How? Well . . .

How can I write?
How can I write well,
when I have yet to live,
to break out of my shell?

How can I live?
How can I live well,
when I have yet to think,
to learn for myself?

How can I think?
How can I think well,
when I have yet to feel,
to let my heart swell?

How can I feel?
How can I feel well,
when I have yet to dream,
to discover new realms?

How can I dream?
How can I dream well,
when I have yet to write,
to pen out a tale?

Dance Flower, Dance!

The young flower laughs in the sun,
blossoming for all to see.
Playfully its petals fly, dancing
as the wind plays a beckoning tune.

The young flower sighs in the clouds,
blossoming, but no one sees.
Its petal falls slowly to the ground, for
the wind plays no song; it can’t dance around.

The young flower cries in the rain,
blossoming, its petals droop for all to see.
Petal cling tightly to shield the naked flower,
as wind blows harshly, to make the flower dance.

The young flower shivers in the snow,
It’s blossoms have all been blown away.
Naked in the wind it tries to sway,
As the winds song tauntingly plays.

Art’s God

Art speaks loud and clear,
begging you its voice to hear.
A picture says a thousand words.
A poem speaks undeterred.
All artists have tools and tales,
but messages from the heart don’t fail.

A painting may tell of gods above.
A poem may rhyme of gods below.
A picture may capture gods of love.
A melody may sing gods of sorrow.
A dance may point to gods of war.
A film may direct one god or more.

Each artist must think long, hard, and well
about the gods of which they tell.
As one who has chosen a God and an art
I’ll issue a warning to those at their start:
Be careful the story of gods you relay
Or you’ll answer to someone for those led astray.

Fountains of Faith

People flocked to the fountain and its cooling spray.
Its bubbling spring with no detectable source,
was something within her that sprang forth,
calming the masses and offering hope.

She knew of the river the flowed within her,
encouraging, demanding, loving, but stern.
The sound of the river offered her peace
and people were comforted by her serene face.

Abundantly joyful, unbreakably strong
her presence could make days less hard, less long.
She was loved and hated by those in her mist,
but the river always flowed and the fountain had no rest.

So the monument stands, effervescent with hope.
The people, they flock, for its source do they grope.
The fountains a guide to the river that flows,
in each person it touches a bubbling spring grows.

Worker Bees

There’s something buzzing by my head.

It’s the requests of all my friend bees.

They gather nectar for themselves,

Forsaking duties to queen and hive.

They steal the nectar and then run free

demanding both silence and help from me.

Each thieving bee thinks he or she is queen,

but each hive can only have ine queen bee.

What does it take to be queen bee?

If you are just conniving and cruel

do you think other bees will follow you?

Or will worker bees follow the hardest worker?

Time’s Song

Time is very hard to hear, but it makes a lovely song.

Every time the hour changes it makes a horrid BONG.

Time is such a wonderful thing and yet it’s awful too.

Every time the clock goes tick we learn something new.

Time is such an unforgiving thing, it offers no re-do

Every time the clock goes tock we get older too.

“Tick tock,” sings the clock, “bing bong.”

 

Another Look at the Lark Who Doesn’t Sing

There’s one little lark you never see,
He sits high up in the tree.
His body is scrunched against the trunk,
and in the shadows he tries to duck.

Us other larks who sit up there,
we’ve never heard him sing we swear.
He sits all day and listens intently,
but he never joins our songbird revelry.

We wonder if the quiet lark can sing,
or if he thinks he’s too good, a “little king.”
When we ask him to join he stares wide-eyed,
We can’t tell if it’s because of fear or pride.

Sometime we hear him start a refrain,
but when we join him he stops, in disdain.
He won’t join our melodious community,
though we always invite him to join the jubilee.

When one day we stopped making assumptions.
We had finally worked up the gumption.
We asked, “Why are you always so aloof?
Why won’t you sing along? Tell the truth.”

“I am not aloof, when you sing I hear,” he said.
“The thought of singing with you fills me with dread.”
“Why,” we ask, “do you not like us?”
“No, I do like you,” he said, “It’s just . . .”

“The songs you sing are slightly worn.
They have mostly been sung before.
I want to sing a song that is new,
until then I cannot sing with you.”

In our tree the quite lark remains,
Waiting to sing with us a fresh refrain.


The Lark Who Doesn’t Sing