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

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.

This tree is filled with many larks,
who sing from sun up ‘till it’s dark.
Always a new tune they have to hum,
while our lark hides feeling dumb.

Yet our lark contended seems,
in his world of wistful dreams.
Occasionally he does desire to sing.
His voice is inaudible in the perpetual ring.

Unnoticed he is more than happy to be
He can think, even when no one sees.
Sadly, some birds don’t know his ways.
They revel in the noise-filled haze.

“Sing!” say they to our lark accusatorily.
“You must express yourself orally,
we all sing quite loud, quite often
we sing even if we sound rotten.”

Our lark steps back, he is shy
with these demand he wants to cry.
Sing he cannot he has no refrain!
All songs have been sung again and again.

“I can’t” he mumbles nervously.
“I can’t do what you demand of me.”
“You must” they cry persistently
“You must sing with us in this tree.”

“The songs I’ll sing are old and worn.
They have all been sung before.
I want to sing a song that is new,
until then I cannot sing with you.”

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

For Fatigued Flowers

Do you think the flower ever gets tired of growing?
Does it think to itself on a day when the suns not glowing,
“here I am growing; but where are the people going?”
The flower has one purpose only: to glorify God.
As the people walk past and it’s trampled upon
the flower does not get angry, nor wish they were gone.

Do you think the flower ever gets tired of blooming?
Does it think while stretching in the sun’s light,
“my petals are opened, but you have only inward sight?”
The flower never screams, “Don’t forget about me!”
Even forgotten flowers still blossom with grace,
though they wither from the coldness of the human race.

Do you think the flower ever gets tired of hoping?
Does it think as it sees bouquets walking by,
“Yes today I want picked, so tomorrow I’ll die?”
A withered, forgotten flower is still a happy flower,
because it remembers its one day in the sun’s light-shower,
It remembers the sun’s merciful warmth and does not cower.

So flowers never tire of growing, blooming, and hoping.
As they join together to fill the earth’s meadow,
these flowers bloom unafraid of the trees dark shadow.
Each flower is a beautiful sight, when receiving God’s light,
it never feels useless, nor forgets its purpose,
for it remembers to glorify God in the act of existence.


photo found on pinterest

Nameless Nobility

The feathered bird waltzes in the trees.
Dancing from branch to branch,
he proclaims his territory.
A spotlight shines upon the king,
and a glorious breeze blows.

The breeze turns harsh and cold,
with it comes flying pellets of water.
Still the king dances,
wet though he may be.
He dances until he falls from the tree.

The morning spotlight searches,
but no tree king is found.
A child, instead walks on the ground.
Crouching down he in remorse,
her warm rain sprinkles the fallen king.