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.

Shattered Reflections

When I was very little there was a red jay that used to come to our back porch every day, all summer long.  We had a glass sliding door that lead out onto the porch and a wood-railing that wrapped around the porch.  Every morning, like clock-work, that bird would perch upon the wood-railing, look at the glass, and then with all his might he would spread his wings and fly head-first into the glass door.  He would bounce off the door, then go back, sit on the railing, and do it all over again.  Over and over again we would hear the ping, ping, ping of his little beak hitting the glass. He would fly at that glass door from sun-up to sun-down every day until it was time for him to fly South, but we knew he would be back the next summer.  For 5 years we saw that bird, he chipped our glass door a few times.  For a while we could not understand what he was doing then we figured it out. That bird saw his reflection in the glass and he was trying to fly through the glass and get to himself.  A few years ago the red bird stopped coming to our house.  I don’t know what happened to him, maybe he died, maybe he finally broke through the glass.  I guess well never know, but I’ll never forget the bird who almost broke his neck trying to shatter the reflection he saw of himself.

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.”

An Eternal Rock Concert?

So last night I was so blessed to be able to cross off the number two thing on my Bucket list.  I got to see Bon Jovi, my absolute favorite band, live, in concert.  It was the most fantastic experience of my entire life.  When the opening band came out on stage I suddenly got very emotional.  You see my mom introduced me to Bon Jovi at a young age.  I’ve been listening to him my whole life and so many of his songs help me express my feelings.  I have been dreaming about this day for as long as I can remember and it finally came!  I honestly was on the verge of tears when I realized my lifelong dream was about to come true; I was about to be in the presence of Jon Bon Jovi!

As I fought back these tears another realization hit me.  If this is what it is like being in the presence of Bon Jovi, how much more fantastic will it be for me when I am in the presence of God?!  Do not misunderstand me, I am not equating Bon Jovi to God, but I am drawing a parallel between the experiences I have had with each of them.  As I already mentioned I grew up singing Bon Jovi songs, waiting for the day I would get to see him perform live.  Similarly, I was raised in a loving, Christian home.  I grew up reading God’s word, singing His praises and I continually wait for the day I will get to be in His glorious presence.  If I almost cried at a Bon Jovi concert, I cannot imagine what an emotional wreck I will be when God finally calls me into His glorious presence, and you know what?  I can’t wait!

Elmer’s World

Elmer locked the padlock on the rusted door of his 1983 Chevy Impala and stealthy placed the keys in his pocket.  He then turned to enter the local coffee shop, Bernie’s Coffee Pot.  Inside was a small, but warm space.  Elmer hiked-up his blue sweat pants up over his white t-shirt and walked up to the counter.  Bernie, a short and heavy middle-aged man with large glasses and a shiny head, greeted him cheerily.  “Hello Elmer,” said Bernie, “how are you today?”

“Well, I’m only okay,” replied Elmer with his nasally voice.  “My stomach is upset, and it kept me up half the night yesterday.”

“Oh, well that’s too bad.  What can I get you to drink?”

“Well I think I want a cup of hot black coffee, although I don’t like to drink hot coffee in the morning, because it makes me sweat under my armpits,” replied Elmer has he scratched the top of his bald head.

“One cup of coffee.  Have a good one,” said Bernie as he stood on his tip-toes to hand the tall Elmer his cup of morning armpit sweat.  Elmer walked out through the glass door and passed a suspicious looking man entering the shop.  This man wore a leather jacket and had spiked black hair.  Elmer rushed to the side of his padlocked car to make sure nothing of his had been touched.  Thank goodness his car was safe.  Elmer reached into his pocket to pull out the key when, to his chagrin, they were not there.  They must have fallen out of his sweat pants pocket when he took his wallet out to pay for his coffee.  Urgh, he did not what to go into the shop while that young hooligan was there, but it looked like that was what he was going to have to do.  As Elmer turned to go back into the shop he saw the black haired gangster walk over, lock the door and close the blind.  Elmer knew it, these youngsters aren’t to be trusted.  Now what was he supposed to do?


-What do you think should happen next in Elmer’s World? Leave a comment. 

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.