The Protest of the Pines

The Pines whisper protest at the chaffing of the wind.

The Wind whispers back of the Pines' shared sin.

And, the mountain's soft music rises again.    ~LB

In the Glorious Stillness of Prayer

 

In the glorious stillness of your up-close presence,

            Lord, I can see!
            It’s a view beyond my own limitations
            to the possibilities we dream together.
           
            Lord, I can hear!
            It’s the voice of your encouragement
            talking over the voice of my weariness.
 
            Lord, I can touch!
            I feel the tactile reality of our daily friendship
            and the depth of its warmth and strength.
 
            Lord, I can smell!
            It’s the surrounding breath of your goodness
            and it clearly gives you away.
 
            Lord, I can taste!
            It’s the rich sweetness of your graceful truth
            as it permeates my ready heart.
 
In the glorious stillness of your up-close presence,
            Lord, it seems, even as I rest before you,
            I rise!
                                                         ~LB

Spring's Newest Blue Bird

How must it seem to you, little guy,

The fresh new world through which you fly,

So bright with green, and blue, and white,

So filled with the sun’s bright spring light?

Oh the view of your innocent eyes,

The view I knew, before I cried.  
So, all the more I joy in you,

God’s sweet reminder of my own coming new!

                                                            ~LB

September Rains

Life is touched by exquisite moments
   When sadness is made to flee
They're tucked away for sacred times
   When Grace demands a spree

These are the moments which come with the light
   The sweet laughter which follows the night
These are the moments which trail the drought
   When once again  - all becomes right

    

                                                                                   ~LB

Comforting Ranks

I went marching in the ranks of men

And my Dad was up ahead
And just a little further up
Was my Grandpa's hoary head

So every day we moved along
Forward in our ranks
Sharing life, joy and strife
We gloried in our threesome strength

But then the old man left our ranks
No longer up ahead
So Dad moved up to take his place
And I moved up to Dad's

And then one day as we marched along
Dad was also gone
And I moved up to be in front
I felt so much alone

Until I looked behind my rank
And I made a wondrous find
It was my own son - one row back
And his son just behind

                                            ~LB

Memorial Day

He’s alone and bleeding – and so far away.

    As Death sits beside to impatiently wait

While his thoughts fly home to hug Mom and Dad 

    And account to the question, “If only I had…”

His burning tears sting a path down his face

     And drop to the ground to mark this place.

A place where devotion met sorrow and fear,

     The place where a soldier shed his last tear. 

And now we pause to help soften this wrong,

     And belove all the soldiers who've died alone.

                                                  ~ LB

A Sunset Nearly Done

  (Upon noticing the haunting beauty of a deep winter sunset over the forest)

Limbed sentinels stand cold against the glow

    As orange surrenders to the clear black flow
And the Night Crest comes with light blessing for all
    And speaks softly of "rest now" - and the coming wake-up call.

                                                                         ~LB

God's End

Lord I cannot see the end of you. 

 Your bounds are much too far. 

Your bigger than my Universe, 

 Farther than... Oh! my stars! 

 So - while I'm sure I'll never see, 

 Still, I've seen a better part 

For in Christ I've pierced the veil 

 And looked upon your heart. 

 And I surmise that could I see 

 The end of all you are, 

It would be but mere reflection 

 Of this familiar part.

                                       ~LB

Cozy

When gray slides over, and snow piles high,
And the fire lends cozy to the room,
And hearts, deep warmed by blanket and mug,
Keep time with the crackling tune;

Then we remember that thing we forgot:
The sweet charm of Winter's long gloom.

                                                             ~ LB

Seasons Of Languish, Mornings Of Dance

There are those seasons when life is harsh,
And refuses to grant us success,
Instead it withholds, and obstructs, and says no,
Even though we plead with our best.

But too, are the glorious gifting days
When answers flow like a stream,
When solutions long sought are finally caught,
And at last - We can dance the dream!

                                                                ~LB

Experience

Frightening lightening and ranting rain,
We run from the clouds and the storm.
But when the noise has come and gone,
In freshness, the land is reborn.

And so are we, truth be known,
By the storms of life along the way.
Something happens in the fear of it all -
Our fears are washed away.

And we're born anew, much improved.
We've survived and overcome.
And in that freshness, we spring again
Now to find -
We've become much more than our sum.

                                                ~LB

The Plan

I have a plan and the plan is good.

And I'm excited by all that it holds.
But then I have to work the plan,
And fit myself to its mold.

This part is hard. And I'm often bored.

And I wonder why I even started.
Before you know it, my knees are weak,
And all my resolve, departed.

But then I hear God's Spirit speak,
The words that I know to be true,
"In your patience you possess your soul.
Work the plan - and the plan will work for you."

                                                                   ~LB

The Flowers Of Truth

On considering the privilege of access to God's truth 

 

We walk in the secret garden of God, 

 A holy and hidden place. 

Yet here we walk - without restraint 

 As a privilege of His grace. 

 We rest among the flowers of truth 

 That for men of every age 

Have yielded the fragrance of knowledge 

And enlightened the eyes of the sage. 

Oh! can it be that we're really here, 

And allowed here every day, 

To handle these lovely, living truths 

As a child consumed in play. 

Thank you, Lord, for privilege bought,  

Which now, we take for granted 

And think it normal every day 

To smell these flowers you've planted.

     P. Davis

Lesson From A Robin

I'm a robin - and my time has come again.
The snow is gone, and the season's song
Is laughter and shared warmth with friends.

The trees spurt growth, and the colors burst,
And again I find, with sweet passing of time,
I'm saved! from mean Winter's gray curse.

So for a season, I'll hop in the grass,
And chase crickets for lunch on the fence.
And I'll fly from the cat, and dart like a bat,
Cause it's Spring! and fun only makes sense.

     P. Davis

The Cathedral

On seeing a beautiful old church in Brandon, Mississippi

Oh great white timbered monument,
Whose spire would touch the sky,
Do you think that by your height
You'll reach the God so high?

Or you, oh red brick counterpart,
With oaken doors so thick,
Is your grandeur one with God?
Is He encased in brick?

Is the way by earthy works?
Can we build a way to God?
Can our need be satisfied
With yet, one more facade?

Nay! I say. That's not the way
For it's only by his grace,
And not the beams of human schemes
That bring us to His Place.

No mortal works can ere suffice.
They are but hollow frames.
And when the winds of judgment blow,
They'll never stand the strain.

They'll crumble with the boards and bricks
And stained glass windows high.
Like all the works of self made men
Beneath God's searching eye.

For He searches not for monuments
To the grand designs of men,
But rather for the human heart
That yields itself to Him.

     P. Davis

Substance

Upon contemplating the "rock stars" of our time, musical and otherwise

What then?
When the profane is promoted
And the truly good, made low

What then?
When the pretense is praised
And the reality, ignored

What then?
When our mask is celebrated
And our substance is in the wind

What then?

     P. Davis

The Day's Death

As I watched a late fall day fade into night

How sad to see a dying day
As the glory of its brightness fades,
To watch the waning rays recede,
Where once the sun so boldly played.

And the sadness of the day's decline,
Becomes so poignant near the night.
But sadder still is the spirit's zeal
When it gives way in the fight.

Could ere there be more throbbing pain
Than to live in the end of an age,
Where men have walked in league with God,
But pride has turned the page.

And the light of right conceides retreat
And the darkness begins to grow
And the souls of men move slowly on
Toward the night in evil's tow.

Oh! Restore again the noon day, Lord,
Make faith again sublime
Restore to us a white-hot heart
Please Lord - one more time.

     P. Davis

The Silent Soldier

A tribute to my Dad, "Snowy," and to all good dads.
Thanks seems so very inadequate. But thanks, Dad.

I watched a Silent Soldier fight,
But comprehend - I never could,
The sacrifice or daily toll,
Nor the cause for which he stood.

I saw him wounded many times,
But I never felt his pain.
And oft he did the hero's deed,
But never glory claimed.

This Silent Soldier in the front,
While I was in the rear,
I never knew to turn and run,
Nor bend beneath his fears.

Day by day he fought the fight,
And cried his unseen tears.
And though I could not see before,
Now, today, it's clear.

Now I understand his cause;
And I understand his pain.
I understand his sacrifice,
And worse - the daily strain.

For I've assumed the soldier's place,
and the import of his seat.
Now I bear the Father's role.
And the fight comes first to me.

It's common shame that valor's due
is often unextoled,
But it's hard to sense your Dad's full worth
Until his place you hold.

     P. Davis

The Magic Of An Airplane

What is this song that an airplane sings
to my heart upon the wind?
What is this drawing upon my soul
by this siren made of tin?

From whence this spell
which makes me see
airfoils, wing shapes, and engine nacelles
when ere my mind is free?
​
And what makes me stop and stare
with every skyward pass
until it is gone? And every time,
be saddened that it did not last.
​
​Perhaps it is the shape,
sculpted by the wind.
Function and beauty sweetly expressed
in a rare and perfect blend.

Or maybe it's those larkish stripes,
the promise of movements yet unmade,
so that even while it merely stands,
still, it seems to fly away.

Or is the magic from flight, itself,

when wings rise up to spoof the earth

but then return to kiss her softly 

and plan tomorrow's mirth?

No - I think an airplane's magic
must surely flow from rhythms deep
which bid my spirit, "Go aloft!
​and know sweet freedom's highest peak."

                                ~ L. Burnett 

Purple Heart Rising

I saw a soldier's heart today.
I wondered at its strength.
It seemed afraid of nothing mortal,
fearless, breadth and length.

It spoke to me of hearth and home,
revered above all else.
And the courage to defend it,
without regard for self.

It spoke to me of war and pain,
the toll of Freedom's gate.
It spoke to me of sacrifice,
and noble warrior's fate.

It spoke to me of fallen dreams,
and a hero's later struggle.
It spoke to me in language red,
for this great heart was purple.

     P. Davis