Love Played Out

 

Love Played Out

God gets a bad rap
From those who know His mind

And yet have never met Him

Nor studied the psychology of the infinity.

With impossible arrogance

We confidently accuse infinite love

Of being responsible for every evil thing

That we ourselves have done to one another.

We demand freedom

From God’s meddling ways

And then we turn around and blame Him

For not making us behave ourselves.

Love is the only thing

That awakens love in creatures

With the free will and self-awareness

That enables us to create as He does.

Infinite Love weeps while we discover

To our dismay that the gifts of choice

That make us what we are can be misused

And God won’t interfere until we’ve learned.

Love cannot be forced

Creation without free will and choice does not exist.

Infinite power must be restrained while classes

Are still in session and so long as we still are learning.

Love requires a demonstration

We learn by experience hard-earned.

We must see love played out before our eyes or we cannot

Allow Him to deliver us even from ourselves.

© 2016 by Tom King

Rain on the Skylight

Rain on the Skylight

It’s weird, lying here, looking up

Rain dropping from thousands of feet above me;

Pelting down, reaching terminal velocity

Splattering against the plexiglass a few feet from my face.

I wish all roofs were clear and you could see

Through and straight on up into the sky.

Skylights are stingy and even on a clear day or night

They only grant your eyes a narrow view of heaven.

By day the shafts of sunlight in neat rectangles

Track across the carpet, reminding me,

That time is passing and I should be

Out the kitchen door to join the open spaces.

At night, I have to shift myself about the darkened room

To keep my eye upon the scarred moon’s face as it sails by overhead,

Peering down through the plastic as it passes, yet,

Ignoring me altogether, accompanied by the stars.

Because I cannot live outside these days,

I must content myself with my little windows

And the narrow piece of sky it grants to me for comfort
And the wider peace of heart it nurtures in my soul.

© 2016 by Tom King

Overloaded

An Idyll on the Front Porch

I am not drunk, but sometimes I stumble.
I am not blotto, but sometimes I slur my words.
I am not hammered, but sometimes I get confused.
I am not smashed, wasted, or three sheets to the wind,
But I am in the mood to sing something tragic,
And sad and slightly off-key and out on the porch
With my trusty Squared Eel* and a flagon
Of Diet A&W Root beer and a cheese sandwich.
I should not watch the presidential debates
It's like watching Hitler and Stalin slug it out
And wondering who to root for.
And it only serves to remind me that finally,
The devil has come to claim his due.
I wonder do you have to play the banjo
To see it all for what it is - a rotten Hobson's choice?
And either way we're screwed,
            ......and no one's going to buy us dinner first.

© 2016 by Tom King
* A type of homemade banjo

With Tattered Sails

Homeward bound

With Tattered Sails

When we embarked upon this voyage of ours
With just a compass, charts, a sextant, and orders
From the owner of our tiny little ship,
We did not set sail for profit,
Nor for what glory we might achieve,
Nor for notoriety, fame or even admiration.
We hoisted sails and steered our vessel
In the direction where the chart says, “Home.”

There are places on that chart marked,
“Here be dragons” and sometimes our course
Lies right across those uncharted wastes,
But still we have our instruments and our orders.
So, o’er the years we have sailed close-hauled,
Before an errant wind, gentle one day,
A roaring gale the next, hauling on the braces,
Tying down the lines, repairing frayed cordage.

On before the wind we’ve sailed, the two of us,
Splintered spars repaired, replaced, cast overboard,
Doing the best we can to repair the damage,
Making do when we cannot fix what’s broken.
Each year our tattered vessel creeps on,
Looking rather the worse for wear all things considered,
But we on deck, bump along together, stitching parted seams,
Swabbing decks and taking sightings every day.

And sure enough there be dragons as the chart foretold;
Warned us there would be along the course we’d chosen.
And we have fought them as best we could.
Taken wounds along the way - some self-inflicted.
But I have seen the seagulls and the home-bound birds,
And we know that landfall lies just beyond the horizon.
And though she may be tattered He will bring,
Our tired old ship tomorrow certain home to shore.

© 2016 by Tom King

April 30 - Something Welcome This Way Comes

© Public Domain

Something Welcome This Way Comes

In the sodden morning, autumn’s musty breath

Whistles down the lane, rattling the cottonwoods,

Generating expectant whispers high up among

And all along their loosely ordered ranks.

Expectancy hangs like the Spanish moss

Back home in Texas and Louisiana.

Here in the North Country the seasons wear

The passing of time like a pampered fashion plate.

Each season’s turning sends a new and bitter wind

Rattling across the treetops, each year a little colder

Than the last; more fraught with gray, less brightly colored

Less welcoming than in seasons gone before.

And on the porch we sit and note the subtle changes,

Catch the scent that’s carried on the breezes,

Mark the signs engraved against the dismal Earth and sky

That speak of something welcome this way coming.

© 2016 by Tom King