A peek into the creative minds of UK Staff Be featured in a future showcase!
by Ben Smith
As I was walking out of my house on one fine day
I noticed a tiny pebble on my sidewalk...
In my way!
I picked up the little annoyance and tossed it to the wind
I hadn't noticed the small hole where the pebble should have been.
As the days and weeks and months came and passed
Up on my sidewalk sprang an ugly patch of grass!
I weeded and I plucked and I tried to fill the hole
I needed that tiny pebble! But where I tossed it……
I don’t know!
What I saw as insignificant had merely fallen out of place
I soon began to realize how that pebble could not be replaced.
A lesson I had learned when I finally opened my eyes
Is how God gives us many gifts in all shapes, forms, and size.
We should look before we leap!
And always think things through….
What you toss away might have been a gift from God to you.
Are You Still Waiting
By Ben Smith
With the passing of winter snow,
As the ice melts down to become once more the sea.
A love quest forms within my soul
To return those feelings you had once given to me.
Soaring over mountain tops, Resting in the bough of trees...
My search for you must go on!
Are you out there still waiting for me?
The morning breeze calls to me,
Whispering your name....
Surfacing those feelings that alone are not mine.
T'was our love which knew no boundaries,
Until it was lost somewhere in the ocean of time.
The sun shines warm upon my face
The wind rustling through my hair,
Within my heart there lives this place
That when I find you I must share!
Though seasons change I travel on...
Through dark of night
Through dusk of dawn.
In desperation my eyes but do see
A rainbow of tears falling from Autumn trees.
Here winter comes to halt my quest,
Cold is her breath of bitter wind.
My love burns strong!!
Melting her veil of ice away to the shore.
Now I can continue my search for you once more....
Why am I here?
Why am I here?
To Love, Laugh, to Enjoy, to Endure.
Why am I here?
To put Shade in a Dark place.
To acknowledge the greatest things in life,
Why am I here?
To see the children of this world become men and women
To see a light shine when guidance demands their attention
To step into a world that surprises us all
Why am I here?
To honor the past, present and future
To see the difference between right and wrong
But to encourage knowledge and understanding
To stay strong
Embrace that the ocean and sea are one
Having tranquility to love in a special place that no man can
Why and I here?
To see the sparkle in the smiles that we all have inside
But to stop and look at the change we all fear
The best of all…
Knowing why I am here.
By: Lexi Fellows
It's odd the things you remember when you watch someone die. She called me a brat. The room was dark, a scatter of light from the closed blinds as the television blared at the loudest volume. She sat in her bed, her head hunched over her knees as her bony back peeked through her oversized shirt. She was skinny. Tiny. Not that she was ever fat a day in her life but now she was small as a child. She spoke. Her words were not lost but her perception of time was, faded like her red hair dye. She called me a brat. I forgot she used to say that, endearing rather than cruel, a phrase used like sweetheart or darling. She said brat and turned to look at me. I'm not sure what she saw if her eyes worked like her mouth, but she moved back for a brief second to look at me.
She became uncomfortable and returned to her leaned-over position, the bones in her spine curving to accommodate the move. It reminded me of sitting in front of a toilet bowl before you throw up. She didn't use the pillow for her head instead kept it in her lap, drifting in and out of consciousness. Did she dream? I don't know if there were any dreams left, not when months are spent in a twin-sized bed. How much of it was spent sleeping? The world must have felt a million miles away as she occupied a third of the bed. I didn't ask her anything or tell her much about myself. She knew. In some way, I know she knew I would be alright. It wouldn’t be that week or the week after. Days, months, years. I know she knew that I would achieve the things I wanted but it still made seeing her that way hard. I wanted to tell her everything, but all I could do was walk in and out of her bedroom.
I was a brat. I didn't call as much and hardly wrote letters. The time I spent with her was always cut short by a trip to the hospital. I don't know the last real conversation we had, not the snippets of words we spoke in the dark room. Was it the call before Thanksgiving? Or maybe the assortment of gifts I gave her that she never used. We spoke about my trip abroad but that was months ago at the old house. I don't know the last time she was her and not the shell of a person left in her bedroom. I don’t remember talking with her, it was more so being present with her. She would watch her assortment of television programs while smoking a cigarette on the couch. I would come down and sit for a few minutes, pouring her a cold glass of diet coke and listening to the show. We spoke about school. We spoke about friends. She didn’t tell me much about herself, keeping her life a secret unless I asked a question. She was there, she was always there if I needed someone to talk to. A phone call away, a six-hour drive.
I hated being there. I hated being in the room. I hated sleeping down the hall. I hated listening to the sound of the oxygen machine as it pumped air into her broken lungs. I hated feeling so powerless. I wanted to help, I wanted to shout at the top of my lungs and beg her to stay. But there was nothing I could do. There was nothing that I could do to save her. I remember everything and nothing. The time I yelled at her for making me clean. The trips to Saugatuck. The nights spent watching her favorite cheesy rom coms. She was dying and I was her brat. All I have left are the memories, scattered like her brain, fragments of her existence shoved in Nicholas Sparks’ novels. I have pictures, letters, and French paintings. I have all these things but all I want is her.
I'm a brat, as odd it sounds, I'd give anything for her to call me a brat again.
A Holiday Spectacular
A Holiday Spectacular
By: Melissa Darsey
Originally written December 4, 2017
Tradition is a beautiful part of this season. In the light of putting so many traditions on hold due to COVID-19, I am anticipating the joy of revisiting my favorite start to this most wonderful time of year.
What kicks off your holiday season?
For me, it is Collage: A Holiday Spectacular, put on by UK Choirs and guest ensembles at the Singletary Center for the Arts. My friend, James Aaron, introduced me to this wonderful festivity, and the concert has quickly become a tradition for my family and me.
The performance blends different mediums: percussion, choir, bells, and other musical instruments. Musical genre bleeds into the next from traditional, jazz, bluegrass, and Acappella - leaving one spinning in glorious sensory overload.
A former choral performer, I love the sound of harmony. The definition of collage is a piece of art made by sticking various different materials together. Using difference to make a whole, a resonant notion in these times. I mull this over while listening to the artistic synthesis of various voices creating one breathtaking sound.
There is an exquisite mix of old and new. The elements I enjoy are singing “Joy to the World,” feeling my heart drum to the passion of the Nigerian carol “Betelehemu,”and hearing a beautiful rendition of “Silent Night.” All else unfolds, senses heightened, new treasure troves captured and held in my heart. The performance whispers ancient secrets, a promise of “goodwill to ALL men.”
I ponder all these things in my heart, feeling them deep within my soul. A hollow feeling of being utterly alone can take hold in the wake of sorrow, hatred, pain, and discontent.
As I watch another candle being lit and hear manifold voices singing in accord... silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright, a chill runs up my spine, and a thrill flutters in my heart. The profound feeling of being interconnected with all mankind bursts forth, warming from the inside out. A collage of people singing, “sleep in heavenly peace,” offers compassion and comfort –lighting the candle of hope to a hurting world.