​Do you feel the changing breeze? 
Do you see the golden leaves? 
Can you hear the melody
Of the skylark, as it sings? 

Wind is blowing, 
Trees are swaying, 
Skylark’s song is always shifting!
Sun is setting, 
Clouds are raining, 
Come with me and go skylarking! 

Do you sense the summer’s flee? 
From the curse have you been freed? 
Have you heard the beckoning 
Of God’s voice gently speak? 

Seasons changing, 
Years are passing, 
Skylark’s song is always aging! 
Time is wasting, 
People hasting, 
Blind to Christ they are rejecting! 

Is there hope in anything? 
Will ground stay beneath my feet?  
Sings the skylark in the tree, 
“What is life without meaning?”

Hope is failing, 
Ground is shaking, 
Skylark’s song is quickly waning! 
People searching, 
Never finding, 
Stubborn pride, again denying!


Now it’s quiet, dark, and night. 
The skylark’s song is cold. 
A single Light shines out so bright;
Piercing the heart and soul. 

The shaking stopped, 
The noise abrupt, 
As onto the Rock I stepped. 
My heartbeat  stills, 
The fight is naught, 
As Christ, my heart, indwells.

Weekly What – Week 17

A beast o’ green with yellow crown
O’ertakes the landscape all around.
Mowing men and women down
With claws set deeply underground.
No fearless Knight doth dare confound
The countless creatures’ battleground.

Can ya hear that mournful sound
O’ cries o’ fear from dusk to dawn?
Lovers o’ the fallen ones’
Vengeful tears cry out for war!

Picks and pikes, shovels and swords,
Off to snuff the most awful o’ hoards.
Ripping and tearing the mighty cords
O’ the beasts’ behemoth legs and claws,
Until, at last, the growls and roars
Are ne’er but heard in tales of lore.

Summer Sunday

Happy Mother’s Day to the many wonderful mothers out there. I’m sorry, but life calls and so I haven’t been updating the blog much. I’ll try to get some things up here soon.
Been busy with work and other work. Yesterday I was burning a hay field with our pastor and a few other members from our church when our pastor suddenly keeled over. Breathing in smoke, exhausting work, extreme heat, possible dehydration, and pushing himself a little too hard may have all contributed to the heart attack. We gave him CPR for about 8 minutes before the paramedics showed up. They took him to Anchorage once they got him stable via helicopter. Please pray for my pastor (Jeffery Offord) and his family.

UPDATE (9/1/2014): The pastor has made a miraculously quick and complete recovery. He is back in the pulpit once again, praising God all the more for His grace, power, and protection. Even though the heart attack was not a good thing, good things came as a result of it. God always uses the difficulties in life to shape us and use us in ways we could never imagine.

As I read and prepared for my Sunday school class last night, I was brought to Philippians 1:21, “For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.” For a believing, practicing Christian, death is something we should not fear because of the promise of Christ that we shall live with Him and sit with Him on high. This life is short, and we should spend it for Christ. Live this life for Christ and the message of faith.


I stand all alone,
In silence and sorrow;
In bitter, dark cold,
I wait for tomorrow.

Never do I move,
Not now, nor evermore;
Night’s rest does not sooth;
No. Darkness I deplore.

Knowing soon I’ll die,
Keenly watching, waiting;
Keeping track of time,
Kevlar can’t protect me.

Solemnly I see,
Spring and summer coming;
Snow will start to flee,
So my life starts melting.

Poems and riddles are actually very similar once you think about it. The symbolism and meaning in a poem can relate ideas about things in ways we may not think of. I appreciate the inherent structure in poetry; it forces a limitation of imagination and creativity into a mold that helps to make the ideas coherent and intelligible. You do not need to explicitly declare what you are talking about in poetry, which can make it a riddle.

There, that’s my two cents about poetry.

Fog of the Day’s End

The fog rolls in; a dreary, dark mist.
Distant objects fade, soon to be missed.

When from this life, we wander away,
Our memory’s left behind that day.

Who will remember our own sacrifice?
What stories will be told of our life?

Honor, glory, faith, and good things?
Or evil, ugly, and awful tidings?

Will your life pass away, into the mist?
Or be like a fog light nobody can miss?

I know not what you would choose yourself;
But I know, myself, I’d want to help.

Living a life that wants naught, nor glory,
But directs ever heart towards Christ’s story.

To be a light that cuts through the fog;
Even in death, a lighthouse to lost.

So who will remember you on your day,
When, from this life, you fade away?

The fog rolls in; a dreary, dark mist.
When this days ends, will it be missed?