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

Circles

How long prevails the darkness Lord
That snares our dreams
and rears the head of the ugliest things.

We weep and fight and struggle and kill
To have, and to horde,
Only to find that we weep the more.

We crush the dreams of others
To mortar the tower of our own
And still it does not rise.

On any scale the circle of one
Is always far too small.
Enduring joy only lives in the broader circle of all.

And though we emerge from the human sea,
One, alone, to scoff at the rest,
Yet time, and wisdom, and the judgment of God will put us to the test.

And finally, far too late we'll see,
That all along, we were but trapped,
In the circle that was Me.   ~LB

Where Sleep Our Children

Lamenting the madness of abortion.

Where sleep our children in these dark days
when their laughter we long to hear?
Where are their little excited eyes
and those antics which bring us to tears?

Where are those moments when first we feel
the rhythm and rhyme of giggling time?

And oh, those games of peek-a-boo,

love so sweetly exchanged in kind.

And, what of the memories of their growth?
those times of both joy and pain,
all cherished alike, in the sharing
all counted by love as gain.

Where are our children? Oh no! Oh God!

They're victims of our own moral sleep.
For they lie in the grave of convenience,
unmourned in the graveyard of greed.

And still we slumber while they die,
as we indulge those reprobate minds,
which speak in a way that - Hey, its OK

(said the insane to the morally blind).

                                         -Larry Burnett

                                                             

The Elder's Touch

To the Elder's love, God gives children
That they may grow to fit His mold.
So that later, at the end,
They're refined as precious gold.

And oft times the Elder's love
Becomes the Elder's touch,
Since, to shape the Younger's heart,
Brings need for Wisdom's nudge.

The Touch of yes, the touch of no,
The touch that knows just when,
The touch that allows young freedom
Even while it hedges in.

But soon enough this help must fade,
For the Younger must evolve,
And learn to make his steps alone,
And find his own resolve.

But though a parent goes ahead,
Yet, remains the unseen crutch,
For, in the child, reflected still,
Is the Elders loving touch.

     P. Davis