Berry Cobbler on the Hoof
by Tom King
Down our gravel lane on a summer day,
In the Pacific Northwest another late growing season.
Pink and white blooms scattered among prickly vines,
That some Washingtonians consider weeds,
But I'm from Texas, a veteran berry picker,
So I recognize blackberry cobbler on the hoof.
Well worth the bleeding and purple stained fingers.
And every summer along our vine strewn driveway,
We gather infant berry cobblers for the winter.
(c) 2024
Prayer Walking
by Tom King
How do you pray when you've ADHD like me?
I've found that walking
alone along a road through the darkling wood
Early or late in the day is my best most sacred place
To talk to God and make sense of what I have to talk about.
The sounds of
the wind, the birds in the trees, the leaves rustling
All nature's choir create a
kind of cloak around me
That, unlike the walls of my closet, don't close me in,
But open up my heart and fill my chest with the clean air
And yet dampen the sounds of the noisy world around
Giving me a quiet place where I can
hear my own thoughts
And send up coherent prayers to Him.
My knees are shot for kneeling anyway. I'm old
And I've worn them out so that If I
sit or lie down to pray,
I'll drift off to sleep or become distracted.
On my
walks with Him, my eyes are drawn ahead down the road
Or trail And
up to the patches of blue sky scattered
Above the shifting verdant leafy canopy.
It's there that I can talk to
God most easily and naturally,
Often out loud so I can hear myself think. It helps
For
one as distractable as me to talk to Him in His own house.
© 2024
A Limerick by an Irish Descendant
April Fool's come around with the usual jests
And which are jokes, though I've usually guessed.
But twixt the fake and the real
This year I can't tell.
It's gotten crazy out there I attest.
Seems like it was a year with little sun,
Or rain for all that that may matter.
I think it's mostly drizzled; we've been stuck inside
Steadily getting older still and fatter.
It's been a year since last I ventured
Even some bit of anything not required.
A year to clean, maintain, repair, improve
The space in which we find that we are mired
Some years are like that. This was one;
A year to surrender to the weather.
A time for bookkeeping, dusting, organizing.
For getting all our stuff together.
Drizzly years tend to be about
Maintaining, enduring, catching up.
Uneventful weather often sets the tone
The meteorological and emotional matching up.
When one has a season of that sort,
A year of tedious maintenance of the nest,
Probably wise to get your tools and plan
To do whatever housekeeping you do best.
Next year may be more satisfying,
A year to let your spirit break and run.
For once your life's again in order,
It's time to celebrate; perhaps there will be sun.
Have another go at drinking deep,
Of what's out there and waits for you
And from your newly ordered nest,
Strike out for challenges anew.
© 2024 by Tom King
