April 29 - Bridge Builder

Bridge-Builder

I remember how that bridges

Always held an utter fascination

When I was just a bootless boy

With ample time and much imagination.

When I would with building blocks, Erector sets,

Hunks of stone, woodpile scraps and slivers,

Litter the house with rickety bridges

That spanned imaginary rivers.

It was the barriers I suppose

That I never really liked,

Always in the way of where I wished to go,

Barring every quiet trail I hiked.

Rivers invited me to build canoes.

Gullies, ravines defied me to try

To traverse intricacies of knots and rope,

Some book had taught me how to tie.

In the intervening years I’ve built

More bridges than I care to say

Some well used. Others, not so much.

It does not matter anyway.

You are not required to always cross

Every bridge encountered everywhere.

Bridge-builders do not mind, just so.

If a bridge is wanted, it is there.

That’s all I really wanted all along.

To leave behind me crossings that abide

A string of bridges, spanning barriers

Paths by which to reach the other side.

I hope that God will leave some rivers

When he makes the Earth anew.  

Chasms I can throw a span across;

And places I can build a bridge or two.

© 2016 by Tom King

April 28 - A Refuge

 

A Refuge

When I build a place of refuge,

I compass myself about

With walls, but I always leave

A door and window facing out.

I cannot block away the sky

Nor the mountains or the sea.

I will not place a wall between

The warm brave sun and me.

                                                                © 2016 by Tom King

April 27 - Comfort Food

Comfort Food

Sometimes you just need
Food that tastes like home,
Flavors you share with someone else,
Smells that make you smile.

I used to think that
What you ate was not important.
I was wrong about that.
The smells sneak up on you.

Smells that take you back to places,
You’d forgot you’d left behind;
A joy that all of us,
In the family share it.

© by Tom King

April 26 - An Old Man Without a Dog

An Old Man Without a Dog

An old man without a dog

Walks down the hill toward home,

Just past the place along the road

Where he left the dog behind.

In the same way he left

Other companions,

A brother, a father, a son

A love already home waiting.

The ground gently falls away,

Beneath his feet, sloping down

Toward his journey’s end.

Without thought, he slows his pace.

Meandering now, his senses alive,

He drinks the nuances of smell,

Of light and color and movement,

Of leaves rustling, of birds chattering.

Life is precious down near the end,

Now that he finally sees where he is going.

His feet linger not wanting

To miss anything worth tasting.

He wanders steadily toward home,

Where he knows a comfort waits;

Waits with arms outstretched,

Listening for his footsteps.

© 2016 by Tom King

April 25 - I Sing Because

 








I Sing Because
I sing because I cannot be silent
When the world is hurting.
I shout because some things
Simply must be heard.
I weep because some things
Are worth weeping for.
I tell stories because we need them
to make sense of our lives.

I ask because unless someone asks
We'll never get an answer.
I write for those who need to read it
All in black and white in order to believe.
I comfort because a sympathetic hand
Makes it so we do not feel alone.
I sleep in peace because I know,
I have done all I can......today.

© 2016 by Tom King

April 24 - Two Weeks From Everywhere

The town where I grew up was small. How small?

I could walk the town all the way across and back

In the space of an idyllic sunny afternoon

Along some random sun-dappled, leafy track.

They were all like that, the roads and streets and trails,
Tucked among the gnarled oaks and chinaberry trees;

Drenched with pungent crape myrtle perfume,

And the sounds of dogs and kids and humming bees.

It was a town that taught you patience patiently.

If you needed something not on hand, they'd get it,

But you could count on waiting 14 days in any case.

Two weeks, a fortnight you could safely bet it

No matter what it was; no matter how large or small

Time warped itself always into equal spaces.

You learned to live with it or else you moved,

Somewhere rushed, more nervous, wired to faster paces.  

I carry some of that little town with me now,

Especially as I grow old, my powers wane, and my career peaks.

And when some nervous youngster demands to know how long?
My answer now's always the same – about two weeks!

© 2016 by Tom King