Missing You

 

I notice it the most at night—
How the sky seems to grow bigger,
And every star seems so far away.
How all the things I’ve struggled with;
My doubts and fears, my weariness and pain—
Grow dimmer, somehow,
With thoughts
Of missing you.
 
I always think that I’m OK
When it is daytime.
Somehow the sun’s bright light manages
To blind my mind and numb my heart.
And so it comes as a surprise
With every sunset,
With every gentle drawing of nighttime curtains
How much I didn’t know I missed you
In the day.
 
Perhaps it is the stillness—
So different from the cacophony of daily life
That lets my heart at last be heard.
Perhaps it is the feeling of being small:
A tiny speck alone against the universe
That makes me long for someone else
To help me hold this moment
Because it feels too big for my clumsy fingers.
 
And if you think that night
Is a time to close your eyes and go sleep
And forget the things that fill my life with music,
Then you are wrong.
Because I notice it the most at night—
My heart
Missing yours.

Masks

 

Have you noticed all the masks
That people have been wearing?
Not the ones of padded cotton
People wear into a store,
Nor the ones that doctors wear,
But the one that you
And I pull on around a crowd.
Oh, they are very easy
To pick out in a room-
When those about us try to hide their pain,
Cover tears and swollen eyes,
Pretending that their needs do not exist.
How I long to pull the mask down,
Look into their eyes
And tell them that I really, truly care.
 
And yet
I often do not realize
There is not one
But two
Masks that stand between us-
Theirs
And mine.
 
For you see,
I am often just as scared as they;
Afraid my love will be unwanted,
Thrown to the floor and laughed at,
Left lying there in little pieces-
Little pieces of my heart upon the ground.
 
And so-
You and I continue hiding.
Masking up our imperfections,
Putting bandages on vulnerablilities
That slip somehow, unbidden,
Through disguise.
Taking to the dance floor
Of our lives with forced laughter
When really we are aching,
Long to help,
Be there when they cry.
 
And doing so we miss our chance
To show them that we care
Because we are afraid of our own perceived ugliness,
When opening up our hearts
Could be the balm
That heals another’s soul.
 
So here’s to taking off my mask,
And helping others find as well
Their own beauty when they dare
To go without.

Giants

They say the giants went extinct years ago;
Too large for this land where the cities have crowded in together.
Here, in the smog-filled alleys, where one must struggle for every breath of air,
Their large lungs could never be filled properly.
In these streets, so crowded with people, where one can be knocked from his feet,
Their sleepy steps would speak of massacre.
Where skyscrapers lean against one another, blocking out the sun,
There was no room for a giant to stretch,
Reach his arms up to the sky
And settle for a nap.
 
And so they died.
Though archeologists with all their scientific gadgets
Have never found their bones,
The scholarly community still cries their creed
Of an ancient culture, overwhelmed by modern monoliths,
That fell asleep forever.
 
I have a different theory,
For I have seen the giants.
They are not dead, nor even sleeping;
No, they have only moved
Into wider, open spaces
Where the sun can caress their faces,
Where they can stretch and doze,
Where they can even dance in their wild, fierce ways,
In worship to the wind-gods of their heritage.
 
You can see them too.
If you make a pilgrimage to where the wheat-swept plains
Roll in glistening currents,
Where coyotes sing their lonesome songs
And pheasants flutter fearfully away,
Where a man can look for miles with nothing to block the view,
There, in the untamed wilderness,
Standing solidly outlined by setting sun,
With arms akimbo to the sky
They stand, a thousand strong, upon the hillside.
 
I have heard them called by other names:
Scientists and scholars,
Businessmen and farmers,
They call them simply turbines of the wind.
But I?
I see giants, driven into empty plains,
Standing, smiling, face looking upward,
Turned into the wind.

Books

 
Some folks have said that it’s the smell,
And others it’s the feel.
Some say it lies in the escape
From anything that’s real.
 
Some are lured by fantasies,
Others by the true,
Some by mysteries and danger,
Some by romance, too.
 
But I have found the charm to be
The unjudgemental friend
I find each time I open
And read a book again.
 
Do books care if the dishes lie
In greasy, unwashed state?
Are pages worn with time annoyed
On days when I run late?
 
I’ve never heard a volume voice
Disdain at what I wear,
Nor have they cared the smallest bit
Just how I fix my hair.
 
Never has a dusty tome
Turned with grandeur and
Spread gossip about other friends
Or made a reprimand.
 
And so I think perhaps ought all
Of us within the nation
Take this chance to learn from them—
This steadfast publication.
 
For books have never changed their minds,
They’ve never two-faced been.
As long as you choose wisely,
They’ll always be your friend!

The Seed

 

In cloistered darkness long it hid
Beneath the moistening sod.
No one knew where in it lay
Save the creator—God.
 
And so it slept; the clouds blew past,
Then came the springtime breeze,
Bringing freshness in its wake,

It came from out the seas.
 
The sun poured warmth wherein it lay,
Each gentle-fingered ray
Danced full of glee upon the earth
And begged the grass to play.
 
The birds were singing in the trees,
The ladybug mused long.
The squirrels leaped blithely limb to limb,
The treetops swayed to song.
 
When suddenly it happened—
All nature stopped to see—
The tiny seed had burst with life
And hesitatingy
 
It poked one tiny fragile shoot
Above the pris’ning sod,
A happy leaf of newest green—
A miracle of God!

Nighttime

 

The birds have ceased their calling
And everything lies still.
The little twinkling lights of home
Are seen from on the hill;
 
The stars are slowly rising
Adorning velvet sky,
The woods are breathing peacefully
Save for the hoot-owl’s cry.
 
And I, alone, look o’er the scene,
Night-breezes thread my hair,
And let the solemn stillness
Slowly wash away my care.
 
For somehow when the moon shines bright
Upon earth’s lowly sod,
I feel the stars are very near,
And nearer still is God.

House of Dreams

 

There’s a little house I dream of
With a vine upon the gate,
Where the mockingbird sings early
And the firefly blinks late.
 
Though it’s not a perfect cottage—
For there’s groanings in the floor—
It’s enough to always remind me
Of the things I’m grateful for.
 
There’s a dog who guards the doormat
And a canvas smeared with dreams,
There’s a porch swing always swinging
And a candlelight that gleams.
 
There is a lovely bookcase,
And a table set for tea—
For sharing thoughts and fellowship
Are what makes the house, you see.
 
Although the winter howlings
Sometimes squeeze their way inside,
We just shelter close together
In front the fireside.
 
Oh, the secret to my dream-house
Is not so hard to see:
A place that’s filled with things I love
And friends and family!

Chickens

 

There’s something somehow cozy
In a yard where chickens roam-
Something ‘bout the gentle clucking
Makes a cabin whisper “home.”
 
There’s a smile always shows itself
When there upon the lawn,
There’s a hen a scratching-scratching
In the freshness of the dawn.
 
‘Tis in the rustling feathers
And the rare, belligerent squawk
One sees the simple pleasures
Of a grub beneath a rock.
 
And when the sun starts setting
And the chickens go to nest,
One never fails to feel ‘tis home,
And know one has been blessed.

When Life Gives You Lemons

“When life hands you lemons, make lemonade,”
They say. Well, that’s easy enough,
But sometimes it isn’t lemons life hands you,
But other sour stuff.
 
What do you do when life hands you, let’s say,
For example, perhaps, a bear?
To stay safe and get close enough even for steak
Would be, in truth, rather rare.
 
And what if it’s a tornado?
Or how about pancreatic disease?
What about life in a wheelchair
Or ridiculous IRS fees?
 
What if life hands you a notice
That your job is over and done?
How about when no children appear
Though you’ve prayed you’d be happy with one?
 
Some things in life are lemons, and though
Lemonade’s a good mindset to keep,
I think it is fair, first off to take
The time that one needs to weep.
 
But here is the place where so many folks
Make the first fatal mistake:
They think it’s OK to slap lemons away
And say they will not partake.
 
Accept the lemon. It is OK
If you aren’t happy at first.
Sometimes it’s not, just honestly not,
What you wanted to quench your thirst.
 
But the problem comes in dwelling
Day after day after day
On things you really wanted
And how you’re not getting your way.
 
If you can find acceptance,
Why, the battle’s half over and through.
For even if it’s not lemonade,
Something will come into view.
 
Perhaps you will find in the tornado winds
A community showing love and support.
Or maybe with a pancreas that’s rebelled
You’ll value life more, for it’s short.
 
Perhaps you’ll learn to fly colorful flags
If you’re sporting a wheelchair each day.
And if the IRS is asking for more,
You’ll remember our freedoms, and pay.
 
If you lose your job, well, maybe you’ll see
That another one’s just as good;
And while you’re searching, you’ll spend more time
With your family like you should.
 
If there are no children coming your way,
And it’s so hard not to be blue,
Perhaps you can learn instead to rejoice
In the adventures God’s planned for you.
 
Adventures to take you to far-away places,
And do things you never dreamed you would see-
Where a crying baby or screaming tot
Would be a liability.
 
Oh, when life gives you lemons,
The bit of advice does not fade-
Everyone knows that the first thing you do
Is certainly make lemonade!
 
And lemonade’s good and delicious it’s true,
But to every man and all women,
I’d like to remind you the first thing to do
Is accept you’ve been handed a lemon.

P.S. About the bear- I’m not an expert, I know,
       But here’s where I’d put my money:
       I’d follow the beast and figure out where
       He keeps his supply of fresh honey.

Country Road

 Marching, marching, soldier shoes
Have passed this way before-
Young men, strong men, moving on
To give their lives in war.
 
Softly, softly, lovers’ step
Have trod this sacred spot,
Where young folks whiled the time away
Till all else was forgot.
 
Riding, riding, horses’ hooves
Have pounded down the earth
Bearing onward messengers,
Sweating ‘neath the girth.
 
Laughing, laughing, children’s feet
Have danced across the way,
Barefoot summer pleasures
On sun-baked earthen clay.
 
And now, and now the country road,
In contemplative muse
Lies silent in the setting sun,
Silent in the dews.
 
Alone, alone, forsaken
It wanders on and on.
With flowers on its dusky fringe,
An evening gown to don.
 
And we? We never know the past
Or whom has travelled here,
But out along a country road
Where air is fresh and clear,
 
One can drink in freedom,
And hear the melody
That all of nature’s harmonized
And singing joyfully.