but not Bubba

So dang, what’s going on - - headed out, a white workboat of some kind that’s been to sea enough it’s not as sparkling clean as if it were a Navy craft. Neither am I, my heart, mind nor soul. The clouds are, and the sea, but not me.

Saturday morning on 7H porch, bit late to be blogging, which is not journaling but nevertheless, while breakfast warms in the toaster oven: seared sea scallops and pan fried scamp grouper over ww pasta.

Tomorrow’s poem catches the eye, a portion of Psalm 139 sometimes read at funerals, not often but sometimes. 

Psalm 139: 1-11, 22-23 Domine, probasti

1 Lord, you have searched me out and known me; *

you know my sitting down and my rising up;

you discern my thoughts from afar.

2 You trace my journeys and my resting-places *

and are acquainted with all my ways.

3 Indeed, there is not a word on my lips, *

but you, O Lord, know it altogether.

4 You press upon me behind and before *

and lay your hand upon me.

5 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; *

it is so high that I cannot attain to it.

6 Where can I go then from your Spirit? *

where can I flee from your presence?

7 If I climb up to heaven, you are there; *

if I make the grave my bed, you are there also.

8 If I take the wings of the morning *

and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,

9 Even there your hand will lead me *

and your right hand hold me fast.

10 If I say, "Surely the darkness will cover me, *

and the light around me turn to night,"

11 Darkness is not dark to you;

the night is as bright as the day; *

darkness and light to you are both alike.

22 Search me out, O God, and know my heart; *

try me and know my restless thoughts.

23 Look well whether there be any wickedness in me *

and lead me in the way that is everlasting.

Like some other Hebrew poetry, notably Psalm 137, it has an uh-oh at the end that we never read at funerals, but there you go.

DThos+