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.


 

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.

A Tragically Beautiful Mind

A charming smile,
A chiseled face,
A figure of grace

We call the idol, “doll.”

A gentle spirit,
A thoughtful mind,
A heart that is kind

We call the virtue, “dull.”

The flowing gold hair,
The doe-like eyes
For her the heart sighs

We call the idol, “doll.”

The hands holding books.
The watchful eyes.
At her the heart sighs

We call the virtue, “dull.”

Petrarch says, “She ruled in beauty ‘ore this heart of mine.”
Shakespeare says, “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.”

We call the idol, “doll.”
We call the virtue, “dull.”

Tools of a Trade

Words are power.
They can be a double edged sword
cruel and deadly, leaving painful scars.
They can be a cool summer breeze
calming and serene, bringing peace and understanding.
Words are life.
God spoke the world into being.
With His words we were created.
Words are knowledge.
They can teach lessons,
convey ideas,
fill the mind.
Words are expression.
They represent who we are.
We are known by what we say.
We are remembered by what is written.
Words are art.
Bold and meaningful they fill an empty page.
Bright and colorful they paint the canvas of our lives.

Guess I’ll Go Eat Worms

The other day a red jay flew into my house,
It came to tell a little lie about a worm.
The little lie did not stay small, it grew tall.

You see he tried to eat this worm, before she was ready.
When she refused he lied and said she tried to eat him,
And the other worms, they believed the false red jay.

The gossip flew, it was the wind beneath his wings.
The worm never said a word, and she hurt when he lied.
She wondered who was the bird, and who was the worm.