My girl..and my girl, are girls! (Girl is a word for something very,VERY sweet.)

Girl, not gurl; or gheer-rel..or gerl, or however one might imagine it to be spelled. Girl! looks weird written down, something I never considered, or given much thought to. And speaking of that, I should be more considerate to the girls, and give them a lot more thought! They are special..guirrels!

God made me a most excellent gift when He brought me the wife..my personal ‘Eve’. And He gave us a special gift when He presented us with our baby girl..Elizabeth. Before there was them, –or they, I was sad all my days. Not thinking, I ate sad food, drove sad cars down weeping freeways..to Timbuktu! wrote sad poetry, for me and you. SAD summed up my life. But now all that is past. I love my girls..my girl, and my wife; and I still want to make them a great poem..like in days of olde. It’s funny, you know, it’s a bit funny. Before I had the best girl anyone could have, –That’s you, babe! when only there were girls who would leave me in the lurch; or high up looking down, from a perch! I would write down passionate lines..lines upon lines that found their mark. Poems like arrows shot from my heart’s strings, strung low..arrows that didn’t know quite where to go. I should have written more..many more, and quick! while I could; but how was I to know? My sad days were numbered, removed from those of poets gone, below. Giant were their feelings, their emotions condensed to ink, for the quills, ink, red ink, scoring black thoughts to paper, –Childe Harold, what works he wrought! but for naught. Poems can’t save your soul, even if epic..like that, there. Satisfaction in it’s fleeting, and those who sail those oceans, wind up in Davy Jones’s poets’ locker, monkey romantics, sunk..in icy waters, –(closing thought) alas! if only I could have me a lass. But there! it’s done; and we can only hope he made it somehow, contrary to all the evidences left behind in verse, scribbles in ‘is pockets. Only your bovine poet knows for sure, him and Jesus. Make your poem out to Jesus..Dear Jesus, –He’s the only one who sees us, as we are. Truly. So seize the moment! Hearts on fire, above or below. His love can save us for sure, the only one who knows..if we knew him, or not. It’s a sad poet indeed that does not proclaim the glory of the risen Lord. To him be all praise! His majesty doth amaze. And with that understanding, a sad poet’s transformed into a something much greater..but not the doggerelist himself, but He who lives in him, making of his life a new purpose, and poet..to tell every one of the gospel. And those who can hear his words, words like water watering parched hearts; and then those hearers among them who become doers, turn from sin, and open..unto him, that,THAT! is the poetry the Lord loves. Yes indeed! Kingdom coffee-house poetry for the ages..Way, the Truth, and the LIFE!

Girls! wife’s, –hear the wonderful poem of love God have wrote for you..it starts, “In the beginning..” and ends where it begun, “She is more precious than pearls..her price is far above rubies.”

Love, the Lord (~ Proverbs 31:10)

ps: Boys! and no sooner have you had that fine, sentimental impulse to consider their delicate feelings than they force your sympathetic hand – amazing! how God works, isn’t it?

Published by scrunchymacscruff

Thank you

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