Rhythm
by Tom King
Speech has a rhythm all its own,
And varies from location to location.
The angry staccato of the Germanic tongues
And Japanese that seem made for shouting orders
To soldiers standing in close formation
Gruff sounds of the native American nations,
To go with beating drums and warlike proclamations,
And for working up courage before a fight.
The sexual rhythms of the romance speakers,
Easy languid words suitable for wooing women or men for that matter.
Then there's the rapid fire clipped speech of the subcontinent.
The aggressive, fist shaking enunciation of the Middle East.
Greek sounds to me like mathematics problems;
Russian like large men, cold and trying to stay warm with vodka.
African communication rings of drums and music and dancing.
And English? The language of thieves who have stolen all the best,
So we can order soldiers around like the Germans,
Romance women like the French,
Bark like angry shopkeepers enunciating like in Mandarin,
Sing with the bemused music of the South Pacific,
But only if we want to, otherwise we're as flat-toned as
The anchors on the nightly news.
English has those lovely dialects depending on who came here,
Seeking shelter from persecution somewhere or other.
We hear echoes of the Scots and Irish in the hills of Tennessee.
We hear the Yorkshire dales, the Scottish highlands, and the slight drawl
Of the British midlands and the Irish west out in Texas and the West.
In the North we hear the cold uplands of Europe, Scandinavia, Britain,
Eastern Europe, Slavic folks, French Huguenots and country folk from Italy.
Americans have absorbed a lot of dialects, gentled some of them.
Appropriated all the very best words and pronunciations.
Scots got more mellow. I don't think Americans have the abdominal strength,
To carry that accent full time. It requires too much diaphragm.
I like English precisely for it's thievery.
We've stolen all the best words and when and if
Some language finds a better word for something,
We just swipe the word and make its music ours.
And if our poetry seems to be whatever we want it to be,
That's fine too. If we like the sound of it,
We just forget the rhyme and sometimes even the rhythm.
Some language snobs like the French
With their government language purity councils,
Think we're lazy, but we're not.
We're just creative and, for now, we're used to being free,
Even in the very words and how we speak 'em.
So the rest of Earth can quit feeling all superior.
Just shut up and listen, guys. The movie is about to start,
And the actors sound a bit like y'all.
© 2022 by Tom King
Thursday, May 5, 2022
April 29: Rhythm
Wednesday, May 4, 2022
April 28: A Scots Descendant Talks Haggis
On Haggis
by Tom King
I've never in person seen a haggis.
Not a salty, bitter or a sweet one.
But I can tell you this right now,
I'd rather see than eat one!
© 2022 by Tom King
April 27: Down at the Flea Market
Down at the Flea Market
by Tom King
Living the raggedy life on the raggedy edge,
Retail for the most part is out of my range,
So, for much of my life, the flea market's been
My JC Penny's, my Sears. Goods for small change.
Fat folk in spandex, old men in saggy jeans.
Jammed cheek by jowl, shirttails hanging out,
Examine the piles of other people's unwanted stuff,
Treasures spotted on the day's aimless walkabout.
Stuff the sellers lay out, things no longer wanted.
Stuff to sell to me, much I didn't know I'd need.
And got to have at prices I can haggle down,
Toys I've forgotten, books I really have to read.
Someone inevitably asks, "What'd you need that for?"
I'm not sure, but I've never yet willingly parted
With something I found among the market fleas,
Everything just seems to be a project someday started.
Perhaps because I found it cheap and unexpected,
It feels like some kind of discovered treasure
And it's true I haven't got round to using them, yet.
But someday, they'll give me just a little pleasure.
...at the great deal I got.
© 2022 by Tom King
Saturday, April 30, 2022
April 26: Do Not Be Afraid
Do Not Be Afraid
by Tom King
One clings to life like a Texan at the Alamo
Knowing death is coming for certain.
Knowing that the end is inevitable.
Not knowing what's beyond death's curtain.
Another knows for sure there's nothing
Because there is no order to his universe.
Death is little more that sinking back to dust.
No meaning, nothing better nothing worse.
Beside him stands another knowing naught
But that rest lies beyond the catacomb
A Lazarus sleep, a dreamless waiting
For Him who will call us one day home.
In the end we all get what we want.
Eternal nothing, pain and flame,
Or eternal life if that's what you accept.
God gives us if we want it all the same.
The universe does not need a place to torture
Sinners forever as if God's love's restrained.
Like some vindictive celestial Hitler.
Who cannot live without a place of pain..
When the fires finally burn themselves out
Darkness gone all that's left will be light.
No more suffering no envy, evil, death
All heaven scrubbed, eternally, clean and bright
© 2022 by Tom King
Greater poets than I have tried to figure out about heaven and hell and whether there even is such a thing. I come down on the side that believes evil does not have to exist to "balance" good, God does not need the Devil. Happiness does not need sadness to be happiness. The devil would like you to believe he is essential to the universe. He is not. The whole point of Earth is to get us to a perfect universe. Unless Hell burns itself out, it would always be a blot on a perfect universe. - Tom
Wednesday, April 27, 2022
April 25: Like a Song in the Night
Like a Song in the Night
by Tom King
Something sings in the dark
In the wee hours before us.
Sings me off to sleep in peace
And night birds join the chorus.
Something about the early dark,
Night full of the moon and stars
Drifting overhead with the planets
Making music Venus, Jupiter and Mars.
The night in its silence makes song,
You can hear it if you're still and quiet
And in the distance galaxies play music
And stars and nebulae run riot.
© 2022 by Tom King
April 24: World's End
At World's End
by Tom King
The Universe is watching, the peoples of the stars
Sometimes, I suspect, in bewilderment
At what we have done to ourselves here,
In seven thousand years of blood and terror.
I suspect they wonder why - all of them - that He
Would let it go on so long; long past proved
That the rebellion isn't working out so well,
Not the way the devils advertised.
I think I understand for in all of history there are
More now alive than have ever lived and died.
And technology has given us the means to speak
To each of them at once the truth.
He is a jealous God, not wanting even one
That can be gathered to be lost.
When His sons and daughters stand at the ready,
Like lightning He will come to take us home.
The Thunder whispers far off in the distance,
A portent at just the edge of hearing.
We feel it. Smell it on the wind. See eternity rolling in,
A black cloud like a fist rising in the East.
© 2022 by Tom King
Tuesday, April 26, 2022
April 23: Pathfinder Blood
Pathfinder Blood
by Tom King
Lanape Chief Nemacolin
was a pathfinder
And a direct ancestor of mine.
A guide and blazer of trails for colonial troops
Through woods of birch, and larch and pine
Highways trace his trails across the Cumberlands
Down the Ohio and Great Lakes
He knew Washington and others of my kin,
Marked forests, valleys, plains and cedar breaks.
Our ancestors once cut trails into the wild untrammeled West,
Built railroads, highways, villages and towns
Through wilderness uncharted, not yet traveled,
Our grandpas plotted farms and hunting grounds.
Today Door Dash descendants of these pioneer folk,
If on the GPS my home's not showed,
They cannot find me on a map and in frustration.
Toss my groceries out along some random road.
(insert face palm)
© 2022 by Tom King







