David W. Ballard: Professional Writer specializing in Web content writing, copywriting, feature writing, fiction writing, and poetry.

Beauty

The Spirit whispers across the waters:
An egret crouches low with its feathers.
The snap of a large fish’s tail
Disturbs the quiet of my malaise.
A turtle suns himself in the haze.
Dragonflies hum their bladed wings
Over tongues of grass covered with droplets of rain.
Yellow flowers peak from tufts of grass at the shoreline.
A rotting log breaks the surface of the water like a crocodile.
Downed leaves eddy over the rocky bottom
Of the stream bed, harboring schools of minnows
That will turn larger after tomorrow’s tomorrow,
A reverse of yesterday’s downward spiral of sorrow.
Then the fisher of men reminds me
With the prick of blades of grass on my legs
And the deepest parts within me
To focus on what I see–
Not me–but the beauty of our Father.

Becoming A Butterfly

It’s hard becoming a butterfly
And sometimes tiresome scoring the sky
On tremulous wings to stay in flight,
But it’s much better to reach the heights
Than labor such, inch by inch, on the ground
And would bring anyone lofty down
Because earthen thoughts worketh woe
To anyone who supposes as though
They are but wild and merely alone
In a remote place, only they own
With nothing higher
Than animal desire.
Perhaps, we shouldn’t judge worms such as these;
Truthfully, it depresses me.

When the Walls Are Closing in

When the walls are closing in
And you turn and find a friend
Who helps when you’re struggling,
You know there’s a purpose in
All that you’ve been laboring.

The Medalist

They reach the highest stoop
As ventured by us all.
The world plays their honored anthem
And medals them with gold.

But some of these victors
Will never win life’s crown
For their victory is hollow,
And won for looking down.