Monday, August 25, 2025

April 17: Uncle Johnny says, "Take it!"

 

 

Uncle Johnny Says, "Take it." 

Uncle Johnny played guitar well into his nineties. 
The whole family brings their instruments to reunions,
Guitars, dreadnoughts, steel guitars, mandolins, and fiddles.
They even let me bring my banjo, though I am but an in-law.
Bluegrass is the preferred genre, though Hank Williams
Shows up in the mix sometimes when they get going.
This impromptu band will stop once in a while as if by some secret cue,
One of them will point at someone, seemingly at random,
And shout, "Take it!" and the hapless cousin on the end of that finger point,
Must play the riff he's been practicing for years and while looking at the ceiling
Nonchalantly, make his fingers fly up and down the frets.

I've never been that good a musician. I play banjo because it's colorful,
And hardly anyone else plays one well enough to shame me.
To my horror during one family jam session, Uncle Johnny, meaning well,
Pointed straight at me and said to me, "Take it!"
What followed was 20 seconds of the opening sequence of "Dueling Banjos"
Followed by an awkward silence from the room as I stumbled over the fast bit.
Mercifully, my new relations, many of whom remembered the first time 
That Dad or grandpa or one of the uncles pointed at them and commanded,
    "TAKE IT!" 
My wife's kindly relations, that day, quickly covered for my incompetence.
With a big burst of musical competence, with a distinct bluegrass flair.
Since then, I've been working on some kind of riff in the key of  "G"
So, I'm ready if they ever call on me again, I have my own riff ready.
On the out chance one of them points at me and says, "Take it!"
Bluegrass is almost always in G and if it's not, I keep a copy of the key changes"
You get when you strap on a capo to my longneck banjo.
But in the meantime I pray they don't forget that Tom don't "take it."
I hard down love these dear country folk and their music
With which they graciously invited me to come and live amongst them.





April 16: Cinnamon and Me


Cinnamon and Me
         2025 by Tom King

A pretty brown sorrel mare, spirited,
A little skittish at first, but soon she came to trust me.
There were trail rides Cinnamon and I led,
Eighteen kids on 18 ponies, bays, and buckskins, roans and grays
Tagging along behind us through the dappled woods.

At first, the trails were narrow and few,
But it wasn't enough for children or their feisty mounts.
So, we cut new trails among the trees, Cinnamon and I
She, fearless, pushing between the branches, me swinging a machete,
Around her ears, chopping away the foliage, widening the trail. 

She trusted me not to cut her, tolerated me wielding a sword,
She, calm like a war horse, trained to having blades swinging overhead,
Behind us, 18 ponies beat aside the leaves and left behind 
A new trail in the sandy forest floor beneath for our troop to explore,
A path for more adventures to be imagined for my young cavalry.

I passed my horses and my young troopers on when I was called
To new responsibilities. Others took my place and rode my Cinnamon.
I have to believe that in a new world, beyond this one. 
There, we won't have to leave the ones we love behind, whether human,
Dogs or horses or any soul whose trust we worked so hard to gain.

I can close my eyes dreaming Cinnamon and I take long canters,
In the woodlands of an Earth made new and green.
There's even my old dog Daisy romping along beside, sniffing the air;
Taking in the smells of an undying world. Cinnamon's nostrils flare,
And the three of us drink in the scent of Creation as it should be.

 

Friday, August 22, 2025

Bird in the Desert


 

"Bird in the Desert"
                by Sheila King

Just like a little bird,
Flying out into the desert,
All of my hopes and dreams,
Had flown away.

Without a chance at all,
Go I into the desert.
That's when I heard a voice,
Saying to me,

"Come drink from my well,
Where the water is cool and free.
You will not die here alone.
I promise you'll be here with me.

I care for My little ones
And I care for my sparrows.
Stay for a while, you are my child.
Live here with me".

Just like a little bird,
Flying out into the desert,
I left my home, took off on my own,
Let life pull me away.

But what does a sparrow know,
Of life out in the desert?
Unable to fly, waiting to die,
'til I hear Him say..."

"Come drink from my well,
Where the water is cool and free.
You will not die here alone,
I promise you'll be here with me.

I care for My little ones,
And I still care for My sparrows.
Stay for a while. Be My child.
Live here with me".


Thursday, August 21, 2025

April 15: Learning Silence

  Learning Silence

  by Tom King 

 People like me, boiling over with thoughts
We talk too much for others' taste.
People for whom an excess of words
Seems too much; a thorough conversational waste

The truth be known, we chatterboxes.
Collecting knowledge's a kind of hoarding addiction, 
Sadly we delude ourselves that all of you,
Are also info junkies, sharing our affliction

We're trying not to be annoying, but like a pot on a stove,
We bubble over, given the least encouragement..
We have come to suspect you don't want to hear all that,
Probably you want, for your time, some reimbursement.

So on behalf of all us ADD know-it-alls,
I'd like to extend to all of you an apology.
So I'm writing blogs and books and poems instead,
As a way to address my own pathology. 

So I'm sorry.
    I'll shut up now!

  

  

Sunday, January 5, 2025

April 14: My Writer's Vow

This story better end very soon!


A Promise to My Readers

I will never write a story that's click-bait.
They'll never bear that particular trait.
There'll be no endless clicking,
There'll be no reader tricking.
I promise I'll always play it straight.

I refuse to write endless click-bait.
I won't post a story you all hate.
I might post things political,
To your opinion antithetical.
But for the end you will not have to wait.

I won't put in extraneous material.
It's a story, not a soap opera serial.
And believe it or not
There'll be an actual plot
Whether serious, informative or satirical.

I want you to enjoy the story
Doesn't have to be sensational or gory.
No blind alleys or facts without purpose,
Or advertisements coming in surplus.
I won't tell tales aged and hoary.*

If you're mad when you finish what I've composed,
Then I feel like on your time I've imposed
So, I'll not fill it with fluff,
When done you'll say that's enough.
And maybe try another sample of my prose.

© 2024 by Tom  King
* Hoary = white headed

Saturday, December 21, 2024

April 13: Christmas State of Mind

 


Christmas State of Mind

I look forward to the first cold winds of November
   And the coming of an early snowfall;
Old Man Winter's breath on the back of my neck,
   His yearly reminder that I need to unpack my coat and gloves.

There are other reminders. The stores have been decorating
   Since sometime in September; stringing lights.
Forklifts and pallet jacks moving stacks of boxes up and down
   Newly empty aisles where pool noodles and summer sports once reigned.

I actually like the commercialism promoted by community businesses,
   Big box stores, parades, festivals, lights along the main streets.
Kind of like putting on a tie for church services each Sabbath.
    Our towns and villages, cities and special places putting on Christmas.

Every year we wish each other peace on Earth, good will toward men,
   And sure enough we mean it - those of us who believe in that sort of thing.
We smile at clerks and taxi drivers. We wave at friends we haven't seen for a while,
   Ignoring the incongruity between the baby in the manger and Jolly Old Saint Nick.

There is something about the approaching solemnity of winter that invites celebrations
   Like Hanukah, Kwanza, Thanksgiving, Bodhi Day, Omisoka, New Years and Christmas.
But Christmas is unmatched for inspiring stories and traditions that go with the season.
   Such that even the unbelievers put up Christmas trees, shop for the kids and string up lights.

I love being in that magic place, whether it's sitting by a fire with snow falling
   Or stretched out in a folding chair on a beach listening to waves roll up the sand.
My heart and my mind needs that, whatever time of year it happens to be.
   Snow or no snow, jingle bell sleighs or jet skis; I need that Christmas state of mind. 

© 2024 by Tom King


  
  



 


Monday, November 25, 2024

April 13: I Stumbled Into Daisies

 

 I Stumbled Into Daisies

 

 Hiking to the mailbox this morning in the fog,
I cut across a meadow, misty and hazy
And stumbled on a clump of grass
And planted my face in a patch of daisies.

They smelled lovely so I laid there awhile,
Contemplating the softness of the verdant  Spring
Rolling over on my back I took a little break there
In the grass. The fog over me a live thing creeping

It took a while to get my feet back under me,
The fog began to slink away across the land
So, I followed it resuming my early stroll
To the mail, a fistful of letters in my hand.

From the road back up the lane to home
Little patches of sun play among the leaves
Along my path, burning the dwindling mist away.
As upward the little wisps of vapor weave.

There are days like this that sneak up on you.
Days that leave my collar damp, and air
That thickly hangs, then all in a sudden sunburst
I can breathe again and the morning's fair..

© 2024 by Tom King