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Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Thursday's Child





Thursday's Child

Thursday's child had far to go
We didn't know it then.
A happy child and fair of face
More reaching out than turning in.

It seemed that walking on life's paths
Through the days and years he'd go
Always the long way round he'd take
No shortcuts, no easy rows to hoe.

We did not know his trials, his pain
He laughed it off most of the time.
The quick retort, the joke upon himself,
And up the new day's slope he'd climb.

He was tired I think and wearied
With the unrelenting pace,
If one can ever be at peace, he was,
With the ending of his race.

At the end it seemed that side by side
We ran a little way; father and son – friends.
Just a moment, then he was gone and I
Was left to stumble on toward more distant ends.

God sometimes grants the shorter harder race
To those with gentle, loving hearts that serve,
As though the longer trials are not required
And they, the hard old world does not deserve.

© 2014 by Tom King

* Stumbled on the old Monday's Child poem today and reread it. I had been looking up the weather on the days of each of our family's birth. The weather calculator also showed what day it was. I noticed Micah was born on Thursday. The poem says "Thursday's child has far to go." Ironic as Micah was only given 28 years in which to go the distance God wanted him to in this life and to work out his relationship with God. He did well and lived a life that left a gaping hole behind for those who loved him (and almost everyone did). So the poem demanded to be written, whether it has any merit as poetry or not doesn't matter. Once in a while I write a little complaining song for God to hear, not that I'm not grateful that He holds my son in His loving care. It's just that I miss him so and want God to know it, so I complain a little. Just a little. God doesn't really mind, I think. He loves me too.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Puddles & Fishes


Puddles Painting by Fred Eckman (prints available here)


Puddles and Fishes

When the rain falls,
Faster than the Earth can absorb it.
Puddles collect in all the low places
And record the impact of raindrops

When the winds lift and blow
Raindrops make circles in circles, overlapping
At the boundary between the pool and the air
As the storm casts itself hard against the ground.

When the storm goes,
Everywhere left behind along the roads.
In all those low spots – little pools lie
Serene and still, clear and cold

When the sun reappears
The puddles shimmer cheerfully
And when I look into them, I half expect
To find little fishes swimming there.

© 2014 by Tom King