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

 

Minor Gods

Minor Gods

Man builds thrones for himself;

Places where as minor gods we sit,
Hunkered slightly, half-expecting
Lightning bolts for our bloody impudence.

And when they do not come - the fiery bolts
A little smile comes 'cross the face
Of minor deity as the thought occurs,
"Damned, I may have got a way with it."

It is then the God they thought
Was not watching comes to call
And claim His due - a soul to pay
That cannot even save itself, when all is done.

© 2015 by Tom King

 

Apoca-Lips

Apoca-Lips

 A young man doesn't always think with his head

There are often less admirable organs in play;

When decisions are made - those go/no go choices,

That you come to regret at the end of the day. 

I made a few bad ones in the interminably lonely

Years spent blundering up and down and everywhere.

I spent my energy in a frantic and stumbling search,

Knowing in the hard world, you were still out there.

Lips are stupid things that dull the wits and heat the brain.

Seven times I found myself fired off the wrong direction,

By gunpowder kisses, laced with hormones and fire till at last

I learned to keep them closed - for my own protection. 

Stupid me I never thought that you might not be

An ardent kisser; that you might be a creature

Of wind and fire, mind and passion more than I ever,

Bargained for, and that lips are but a single feature.

And in the end I found that passion is not the thing

I thought it was, when I was young and hormone-raged.

 I've learned a steady fire heats passion better than explosions.

And has settled in my soul; grown ever deeper as we've aged. 

(c) 2015 by Tom King

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

Breath Taking

When at night, I look up into the cluttered sky,
When I look deep into the glittering byways,
That wind among the bright and scattered stars,
I hear God whispering my name.

by Tom King
2015

Christmas Out of Season

By Tom King

I live in the land of drizzle.
Nine months a year it's damp and my bones hurt.
It's kind of depressing but once or twice a winter,
We get snow; a fine dry powder you could probably ski on.

Never at Christmas though, but me being a Christmas junkie,
I cope by celebrating Christmas, whenever the ground is white.
It's okay to celebrate out of season I've decided.
That seems to me an important advantage of being a grownup.

I say “grownup”, but I never quite did it.
Grew up that is. I'm sixty years old and still a kid.
At least that's what my wife says and perhaps she's right.
I put up the lights and sing Christmas carols when the mood strikes me.

I sing Christmas carols in the dead of summer,
And whenever it snows, even in March or April.
Why not work up a little Christmas spirit in the off-season?
I mean why give up on White Chrismases just because the climate's weird?

I think what we need are more of us who celebrate
Peace on Earth good will toward men and wish each other joy,
Even when we're the only ones and we get the urge to sing Noel,
Because there's a dusting of snow on the trees and roofs and roads.

© 2014