and burn brighter.
I look at the hungry, the left out
The poor people all lined up
And I see the proud and mighty standing over
Watching like vultures instead of healers
The King, well, candidly makes his due as well
It costs a lot to keep this great palace of mine
And to have a golden chair on which to rest my behind
I see the lovers of money and things
And once that bell rings in a heart
The heart has a bottomless hole for more
Like an whore, an addiction, the more I have the more I want
And it’s all meaningless vapor, shadows of meaning.
Fading.
The better the economy gets in good times, the more people want
The more we all try to keep, and spend and horde, and pile
I sit naked on my pile of gold, and see and feel only old, and still
My pay is the way it feels to sit naked on cold cash
Gives me a stupid rash, and I should have known
Leaves me empty, and cold.
But the times I roll up my sleeves, and sweat a bit
Trying hard to make something happen
I don’t think so much about how much I will collect
Eat, keep, or pile up, so much as
I think, look at this thing that I have done
Look at the pride of the father for the son
Look at the way I feel when its finished.
I go to sleep tired and satisfied from the toil of that day
And sleep, in a sleepy and full kind of way
But when a man sits on his pile of cash
When he thinks about all of his things
He lies awake and has more of those meaningless
And frightful dreams
Will someone take my gold
Will someone leave me old and in need
Will someone come and steal all my things?
I would just like to die while I have my eyes
On the prize, when money is all that I strive
I would die, for all time
So naked came first, from my mother’s womb
And naked I go to the tomb.
Nothing gold came with me
Nothing gold will rot with me
In the grave, but my nakedness, is the only reality.
So I dance naked instead
Celebrate my nothingness
Because there will be no UHaul to the grave
SO pretty much I have figured out
That all of this crap
Is just vapor and meaningless
And all of this will just fade.
The more I have in my pile
The more I sit in darkness by myself and while
The hours go, and the riches grow
My heart, dies a little more every day
And I know, I too will not make the grade
When I simple fade
Till I got it!
I understood it!
I worked hard, made some cash, and threw a bash
The end of a good days work rave
And jumped out of the grave
And partied with my friends, and ate and drank
But bring along your poor and your needy
Let’s do a good days work, for a good days pay
And then lets rock and roll and share the
Party the night away.
Let’s do the dance of a day’s joy
Keep only what we need that day and night
Smoke it, burn it, and share it
And party like its 1999
Not to party sake, but to celebrate
The day’s work is good
The grace is enough from a God
Who gets the worship, and praise
From our, days work bash
And from all of our nights and our days
Where we celebrate, and lift our hearts and hands to the sky
On a bon fire, hot and bright, burning through the night
That in part, is fueled with gladness of heart
And burning up all the extra foolishness
God keeps me busy, with gladness and gratitude
No time to be rude, no time to horde food
Let’s just invite more the day’s work bash
And tomorrow we’ll work even harder for cash
So we can invite more to the party
So more can eat hearty, for all the days of our lives
That, my friend, is not meaningless
That is the “rest of the story,”
That is a reflection of Glory I may not ever understand
But the manna in hand, passing out through the land
And filling every stomach with food, and every heart with praise!
For all of our nights, and for all of our days!
And that never fades.
Up the steps, into the foyer
Odd, it’s pretty bright up ahead in that room
Stop for a moment, think, think, think
And then don’t think anymore for a while
That, my friend is feasting in style
The fools go in to say things, to ask questions
Such important things to say to God
To rant, to rave, mostly they don’t know
How to just be. They have no real clue
The things they really, and truly do.
Quiet, listening, searching, emptiness
Take time, to just be, to listen, to just keep
Hold my freaking breath, as it puts off my freaking death
Time with the Spirit of the ages
The mountain of wisdom from the sage of the sages
What do you really have to say, anyway?
For me, not a damned thing.
I just want God to let me pull the rope to make
The big bell ring, now that would be cool
Most sleepless nights
I dream when my mind won’t shut down
My dreams are not any kind of wisdom
Just rattling around, the crap on the ground
The ravings of a fool, so many words
So many things out loud to the universe
Screamed out boldly as if I had anything to say to the planets
Instead, emptiness, hard to come by,
Lay it down they say, how do I do that in just one moment
In just one lost and lonely day?
But silence and emptiness is gold
It is better, by far, than the meaningless vapors
The meaningless drivel of my own soul
Worse my mind, when it utters a lie
To cover the fact or to hide
My foolishness
Surely I can’t promise anything, say anything,
But my word better be my damned word if I do
Or damned I will be, because, who’s house am I in after all?
Fools rush in and promise the freaking world
Just to get a nod, for a god they barely even believe in
Simpletons, and wanting to die for all time.
I would rather make no promise, no statement
No opinion, things I never really meant, like kindling
I would rather come out of this great house
Having stolen wisdom and words from the creator
The one who placed the stars in the skies and named them all
Then to pretend I have anything at all to offer
Light it up, burn it down, fuel from my own foolish desire
My dreams, my thoughts, are liars
My promises, my intentions, most of them good, but
Still all vapors of lies.
How can I say even one true thing, before I die?
Everything I do then becomes a lie if I open my mouth.
I will stand then, instead
Quiet and dead, open my eyes
Listen with my heart and just
Live in the words and thoughts of God
Rest in the arms of the One
And of this great house of His and His spirit
Which has roamed these halls for all time.
And all of mine, tick tock, going to the fire
So . . . words are crap, and burn brighter.
I look at the hungry, the left out
The poor people all lined up
And I see the proud and mighty standing over
Watching like vultures instead of healers
The King, well, candidly makes his due as well
It costs a lot to keep this great palace of mine
And to have a golden chair on which to rest my behind
I see the lovers of money and things
And once that bell rings in a heart
The heart has a bottomless hole for more
Like an whore, an addiction, the more I have the more I want
And it’s all meaningless vapor, shadows of meaning.
Fading.
The better the economy gets in good times, the more people want
The more we all try to keep, and spend and horde, and pile
I sit naked on my pile of gold, and see and feel only old, and still
My pay is the way it feels to sit naked on cold cash
Gives me a stupid rash, and I should have known
Leaves me empty, and cold.
But the times I roll up my sleeves, and sweat a bit
Trying hard to make something happen
I don’t think so much about how much I will collect
Eat, keep, or pile up, so much as
I think, look at this thing that I have done
Look at the pride of the father for the son
Look at the way I feel when its finished.
I go to sleep tired and satisfied from the toil of that day
And sleep, in a sleepy and full kind of way
But when a man sits on his pile of cash
When he thinks about all of his things
He lies awake and has more of those meaningless
And frightful dreams
Will someone take my gold
Will someone leave me old and in need
Will someone come and steal all my things?
I would just like to die while I have my eyes
On the prize, when money is all that I strive
I would die, for all time
So naked came first, from my mother’s womb
And naked I go to the tomb.
Nothing gold came with me
Nothing gold will rot with me
In the grave, but my nakedness, is the only reality.
So I dance naked instead
Celebrate my nothingness
Because there will be no UHaul to the grave
SO pretty much I have figured out
That all of this crap
Is just vapor and meaningless
And all of this will just fade.
The more I have in my pile
The more I sit in darkness by myself and while
The hours go, and the riches grow
My heart, dies a little more every day
And I know, I too will not make the grade
When I simple fade
Till I got it!
I understood it!
I worked hard, made some cash, and threw a bash
The end of a good days work rave
And jumped out of the grave
And partied with my friends, and ate and drank
But bring along your poor and your needy
Let’s do a good days work, for a good days pay
And then lets rock and roll and share the
Party the night away.
Let’s do the dance of a day’s joy
Keep only what we need that day and night
Smoke it, burn it, and share it
And party like its 1999
Not to party sake, but to celebrate
The day’s work is good
The grace is enough from a God
Who gets the worship, and praise
From our, days work bash
And from all of our nights and our days
Where we celebrate, and lift our hearts and hands to the sky
On a bon fire, hot and bright, burning through the night
That in part, is fueled with gladness of heart
And burning up all the extra foolishness
God keeps me busy, with gladness and gratitude
No time to be rude, no time to horde food
Let’s just invite more the day’s work bash
And tomorrow we’ll work even harder for cash
So we can invite more to the party
So more can eat hearty, for all the days of our lives
That, my friend, is not meaningless
That is the “rest of the story,”
That is a reflection of Glory I may not ever understand
But the manna in hand, passing out through the land
And filling every stomach with food, and every heart with praise!
For all of our nights, and for all of our days!
And that never fades.
The Opening Blog from The Krabbe Blog
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Well, here I am. Setting up the Krabbe Blog. I have a blog on Goodreads.com but wanted to set this up on my own web site. So I am about half way done with figuring out how to do that, and it is raining while I am working . . . nice. In a matter of days, or hours, or weeks, I will have it up on the Krabbe.com web site. I have linked this to my FaceBook account too, so that's why it has shown up on my newsfeed. Thank you all who have ordered my recent book, "Chaos to Order and...
August 20, 2010
The King Laments (part 4)
Again under the sun, don’t run, did you see it?
Oppression, submission, forced labor, sex and comfort
Run for it, but you will too fade away
There is no rest or mercy for the mark,
And in the dark screams her pain
The power, the authority, the man to be, the man
Still in control, still in his hole, and still
The was no peace, no rest, no righteousness
So one day I said, from the top of my parapet
The dead, are, drop dead, happier than the living
Even the zombies have more fun
The walking dead at least get a cool time under the sun
But then they are, as we said, dead, Fred
But the best place to be is the not yet
The soon to be, no as much, but
The not yet, the time to get, the far off in the sunset
No evil to see, no fear to feel, no pain, no tears, no drain
To not yet be, is hopeful, not knowing,
what is, and what will be
Then I saw that the work men do, under the same sun
And the things men want and accomplish, and run
The goals they reach, the treasures they hide
Even the good that mankind does, is a lie
Chase the wind, boy, meaningless. Fading, son.
Foolish man, the fool, fold your hands, and die
Better open one hand at least, to accept life
But sadly you have only one mouth for the lie,
And one hand for the sky!
Or, fool, one hand for peace, at least
But the true fool uses two hands for life’s work
So just go chase the wind now, and waste no more time
For yours is a chasing of the wind
Then I saw loneliness, like a demon, spread into a man
Take him down, to the ground, no son, no brother
No significant other, not even a life’s partner to hide
From the conservative right
No end to his work either, just to die
His wealth piled high, his treasures piled higher
“For whom am I working?
Why do I work for myself when I am a liar?
No enjoyment, just piles higher and higher
My stuff owns me, I am the slave.
And all this time, I worked and behaved.”
His business is a miserable one
If he falls down, no one helps him up
He just lays there upside down, like a turtle, rotting in the sun
Yet the man who has nothing but nothing, and one poor friend
has a better end, and a better time
As he is pulled out from under the sun
Watch them lie down together
Those two, misunderstood, misjudged as lovers
Watch the people raise their eyes, brows and all
But they are warm through the night
And they help each other when one of them falls
How can one keep warm alone?
The righteous man, is overpowered by himself
But when twined like a rope, the two, can do
When braided together, the three
And a three way, not easily broken
Four together, forget it, this is no token attempt
This is common defense
Team spirit
Together we stand, divided we say, but its true
Do you mind if I just sit here with you?
So, better a poor wise young homeless guy
Than an old but foolish king, who no longer hears the warning
Who no longer has warmth at night
Who lies in a heap without the ability to get up
The young homeless man may come straight out of jail
And become King, or born in a hell hole without a thing
Within his own Kingdom, and follow this king to the throne
And the King dead and faded, and the young man in his new, fantastic home
I saw that everyone who walked under the sun
Followed the homeless man and not the king
And the youth became king when the king faded away
Meaningless wisp of smoke, and ashes
Then of course the young man was also a horrible king
But no one cared, because this too was stupid and faded away
Faded into nothingness, till it was so faded, it never had been.
And this new foolish King, was still chasing the same wind
Under the same sun.
Oppression, submission, forced labor, sex and comfort
Run for it, but you will too fade away
There is no rest or mercy for the mark,
And in the dark screams her pain
The power, the authority, the man to be, the man
Still in control, still in his hole, and still
The was no peace, no rest, no righteousness
So one day I said, from the top of my parapet
The dead, are, drop dead, happier than the living
Even the zombies have more fun
The walking dead at least get a cool time under the sun
But then they are, as we said, dead, Fred
But the best place to be is the not yet
The soon to be, no as much, but
The not yet, the time to get, the far off in the sunset
No evil to see, no fear to feel, no pain, no tears, no drain
To not yet be, is hopeful, not knowing,
what is, and what will be
Then I saw that the work men do, under the same sun
And the things men want and accomplish, and run
The goals they reach, the treasures they hide
Even the good that mankind does, is a lie
Chase the wind, boy, meaningless. Fading, son.
Foolish man, the fool, fold your hands, and die
Better open one hand at least, to accept life
But sadly you have only one mouth for the lie,
And one hand for the sky!
Or, fool, one hand for peace, at least
But the true fool uses two hands for life’s work
So just go chase the wind now, and waste no more time
For yours is a chasing of the wind
Then I saw loneliness, like a demon, spread into a man
Take him down, to the ground, no son, no brother
No significant other, not even a life’s partner to hide
From the conservative right
No end to his work either, just to die
His wealth piled high, his treasures piled higher
“For whom am I working?
Why do I work for myself when I am a liar?
No enjoyment, just piles higher and higher
My stuff owns me, I am the slave.
And all this time, I worked and behaved.”
His business is a miserable one
If he falls down, no one helps him up
He just lays there upside down, like a turtle, rotting in the sun
Yet the man who has nothing but nothing, and one poor friend
has a better end, and a better time
As he is pulled out from under the sun
Watch them lie down together
Those two, misunderstood, misjudged as lovers
Watch the people raise their eyes, brows and all
But they are warm through the night
And they help each other when one of them falls
How can one keep warm alone?
The righteous man, is overpowered by himself
But when twined like a rope, the two, can do
When braided together, the three
And a three way, not easily broken
Four together, forget it, this is no token attempt
This is common defense
Team spirit
Together we stand, divided we say, but its true
Do you mind if I just sit here with you?
So, better a poor wise young homeless guy
Than an old but foolish king, who no longer hears the warning
Who no longer has warmth at night
Who lies in a heap without the ability to get up
The young homeless man may come straight out of jail
And become King, or born in a hell hole without a thing
Within his own Kingdom, and follow this king to the throne
And the King dead and faded, and the young man in his new, fantastic home
I saw that everyone who walked under the sun
Followed the homeless man and not the king
And the youth became king when the king faded away
Meaningless wisp of smoke, and ashes
Then of course the young man was also a horrible king
But no one cared, because this too was stupid and faded away
Faded into nothingness, till it was so faded, it never had been.
And this new foolish King, was still chasing the same wind
Under the same sun.
August 19, 2010
The King Laments (part 3)
There is a time for everything
And that means, everything
Birthing, killing, dying, living
Healing, infecting, building, demolishing
Weeping, laughing, grieving, dancing
Pimping, limping, hating, lancing
Scattering, gathering, tossing, fancying
Catching, dropping, messing and mopping
And a time to refrain
A time to find your keys, to get to your knees
Losing, choosing, a time for thank you and please
A time for embracing, chasing, and a time to lay off
Keep the clock, lay on the dock, wear a smock
Just plain get paint all over yourself
A time to try harder, be smarter, search or hide
A time to keep secrets, tell stories, or trust and confide
A time to fix it up, or tear it down, build them up, or put it down
A time for war, for peace, for truce, to attack, and a time to turn the stereo down
So what’s in it for me, for you?
What does the job pay?
For a week or a day?
I’ve seen what God lays on people
Beauty, and a heart for eternity, although
Not a person really gets it, what He’s done
What he’s given, created, sacrificed and won
From the beginning to the end, from the start to the finish
From the first light to the end of the night
There’s nothing that does it more, than to find a way
To be happy, filled with joy
Eat, drink, dance, play
And do all these things, in your work too
Although the drink, well maybe lay off that till quitting time
It’s way the hell more simple than hell
God says, look around, enjoy, just give me the credit
Once in a while, give me a nod
Don’t forget there is justice
Some day the bill comes
Don’t forget
Just so you know, I looked towards judgment,
I found evil
I looked towards justice
I found evil
So frankly, give it a rest
Leave that to God’s wisdom
As I said, there is a time for everything
And that same God will look at the accounts
And weight the costs
And will present the bill
My advice, get it paid.
Just so you know,
Sometimes God lets us see what crap heads we really are
Live like a craphead, die like a crap head
As crap heads die, so we will too
On your own, you can’t be anything but a crap head
Who really knows if there will be crap heads in heaven?
Not my business, but I’ll try a little
Not to be a crap head anyway
To sum up, party. Dance. Run and play
From the middle of the night to the middle of the day
And back again, and when its time for work
We covered that, there is a time for everything
Then when work is the deal, party there too
Get off on everything. Then you’ll do more
Enjoy more, live more, heal more, love more, deal more
And when it is time to die, you’ll welcome that too
How many of us can see what happens the day after we die?
Not I.
And that means, everything
Birthing, killing, dying, living
Healing, infecting, building, demolishing
Weeping, laughing, grieving, dancing
Pimping, limping, hating, lancing
Scattering, gathering, tossing, fancying
Catching, dropping, messing and mopping
And a time to refrain
A time to find your keys, to get to your knees
Losing, choosing, a time for thank you and please
A time for embracing, chasing, and a time to lay off
Keep the clock, lay on the dock, wear a smock
Just plain get paint all over yourself
A time to try harder, be smarter, search or hide
A time to keep secrets, tell stories, or trust and confide
A time to fix it up, or tear it down, build them up, or put it down
A time for war, for peace, for truce, to attack, and a time to turn the stereo down
So what’s in it for me, for you?
What does the job pay?
For a week or a day?
I’ve seen what God lays on people
Beauty, and a heart for eternity, although
Not a person really gets it, what He’s done
What he’s given, created, sacrificed and won
From the beginning to the end, from the start to the finish
From the first light to the end of the night
There’s nothing that does it more, than to find a way
To be happy, filled with joy
Eat, drink, dance, play
And do all these things, in your work too
Although the drink, well maybe lay off that till quitting time
It’s way the hell more simple than hell
God says, look around, enjoy, just give me the credit
Once in a while, give me a nod
Don’t forget there is justice
Some day the bill comes
Don’t forget
Just so you know, I looked towards judgment,
I found evil
I looked towards justice
I found evil
So frankly, give it a rest
Leave that to God’s wisdom
As I said, there is a time for everything
And that same God will look at the accounts
And weight the costs
And will present the bill
My advice, get it paid.
Just so you know,
Sometimes God lets us see what crap heads we really are
Live like a craphead, die like a crap head
As crap heads die, so we will too
On your own, you can’t be anything but a crap head
Who really knows if there will be crap heads in heaven?
Not my business, but I’ll try a little
Not to be a crap head anyway
To sum up, party. Dance. Run and play
From the middle of the night to the middle of the day
And back again, and when its time for work
We covered that, there is a time for everything
Then when work is the deal, party there too
Get off on everything. Then you’ll do more
Enjoy more, live more, heal more, love more, deal more
And when it is time to die, you’ll welcome that too
How many of us can see what happens the day after we die?
Not I.
The King Laments (part two)
In my heart, I thought . . . pleasure,
now there's the thing to try.
Enjoy myself fully.
I laughed till I cried,
Thinking foolishness was the thing.
Find out what is meaningful . . . but
Shadows of meaning. Fading.
I tried drinking. I thought,
A taste of the wild side,
Some wine, some fun,
some late nights and
harmless mindless foolishness.
Think some great thoughts.
Consider the effects wisely.
I wanted to see what was worth anything at all.
Out of all the things men do, what was worthwhile?
For the length of a man's life, what really works?
I found shadows of meaning, fading, and a hangover.
I tried being a productive man,
Suit and tie.
Presidential and finery so fine.
I built things, houses, gardens, fields of crops,
Ran pipes, and watered fields of trees,
Grow food, I thought, that's the thing,
The very thing everyone needs.
I began to collect things that make a man.
Servants, money, power,
Herds of animals, cars,
The list goes on, and on.
Treasures heaping in my warehouse.
Things fit for a king, [and I am one:].
Singers, musicians, and women,
Let me tell you about the women!
My book was full of phone numbers
and email addresses
Of the most gorgeous and pleasurable . . .
God's creation, halleluiah!
I was the envy of all men, everywhere.
I would have envied myself, but I am king,
A collection of life beyond compare.
My value was sky high, and I felt I was
Better than anyone,
And, with all this heady stuff,
I was still as wise as I could be.
I denied myself nothing I wanted,
I refused myself not a single desire of my heart,
Even my work was satisfying,
My heart swelled with joy for a time,
For a moment in time.
And this was my reward, nothing more.
For all my efforts, in time.
When I finally looked around at my life.
At my wealth.
At my collection of people, places and things.
In time, I realized, it was an illusion.
Shadows of meaning, just out of grasp.
Fading.
Again, chasing after the wind,
Nothing was gained.
So back to wisdom.
And madness, and craziness.
What more can the king do,
Than the king before?
Wisdom was better than craziness of course.
Just as light was better than darkness.
The wise man, sees where he is going,
While the fool, stumbles around in the darkness.
Yet, here's the irony, they both have the same end.
Deep in my heart, I thought,
The result of the foolish life,
Takes me in my grave also.
What do I gain living wise?
Deep in my heart, I surmised,
Shadows of meaning, fading.
For neither the wise man nor the fool,
Will be long remembered.
In days to come,
Both are done,
Both are dead,
Both are dust.
Both must,
Die.
Both will fade.
I began to hate life, or at least the work.
Since it was all a shadow of meaning, or nothing,
Or chasing after the wind,
I hated all the things
I felt I had wasted my time to achieve.
What sense does it make
To put in such great effort,
and leave it behind,
To those who don't really care anyway.
Wise?
Or foolish, I have no say,
They just walk in and take over,
They may burn my empire to the ground,
What have I to say,
For I am a shadow of meaning, fading.
Man, I felt bad.
Depression set in yet once again.
now there's the thing to try.
Enjoy myself fully.
I laughed till I cried,
Thinking foolishness was the thing.
Find out what is meaningful . . . but
Shadows of meaning. Fading.
I tried drinking. I thought,
A taste of the wild side,
Some wine, some fun,
some late nights and
harmless mindless foolishness.
Think some great thoughts.
Consider the effects wisely.
I wanted to see what was worth anything at all.
Out of all the things men do, what was worthwhile?
For the length of a man's life, what really works?
I found shadows of meaning, fading, and a hangover.
I tried being a productive man,
Suit and tie.
Presidential and finery so fine.
I built things, houses, gardens, fields of crops,
Ran pipes, and watered fields of trees,
Grow food, I thought, that's the thing,
The very thing everyone needs.
I began to collect things that make a man.
Servants, money, power,
Herds of animals, cars,
The list goes on, and on.
Treasures heaping in my warehouse.
Things fit for a king, [and I am one:].
Singers, musicians, and women,
Let me tell you about the women!
My book was full of phone numbers
and email addresses
Of the most gorgeous and pleasurable . . .
God's creation, halleluiah!
I was the envy of all men, everywhere.
I would have envied myself, but I am king,
A collection of life beyond compare.
My value was sky high, and I felt I was
Better than anyone,
And, with all this heady stuff,
I was still as wise as I could be.
I denied myself nothing I wanted,
I refused myself not a single desire of my heart,
Even my work was satisfying,
My heart swelled with joy for a time,
For a moment in time.
And this was my reward, nothing more.
For all my efforts, in time.
When I finally looked around at my life.
At my wealth.
At my collection of people, places and things.
In time, I realized, it was an illusion.
Shadows of meaning, just out of grasp.
Fading.
Again, chasing after the wind,
Nothing was gained.
So back to wisdom.
And madness, and craziness.
What more can the king do,
Than the king before?
Wisdom was better than craziness of course.
Just as light was better than darkness.
The wise man, sees where he is going,
While the fool, stumbles around in the darkness.
Yet, here's the irony, they both have the same end.
Deep in my heart, I thought,
The result of the foolish life,
Takes me in my grave also.
What do I gain living wise?
Deep in my heart, I surmised,
Shadows of meaning, fading.
For neither the wise man nor the fool,
Will be long remembered.
In days to come,
Both are done,
Both are dead,
Both are dust.
Both must,
Die.
Both will fade.
I began to hate life, or at least the work.
Since it was all a shadow of meaning, or nothing,
Or chasing after the wind,
I hated all the things
I felt I had wasted my time to achieve.
What sense does it make
To put in such great effort,
and leave it behind,
To those who don't really care anyway.
Wise?
Or foolish, I have no say,
They just walk in and take over,
They may burn my empire to the ground,
What have I to say,
For I am a shadow of meaning, fading.
Man, I felt bad.
Depression set in yet once again.
August 18, 2010
The King Laments (part one)
Shadows-of-meaning, illusion, everything fades.
Nothing but shadows-of-meaning, fading.
It's all shadows of meaning.
What is there to show for a lifetime?
Of effort, struggle, work, and dreams?
Working till your half dead, stressed out,
To the point of bad health, or death, or what?
Shadows-of-meaning. Fading.
Generations work and built empires
Poor and rich
Generations die paupers and kings.
Generations working and building empires.
Working towards the grave
And at the helm of the ship, generations will die.
Shadows of meaning. Fading.
Youth takes over.
Some day youth becomes old and will die.
Shadows of meaning. Fading.
My children at the reigns?
Until their death. Or who?
The reigns of what?
Nothing changes.
(Hang on it gets better.)
Oh, yes, shadows of meaning.
The world spins and the earth quakes,
The storms come and go.
The sun rises and the sun falls and
Indeed, The sun sees all,
From his lofty old place,
That lofty old sun,
Yet . . . men's dreams of conquest fall
Governments put in to play great plans
For mankind and personal gain.
New governments are also gone
Soon into shadows of meaning,
Yes, shadows-of-meaning fading.
Nothing new, nothing, nothing, nothing,
Everything's been tried, and still someone says . . .
Look at this new thing! Yet that too will fade.
All the waters rush to join the sea,
The winds rush to their destiny.
The sea sucks up the water and spits it to the sky,
With the winds help, comes round full circle,
Rains fall, and water rushes in rivers to the sea.
Work, work, work,
Is the eye, never satisfied with the view?
Is the ear never satisfied with the sounds?
Nothing new, nothing, nothing, nothing,
Everything's still been tried, and some new man says . . .
Look at this new thing! Yet that too will fade.
Shadows of meaning.
All the great things and small,
That happened years ago,
All the great people and humble,
That lived years ago,
None are remembered now.
Even those born tomorrow,
Both ideas, and people of greatness.
All the meaningful things.
Will be shadows of meaning.
Nothing remembered.
The "teacher", let's face it, King of all,
He was a learner, a good thing.
He was a wise man, a good thing.
He was a man who tried to figure out
The mysteries and happenings
Of this world under heaven.
He saw much.
And all of it,
Shadows of meaning, illusion.
Like trying to catch the wind,
Finding meaning in this life.
Futile attempts were made,
To sort it all out.
But, if it was twisted, it stayed twisted,
If it was only a dream,
It could never be counted on at all.
He said to himself (the king),
I have gotten wise and sure,
More than any King before me,
My experiences are vast,
Especially in wisdom and knowledge,
Yet also in madness, and even just outright fun craziness,
Trying to find meaning,
I learned that I would sooner catch the wind,
Than figure out even the simplest thing.
Wisdom brought me down, I crashed and burned.
Knowledge brought me trouble, and further down.
Nothing but shadows-of-meaning, fading.
It's all shadows of meaning.
What is there to show for a lifetime?
Of effort, struggle, work, and dreams?
Working till your half dead, stressed out,
To the point of bad health, or death, or what?
Shadows-of-meaning. Fading.
Generations work and built empires
Poor and rich
Generations die paupers and kings.
Generations working and building empires.
Working towards the grave
And at the helm of the ship, generations will die.
Shadows of meaning. Fading.
Youth takes over.
Some day youth becomes old and will die.
Shadows of meaning. Fading.
My children at the reigns?
Until their death. Or who?
The reigns of what?
Nothing changes.
(Hang on it gets better.)
Oh, yes, shadows of meaning.
The world spins and the earth quakes,
The storms come and go.
The sun rises and the sun falls and
Indeed, The sun sees all,
From his lofty old place,
That lofty old sun,
Yet . . . men's dreams of conquest fall
Governments put in to play great plans
For mankind and personal gain.
New governments are also gone
Soon into shadows of meaning,
Yes, shadows-of-meaning fading.
Nothing new, nothing, nothing, nothing,
Everything's been tried, and still someone says . . .
Look at this new thing! Yet that too will fade.
All the waters rush to join the sea,
The winds rush to their destiny.
The sea sucks up the water and spits it to the sky,
With the winds help, comes round full circle,
Rains fall, and water rushes in rivers to the sea.
Work, work, work,
Is the eye, never satisfied with the view?
Is the ear never satisfied with the sounds?
Nothing new, nothing, nothing, nothing,
Everything's still been tried, and some new man says . . .
Look at this new thing! Yet that too will fade.
Shadows of meaning.
All the great things and small,
That happened years ago,
All the great people and humble,
That lived years ago,
None are remembered now.
Even those born tomorrow,
Both ideas, and people of greatness.
All the meaningful things.
Will be shadows of meaning.
Nothing remembered.
The "teacher", let's face it, King of all,
He was a learner, a good thing.
He was a wise man, a good thing.
He was a man who tried to figure out
The mysteries and happenings
Of this world under heaven.
He saw much.
And all of it,
Shadows of meaning, illusion.
Like trying to catch the wind,
Finding meaning in this life.
Futile attempts were made,
To sort it all out.
But, if it was twisted, it stayed twisted,
If it was only a dream,
It could never be counted on at all.
He said to himself (the king),
I have gotten wise and sure,
More than any King before me,
My experiences are vast,
Especially in wisdom and knowledge,
Yet also in madness, and even just outright fun craziness,
Trying to find meaning,
I learned that I would sooner catch the wind,
Than figure out even the simplest thing.
Wisdom brought me down, I crashed and burned.
Knowledge brought me trouble, and further down.
August 15, 2010
From the Tech Booth at the Seneca Presbyterian Church
The people begin to come in. Jovial and loud fellowship, in a sanctuary that has had the echoes of 100 years of the hopeful. A weeklong built up need to connect. Microphones muted and at the ready. Projectors illuminating walls that could not have dreamed such beautiful images would be splashed onto the stark white surfaces. The sound system breathing a wisp no one can hear, but the sound says readiness to roar to life when needed.
The organ begins the welcome, with a pump being manned by volunteers, ghosts of a day before electricity, but now replaced by an outlet and a fan motor, the bellows more consistent, as the spirit of a man from a hundred years before ties up his horse out front on a rail that has been replaced by a paved road and curb.
The spirits of past desires, hopes, dreams, pain, and love become the aroma of the ages that the current group of people breath deeply in this old room. As I hit a mike cue for the pastor, I realize that the voices of sixty pastors and all their dreams and cares join the new pastor as she takes the worship stage, the chancel that has provided a platform at the same weekly hour since 1907.
It occurs to me that the Lord's prayer being said now by this congregation is the same set of words that has been prayed each week, by children and parents for generation after generation of people desperately seeking God's presence. Over five thousand times the words echoing through the room.
I have heard the words of the enlightened who giggle and scoff at even the idea of a god. The sneering of the wise and educated who have long outgrown their need for the "silliness and foolishness of religion," and yet today, I know something I have not known before. As I look at the glowing face of great great grandma Betty, who is old enough to have been at that first service over one hundred years ago. I would trade the smart and mature cynicism of the wise and evolved intellect for the foolish but solid faith and love I see in Betty's eyes, just as I wish it was as easy to still believe in my forty-nine year old heart as it seems to be for the young children who sing Jesus Loves Me during the Sunday School hour.
So as faith is first a choice, I choose to believe and pray to God, just as a scholar once prayed, God help only my unbelief.
The organ begins the welcome, with a pump being manned by volunteers, ghosts of a day before electricity, but now replaced by an outlet and a fan motor, the bellows more consistent, as the spirit of a man from a hundred years before ties up his horse out front on a rail that has been replaced by a paved road and curb.
The spirits of past desires, hopes, dreams, pain, and love become the aroma of the ages that the current group of people breath deeply in this old room. As I hit a mike cue for the pastor, I realize that the voices of sixty pastors and all their dreams and cares join the new pastor as she takes the worship stage, the chancel that has provided a platform at the same weekly hour since 1907.
It occurs to me that the Lord's prayer being said now by this congregation is the same set of words that has been prayed each week, by children and parents for generation after generation of people desperately seeking God's presence. Over five thousand times the words echoing through the room.
I have heard the words of the enlightened who giggle and scoff at even the idea of a god. The sneering of the wise and educated who have long outgrown their need for the "silliness and foolishness of religion," and yet today, I know something I have not known before. As I look at the glowing face of great great grandma Betty, who is old enough to have been at that first service over one hundred years ago. I would trade the smart and mature cynicism of the wise and evolved intellect for the foolish but solid faith and love I see in Betty's eyes, just as I wish it was as easy to still believe in my forty-nine year old heart as it seems to be for the young children who sing Jesus Loves Me during the Sunday School hour.
So as faith is first a choice, I choose to believe and pray to God, just as a scholar once prayed, God help only my unbelief.
August 14, 2010
And Then There Were Three
Hard to drive your baby girl to college. Hard to drive your baby girl to the church, where a young man waited to disregard anything you had ever had to say on any issue, and take your daughter to his life, his house, his bed, and away from your protection.
Then in the spirit of letting go and trusting a God who had blessed you with these very girls and helped bring them to adulthood . . . damn, there's that word that takes away my arguement if I choose one.
Adulthood.
What was it all for, if not this day? It was to help them become really great adults, and though they are not quite there, it is time. Crap.
Rob walked to his living room, sniff, sniff . . . he could sense it as if it were an aroma . . . testosterone was, for the first time in 20 years, the predominant hormone in his house. The Boy and himself, and Melissa would be the minority now. Would this mean more car chases, more killings, more western shoot 'em ups, more just plain good fun with violence for no real reason, laughing at bodu sounds, or maybe just the blessing of more hot water for showers?
Still, so far, it only meant that the house smelled more like feet.
Then in the spirit of letting go and trusting a God who had blessed you with these very girls and helped bring them to adulthood . . . damn, there's that word that takes away my arguement if I choose one.
Adulthood.
What was it all for, if not this day? It was to help them become really great adults, and though they are not quite there, it is time. Crap.
Rob walked to his living room, sniff, sniff . . . he could sense it as if it were an aroma . . . testosterone was, for the first time in 20 years, the predominant hormone in his house. The Boy and himself, and Melissa would be the minority now. Would this mean more car chases, more killings, more western shoot 'em ups, more just plain good fun with violence for no real reason, laughing at bodu sounds, or maybe just the blessing of more hot water for showers?
Still, so far, it only meant that the house smelled more like feet.
August 12, 2010
The Judgment Seat
He walks, step by step to the daily appraisal
Sitting in the judgment seat
He closes his eyes for a moment
And considers, his daily considerations.
What is this ritual, this fascination?
Contemplation, of and on some scale
To pale in comparison, this measurement
The excrement, and fancy of what demon?
Sitting further down as he sees the score
More and more, he knows, like days before
To store up guilt and disrespect, like some grain
Insane silo full of some indecent musings and self inflicted judgment
The dance of darkness and pandering to sparks
And pops of crackling, left to pour over the meat
Take a huge cube of the flesh, and savor
The flavor is deep and rich, with the blood of the lamb
I am as it seems, just going through the motions
The devotion of one who has long seen his day
Then unexpected and startling the day finds a way
And the way is a chance for rebirth today
Not in some stereotypical white robe and
Tear drenched flapping of faith dances
For the masses, no, a true moment
The summit of hope and new light
Then the deep of the night, sets me free
And me? I open my eyes
To die to the past and to live to the dream
That some snatch of hope is the air I breathe
And rise, I once again, from the judgment seat
Sitting in the judgment seat
He closes his eyes for a moment
And considers, his daily considerations.
What is this ritual, this fascination?
Contemplation, of and on some scale
To pale in comparison, this measurement
The excrement, and fancy of what demon?
Sitting further down as he sees the score
More and more, he knows, like days before
To store up guilt and disrespect, like some grain
Insane silo full of some indecent musings and self inflicted judgment
The dance of darkness and pandering to sparks
And pops of crackling, left to pour over the meat
Take a huge cube of the flesh, and savor
The flavor is deep and rich, with the blood of the lamb
I am as it seems, just going through the motions
The devotion of one who has long seen his day
Then unexpected and startling the day finds a way
And the way is a chance for rebirth today
Not in some stereotypical white robe and
Tear drenched flapping of faith dances
For the masses, no, a true moment
The summit of hope and new light
Then the deep of the night, sets me free
And me? I open my eyes
To die to the past and to live to the dream
That some snatch of hope is the air I breathe
And rise, I once again, from the judgment seat
From a Krabbe Desk
A thought, now and then, this "blog," and it is more a matter of filtering than writing. It is that scavenging through the thoughts to find one or two that transcend from an inner reality to a deciphe
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