It’s the Star Spangled Banner’s Bicentennial

O say did you know that a key long ago 
is what opened our patriot praise?
Anchored far out at sea, Mister Francis Scott Key
saw Old Glory still flying unfazed.

O say can it be that a lawyer like he
could describe what he saw with such grace?
Like the rockets red glare and bombs bursting in air
as he watched our flag stationed in place?

O say have you heard (though I think it absurd)
that his poem was set to a tune
used for hoisting an ale when old sailors set sail
on a voyage in search of doubloons?

O say can you see that this song of the free
is deserving our time to reflect?
It’s two hundred years old, yet it glistens like gold
and its full text we tend to neglect.

Have you ever read all the verses to our National Anthem?

O say can you see by the dawn’s early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
‘Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh long may it wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

O thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war’s desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav’n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Let’s hear it for rhetorical questions!

Are you ready for some football?
Is Pope Francis Catholic?
Do the Packers hate the Seahawks?
Does a candle have a wick?

Will Obama’s hair turn grayer?
Does Las Vegas still have slots?
Are the Mariners still hopeful?
Do da Bears fans love their brats?

Are the following true statements?
Denver’s bent on sweet revenge.
Richard Sherman has an ego.
Tailgate drinkers tend to binge.

Well, I guess you know the answers.
Every one calls for a yes.
So it’s clear that some are ready.
But I’m conflicted I confess.

Football is some folks religion.
And it’s really sad and odd
that the Lord’s day is now Game Day
and the pigskin is their god!

A viral phenomenon on Facebook

A pail of water on the rocks
poured out on someone’s head
is raising funds for A.L.S.
to honor those now dead.

This viral challenge you have seen
includes some friends you know.
They’ve gotten soaked or sent a check
to beat this heartless foe.

It robs you of your arms and legs.
In time it steals your breath.
This dreaded thief called A.L.S.
has one cruel goal. Your death!

Lou Gehrig bravely took his swings
until he had struck out.
But sadly far too many folks
don’t know what he’s about.

But that has changed thanks to this craze
that’s drenched our friends with cold
in hopes we’ll wipe out A.L.S.
intentionally and bold.

Who would have guessed an ice cold bath
would aid this uphill fight?
Yet still we pray we’ll find a cure
for this most deadly plight.

Looking for answers in Feguson, Missouri

Yes, young Michael Brown’s been buried
and there’s violence in the streets,
but the issues are not simply black and white.
Like an iceberg, what’s apparent
doesn’t show what might be seen
as we search for what is wrong and what is right.

Racial tensions neath the surface
cannot lightly be dismissed.
After fifty years of protests they remain.
But the problem’s more than color.
There are fifty shades of gray
that run and bleed like posters in the rain.

Who is guilty? That’s the question.
But the answer’s not that clear.
The accomplices are fear, distrust and hate.
Will a verdict be forthcoming?
Will the demonstrations cease?
Can’t we all just get along? We’ll have to wait.

Reflecting on the suicide of a much-loved celebrity

Goodwill hunting was his life.
Six decades marked by pain and strife.
He searched for meaning, love and peace
and dreams that never came.

This one who made us laugh was sad.
Denied affection from his dad,
young Robin turned to comedy
with hopes to turn the tide.

This child of privilege hunted still
and hoped his empty heart would fill
with true contentment, honest pride
and joy (fueled by success).

But in the end it all leaked out
as “father wounds” gave way to doubt
and in the process drugs and booze
dismantled peace of mind.

Depression filled his days with night
as darkness robbed his eyes of light.
The Robin Williams we admired
lost the will to live.

If only he had found the love
that he (from childhood) dreamed of.
A love that Father God extends
through friendship with His Son.