Sunday, June 21, 2015

MY FIGHTING BOOTS!


 Did you ever feel like quitting? Don't! Put on your fighting boots.
  
 MY FIGHTING BOOTS
by Amarilys Gacio Rassler

My fighting boots are worn today

From all the battles of yesterdays,

But if their tongues could come to life,

What stories they'd tell, of spiritual strife.

My fighting boots have served me well

They've helped me to stand against a savage hell.

Amidst the darts of Satan's own,

I lifted the shield and boot-clad, I won.

Though thirty-six years of warring they've made,

These fighting-boots' power won't change, won't fade.

For the strength of my boots comes from my God above

I could only thus stand, in my Savior's love.

My fighting boots are getting old,

But if your spiritual eyes could behold,

The celestial sparks upon the soles,

They'd see their readiness to help some soul,

Brave shoes, awaiting their marching call.

Then on that day when my eyes will close,

And my soldier's body comes to repose,

My fighting boots will come to rest

Upon my coffin, having passed their tests.

No more they'll need to shod my feet

For at the Pearly Gates at last I'll meet,

My beloved Who will change this army dress,

To my bride's sparkling robe of righteousness.

IN CUBA I WAS A BULLDOG ... MY FATHER'S VOICE ...


In Cuba ... my father's voice ... for Papi ... Father's Day 2015  

by Amarilys Gacio Rassler    (Castro known by some as The Horse)                     

                                                                                                         

                                                                                          
 

In Cuba I was a bulldog                                                                     

Strutting around, king of my mound,

Worked hard for those bones

I counted upon to later be found,

Hid them safely under sacred grounds.

Ay, in Cuba this bulldog strutted around, king of his mound!

 

In Cuba I was a bulldog,

Until from the mountain

"The Horse" came down                  

To whip and scourge

And rape our towns,

To hammer us docile

Into droopy-eyed hounds.

So this bulldog left with embedded howls,

Though mouth, fear chained, to muted sounds.

Adios to bones and sacred grounds.

In America I became a hard working dog,

A German Shepherd.

Took care of my pack

Tried not to look back,

Was paid with few bones

And at times felt alone.

 

But, but, in America

I soon had small hill

Where to rest and be still.

To lift up my head

And be free and be heard!

No more muted sounds

But small king, with little mound,

Though few bones now to count,

Still proud of this my new sacred grounds.

Ay Dios gracias for America ... for America!