Photo - Nick's Writing Blog

Committing a Write

When did "write" become a noun?

Instead of the verb it was when I was young.

"Nice write," someone said the other day,

As though the act of sitting down at my desk

And bleeding onto paper were the thing itself

Regardless of the thing that's left upon the paper

When the bleeding is well and truly done

And I hold it up for others to see and judge the result.

It's not a "write" for heaven's sake.

You might as well say "Good typing."

I do not write to win the praise of others

For the act of spilling words onto the page.

I write to make a story or a poem or a remembrance.

To praise the "write" is to grant the writer

A consolation prize for showing up.

For perpetrating words to indifferent effect.

One might as well say "Good build" to a carpenter

Or "Good paint" to an artist when what they want to hear

Is "That's a beautiful house," or

"That painting takes my breath away."

God help us when we so fear to tell the truth

We forget how to see the beauty in a thing complete

In tune with itself and its creator.

Lest someone lesser gifted be offended.

How in the hell that we are building for ourselves,

Can we mortal men and women, carved in the image

Of the Almighty, His children, each, himself, a small creator

Forget that it is not that we have tried to make some thing

That's beautiful, but that we have in some small way succeeded,

And in those things that we have made, be they life or song or story,

We have left behind a bit of glory, however ephemeral

That casts a smile of joy across the face of God.

It is the song that is beautiful.

Sing it to the heart that wants uplifted.

It is the story that is heart-warming.  

Tell it to the one that needs to hear it.

It is the gift that is given freely.

Give it to the child who wants it.

It is the image in the stone that sings to us.

Sculpt it from the living rock.

To try is not itself reward enough for any soul

In which eternal God sets up his habitation.

To do, to finish every line that must be writ or work complete

Is all there is that is worth the effort that's required.

It's not the writing, the building, the working or the trying

That makes a life worth all that effort; that makes us want to see

More treasures that a man might yet complete,

Should God grant him better tools and access to eternity.

© 2014 by Tom King

Shadows Along A Moonlit Path

Photo by Dave Candler - used by permission

Shadows Along A Moonlit Path

I don't remember when first I noticed,

   That shadows follow me in moonlight, pale and spectral,

Shimmering silver puddles and among them a ghostly image

   Swirling along behind me in the darkling wood.

I find myself shouting at the moon sometimes,
   But the words fall flat and leave no echo behind,
Absorbed and dulled by trees along the path,
   Drawn up into the satin, sable sky and into silence.

The moon does not often listen when you cry.
   It pats you on the shoulder, "There, there child."
The way an aunt would comfort, not revealing,
   But obscuring, hiding that which gives you pain.

They're beautiful the shadows all along the moonlit paths,
   Useful when you only want to see in muted colors.
Reflections of the sun tamped down and muffled;
   When open weeping cannot be permitted.

I waited till the sun came up to pray aloud,
   I needed dawn to feel if God were listening.
To complete the long unreality of the night,
   And the poor comforts of the misguided moon.

© 2014 by Tom King

An Old Knife

An Old Knife

Chopping leftover onions into tiny bits

Destined for the freezer with some green peppers

My eyes tearing up. Thank goodness I've the onions to blame

The old knife whispers softly as it works.

Beside my pile of onions on the cutting board

Lies the shiny never-needs-to-be-sharpened

Marvel of the cutlery art I bought in the aisle

At Sam's from a demonstrator with a slick patter.

He tossed tomatoes into the air and cut them smooth in half

A single swipe of the "Amazing Eversharp Knife".

So I bought the set for my Sweetie

She says I never sharpen knives.

I mostly use an ancient paring knife for slicing and dicing

Whittled down to a long thin blade by time and years

Scraping back and forth against the patient whetstone.

Old knives are best though you do have to sharpen them from time to time.

(c) 2014 by Tom King

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.

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