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

April 30 - It Was Raining Over Here

 

It Was Raining Over Here

I spent my early life, living in the backyard oaks

And among the brittle branches I would go

To perches in my quiet world, a rustling refuge for

A mind distracted by most everything below

From my aerie, I could see the sunlight

Pouring gold between the clouds that drift along.

But it was raining over here, the moisture making

The soft smells of April go heady, sharp and strong.

Over there the sun goes dropping down in sheets

Rolling cross the roads, the fields, the woods, the brook,

Nice to see when rain was pounding on my head

A spectacle from which a little hope I always took.

I can't climb trees these days and so I walk the roads

Among the trees, looking up to airy realms for consolation.

And I scout the flowers blooming on the berry vines below,

So when picking time arrives, I'll know the best locations.

Pragmatic I've become and old, but without the time I spent

High above the Earth when I was yet an undomesticated child

I'd have never found the stillness of the soul I needed

To pause and notice roadside berries, blooming free and wild.

© 2014 by Tom King

April 29 - The Pickle Conundrum

The Pickle Conundrum

Sweet relish and kosher dills

Sour pickles, sweet gherkins

Dill gherkins, bread and butters

Refrigerator pickles

Pickled peppers, pickled plums,

Pickled onions, green tomatoes

Tsukemonos and slippery Jacks

Pickled and Polish dills

German dills, half-sour pickles

Lime pickles and koolickles

Watermelon rind pickles, pickled beets

Pickled okra and asparagus

Garlic dills and spicy dills

Cabbage pickles, pickled carrots

Mango pickles, pickles deep fried

Sweet and dill pickle chips

A sandwich with pickles

Is a beautiful thing

But how do you choose

Which goes on the bread?

© 2014 by Tom King

April 28 - Mamas Mad at Me

Mamas Mad at Me

I ducked back in the house just now chastened.

Mama bird is feeding a nest of hungry kids

Hungry yellow mouths that pop wide open

Every time I bump the planter where the nest is hid.

She has the right I guess. It's hard enough

To feed four hungry mouths reaching, chirping

The kind of desperation to their calls that make

A mama bird feel guilty; like she's shirking.

I ducked back out of the house just now, further chastened.

Mama's doing her best to clean up the place behind me

The trails of dirt and crumbs and grease I leave behind

Everywhere I go like some aged child with ADD.

She has the right I guess. The house is hers

Ceded long ago to her skill at cleaning and hard working

But as sore bones and failing back slow Mama down,

She feels guilty too like Mama bird, as if she's shirking.

Poor mamas, I knew this day would come, as I got older,

That I would become this decaying crumbling antique

Making messes, shedding hair and worse all over.

Too brittle-boned; too tired to care to clean things till they squeak.

Someday soon, I know I'll be more trouble than I'm worth.

A creepy older guy that smells like liniment and cabbage leaf.

My sense of humor gone along with taste and style and left to be.

Put out to pasture by the kids to give their mom relief.

But I don't really mind. I'm resilient and easily amused. I take

Long walks that free my mind from all that angers or depresses

And the Mamas both on one thing fervently agree – That 

When I'm away from home, at least I can't cause guilt or further messes.

© 2014 by Tom King