Tweeting the Truth in Love
By Mark D. Stucky
We should be “speaking the truth in love,”*
posted Paul in Ephesians 4:15,
to speak and act out truth while filled
with self-sacrificial, unconditional love.
Not too-tough truth without compassion.
Not laissez-faire love without correction.
Certainly not rude comments
left on social media,
hidden from responsibility
by anonymity.
Certainly not tweeting lies with contempt,
insulting others with childish nicknames,
repeating falsehoods already debunked,
or disseminating self-serving distortions.
Paul didn’t excuse behavior so deplorable.
Why do so now?
*Note: Literally “truthing in love” in the original Greek text of the verse, incorporating both speech and actions.
(First published in Spirit Fire Review, 3 May 2022. See also my poems "The Art of the Devilish Deal," "Antisocial Media," and “What Would Jesus Tweet?")
(Image by Tina Nord on Pexels.com.)
Chantons tous avec le coeur
La Croix de Malte est ma bannière
Vous avez un nom du héros portugais
Vasco da Gama, votre renommée a été faite
Votre immense foule est très heureuse
Nord-sud, nord-sud de ce Brésil
Ton étoile, qui brille sur Terre, Illumine la mer
En athlétisme tu es un bras
En ramant tu es immortel
Dans le football, vous êtes le trait
Union Brésil-Portugal
En athlétisme tu es un bras
En ramant tu es immortel
Dans le football, vous êtes le trait
Union Brésil-Portugal
Chantons tous avec le coeur
La Croix de Malte est ma bannière
Vous avez un nom du hoeros portugais
Vasco da Gama, votre renommée a été faite
Votre immense foule est très heureuse
Nord-sud, nord-sud de ce Brésil
Ton étoile, qui brille sur Terre, Illumine la mer
En athlétisme tu es un bras
En ramant tu es immortel
Dans le football, vous êtes le trait
Union Brésil-Portugal
En athlétisme tu es un bras
En ramant tu es immortel
Dans le football, vous êtes le trait
Union Brésil-Portugal
The lady in red
Ah, Cristiane, so tall an elegant you are
Your dress richly red cost more than a pensioner’s yearly pay
Perfect your make-up; did you need help?
Ah, Cristine, you are so stern, a tanned gym mistress
wants us to pay our taxes on time, be modest in our pay demand
You are a Goddess and therefore pay no taxes
Ah, Cristine, I saw you once at Gar Du Nord in Paris, boarding a train
tall you were, among grey-suited men, deeply tanned your face
Your silk scarf is so colourful; who is your hairdresser?
Ah, Cristine, severely you lectured the Greeks squandering money
Demanding they pay promptly and save on social expenses.
The day you went for a holiday in the Bahamas.
The human troll
He was the tallest man I have ever seen, bigger than the rest
he had one big eye, a lantern, seeing wide and a smaller eye
seeing inwards; he retired as an airline pilot at 75.
He preferred to fly at night alone under the stars listening
to the symphony of the galaxy.
His motto was discretion, not for him to write a book hanging
out anyone, like when he flew explorers, sledges and dogs
to the Nord pole and said nothing when the fearless men
took the glory and got their names in the newspaper.
When he finally retired, there was not a word of his exploit
no king’s medal, no flags were waved.
He had his memory like when he landed on the Savannah
when the elephants played the trumpets to his honour and
The lions wagged their tales.
No one knew where he came from; he never told me
I guessed from a mountain somewhere in the hinterlands
the day he disappeared, the earth shock, I knew he
had been a troll trying his luck in the human world
The end of a friendship
I sat in the kitchen of the flat mother had left me,
trying to write a poem, when heard my former friend
coming up the stairs, I had locked the kitchen door
didn´t want them in or talk to them anymore.
They knocked on the door, let us in Joe, we know
you are in there, I didn´t answer.
When the knock stopped, they stood in the communal
hallway, cursing me, calling me and much more.
Once I had been one of them drifting through life
that has no purpose other than sitting in cafes drinking beer
wasting time with idle talk.
The kitchen was my den, my interest was writing.
I had lost my train of thoughts and switched on the TV,
It was in black and white, turned the sound off watched
people on a stage being funny and people laughing
with the sound off, it looked ridiculous.
I fell asleep but woke up early, in the Nord the night
is short in spring.
I made a cheese sandwich, drank coffee, grateful that
I was not like my former friends.
Lilly, yeah, in winter the yards know snow,
As I know ice melts, yet can be re-stored.
Say fine-line feline, ya don't wanna go.
How many built-up banks must I yet fjord?
It's not just your voice that ya look to throw,
Lovely liquid not so readily poured,
You're mine, c'mon, let's say "Make it so",
I'm not blind anymore, my Bravest Nord.
I'm HypeRion, but that you must know,
Since you were savin' most of my hoard
While I flew in the grass so very low,
Time returns, let's see what all can afford.
We never go so far out of our gourd,
The Hour's come 'round 'gain to take up my sword.
Old Mayor Morrison was so hep
And was filled with so much pep
He knew where the cars should run
That was DeLesseps Morrison
He swept the city clean
Do you know what I mean?
Building playgrounds and parks
NORD athletes making marks
But Governor he'd never be
Pelican State would never see
So he became a loyal diplomat
And we all knew that was that
Since he always wanted to go higher
One day he hitched a ride with a flyer
The little plane then crashed
Leaving all his hopes dashed
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