April 27 - Taking the Low Road

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Taking the Low Road

It's spring and everybody's tired.
Even the geese are hitchhiking home.
All this excitement is exhausting,
The buffalo too pooped to roam.

But once the fawns are born,
And calves are calved in time
To get the herds on down the road
To summer and the growing time,

We'll take a moment to lie down
In the fields or on the beaches,
We'll catch the mountain breeze and fly,
Or challenge breakers out beyond the reaches.

It's spring but just this minute I can feel
The autumn chill wrap itself around my bones,
The cycle of the seasons winding down relentlessly,
To winter already humming low in icy tones.

I've been out walking with the geese
Today, in the quiet spring along the road.
Breathing in the promise of one season more,
While old river time around me flowed.

© 2017 by Tom King

Lifting With My Legs

I remember skipping down a woodland path

Because when I was young - it was faster than walking

And not as much work as running flat out;

Skipping’s just the speed for taking in the scenery.

I was a kid then with strong bones and healthy joints,

Because I got my daily servings of dairy and vegetables

And I avoided swimming for at least one hour,

After eating all those recommended daily allowances.

Over the years, I was told to stay out of drafts
Because I might catch pneumonia

And wore a hat in winter so that

I would not catch my death of cold.

My bosses told me lift with your legs

Because it will save your back from damage

And so I religiously lifted with my legs.
And sure enough it saved my back.

I have never had a broken bone in all my life

Because of all that calcium and the veggies,
And I wore a hat and never got pneumonia – not at all;

And never drowned and so far haven’t caught my death.

I seldom skip these days, satisfied with a more leisurely pace

Because all that lifting with my legs apparently wrecked my knees

Running’s too much work, skipping’s out of the question,

But my back’s terrific - so far so good.

© 2017 by Tom King

With Tattered Sails

Homeward bound

With Tattered Sails

When we embarked upon this voyage of ours
With just a compass, charts, a sextant, and orders
From the owner of our tiny little ship,
We did not set sail for profit,
Nor for what glory we might achieve,
Nor for notoriety, fame or even admiration.
We hoisted sails and steered our vessel
In the direction where the chart says, “Home.”

There are places on that chart marked,
“Here be dragons” and sometimes our course
Lies right across those uncharted wastes,
But still we have our instruments and our orders.
So, o’er the years we have sailed close-hauled,
Before an errant wind, gentle one day,
A roaring gale the next, hauling on the braces,
Tying down the lines, repairing frayed cordage.

On before the wind we’ve sailed, the two of us,
Splintered spars repaired, replaced, cast overboard,
Doing the best we can to repair the damage,
Making do when we cannot fix what’s broken.
Each year our tattered vessel creeps on,
Looking rather the worse for wear all things considered,
But we on deck, bump along together, stitching parted seams,
Swabbing decks and taking sightings every day.

And sure enough there be dragons as the chart foretold;
Warned us there would be along the course we’d chosen.
And we have fought them as best we could.
Taken wounds along the way - some self-inflicted.
But I have seen the seagulls and the home-bound birds,
And we know that landfall lies just beyond the horizon.
And though she may be tattered He will bring,
Our tired old ship tomorrow certain home to shore.

© 2016 by Tom King

Kick the Can

by Sheila King

Care to kick a can down the street?
And so it rains and rains and rains.
Buckets are full and yet it rains,
Sweet lovely, refreshing rain.
The song birds hide
And now comes the wind,

"Hello there Wind.
Just passing through?
Well that's alright"
Trees bending
First this way
And then the other.

The wind teases me
But I'm onto his game and laugh.
"Goodbye wind"
The rain is just a drizzle now.
It has cried itself out.
Birds are out.

The air smells as sweet
As clothes on the line.
Breathe it in.
Care to kick a can down the street?

© 2016 by Sheila King

Up the Hill

Up the Hill

by Tom King

When I was a young man, I could scamper

Up a hill like this. No Problem. No Wheezing.

Today I stood at the bottom of the hill breathing hard,

Oxygenating my blood, preparing for the climb.

My middle-aged dog looks at me like I'm crazy,

But she's going to be feeling it about three quarters

Of the way up; about the same time I start to wish

I had some oxygen with me. Must be the altitude.

I know this shouldn't be this hard, but every year

It gets a little harder. I can't stop walking though.

I'm doing the daily miles to keep a pace or two ahead

Of troubles I once thought reserved for old people.

It's just the hills that God throws up in my path that get me.

Just when I'm going along pretty well, an upgrade appears

For no reasonable purpose that I can figure out.

Big stupid hill right there in my way;gonna leave me winded.

I guess He knows something that I probably do not.

Something about hearts and joints and blood sugar I imagine.

It is a pretty climb, though, and there are some trees for shade.

And there's a bright light up there that looks kinda hopeful.


(c) 2015
Photo by Tom King 12/13/2015

 

Love Abides

Love Abides

Upon the bleak fields of February

Mottled shadows crawl across the forest floor,

Cast by sun half-hearted glowering

Behind the drooping winter sky.

Spring still sleeping beneath wet leaves;

Warm rot, the blanket for the seeds

Last autumn cast carelessly, it seemed to me,

Upon the hard ground.

The dying leaves I watched them fall.

The green time done and gone again,

To ochre, scarlet, yellow, brown.

Question, acceptance, then finally revelation.

The green time comes and goes,

Skin fades, mottles, wrinkles;

Hair falls, eyes dim, bones weaken;

Even music slips away with time.

Till warm we wait beneath

The blanket earth like seeds sown,

To be lifted up when February’s

Done its gray deed and Spring is come.

In faith we live the green times

In hope the ochre, scarlet, yellow, brown.

But it is in the February gray

We know that Love abides.

By Tom King

April 18 - Not Good Enough

Not Good Enough

Bony fingers pointing

Pointing right at me.

They’re telling me I’m not the sort

That should permitted be.

They’re saying, “You’re not good enough.”

To come to Jesus’ feet.

There’s things you must quit doing first.

We’ve got standards you must meet.

Bony fingers waggling

Do this, not that and wash your face

You’ve got to be a little better, kid

To earn your way to grace.

They’re saying, I’m not good enough.

To come to Jesus feet.

There’s things I must quit doing first

And standards I must meet.

Bony fingers parting

Like the waters of the sea

And there behind them arms outstretched

Jesus smiling down at me.

Saying, you’re not good enough

But my grace is strong and true,

And no matter what you’ve ever done.

My love’s enough for you.

© 2014 by Tom King

April 15 - The Dandelion Gardener

The Dandelion Gardener

I'm a practical sort of gardener

  I prefer to be at oneness

With Mother Nature in her breath-taking

  Majestic mighty solemness

She casts her seedy self across the Earth

   Her children in the fertile ground she sows

And in the spring with birdsong for an overture

   Up from my lawn the dandelion grows.

My neighbour goes to work each spring

   With spade, weed popper and a hoe

And gives to me the evil eye when he

   Sees how my dandelions grow;

Bright yellow faces scattered 'cross my lawn

   In gay profusion everywhere.

And my poor neighbour can't believe

   God meant they should be there.

© 2014 by Tom King