April 17: Uncle Johnny says, "Take it!"

 

 

Uncle Johnny Says, "Take it." 

Uncle Johnny played guitar well into his nineties. 
The whole family brings their instruments to reunions,
Guitars, dreadnoughts, steel guitars, mandolins, and fiddles.
They even let me bring my banjo, though I am but an in-law.
Bluegrass is the preferred genre, though Hank Williams
Shows up in the mix sometimes when they get going.
This impromptu band will stop once in a while as if by some secret cue,
One of them will point at someone, seemingly at random,
And shout, "Take it!" and the hapless cousin on the end of that finger point,
Must play the riff he's been practicing for years and while looking at the ceiling
Nonchalantly, make his fingers fly up and down the frets.

I've never been that good a musician. I play banjo because it's colorful,
And hardly anyone else in the group plays one well enough to put me to shame.
To my horror during one family jam session, Uncle Johnny, meaning well,
Pointed straight at me and said to me, "Take it!"
What followed was 20 seconds of the opening sequence of "Dueling Banjos"
Followed by an awkward silence from the room as I stumbled over the fast bit.
Mercifully, my new relations, many of whom remembered the first time 
That Dad or grandpa or one of the uncles pointed at them and commanded,
    "TAKE IT!" 
My wife's kindly relations, that day, quickly covered for my incompetence.
With a big burst of musical competence, with a distinct bluegrass flair.
Since then, I've been working on some kind of riff in the key of  "G"
So, I'm ready if they ever call on me again, I have my own riff ready.
On the out chance one of them points at me and says, "Take it!"
Bluegrass is almost always in G and if it's not, I keep a copy of the key changes"
You get when you strap on a capo to my longneck banjo.
But in the meantime I pray they don't forget that Tom don't "take it."
I hard down love these dear country folk and their music
With which they graciously invited me to come and live amongst them.

April 16: Cinnamon and Me

Cinnamon and Me
         2025 by Tom King

A pretty brown sorrel mare, spirited,
A little skittish at first, but soon she came to trust me.
There were trail rides Cinnamon and I led,
Eighteen kids on 18 ponies, bays, and buckskins, roans and grays
Tagging along behind us through the dappled woods.

At first, the trails were narrow and few,
But it wasn't enough for children or their feisty mounts.
So, we cut new trails among the trees, Cinnamon and I
She, fearless, pushing between the branches, me swinging a machete,
Around her ears, chopping away the foliage, widening the trail. 

She trusted me not to cut her, tolerated me wielding a sword,
She, calm like a war horse, trained to having blades swinging overhead,
Behind us, 18 ponies beat aside the leaves and left behind 
A new trail in the sandy forest floor beneath for our troop to explore,
A path for more adventures to be imagined for my young cavalry.

I passed my horses and my young troopers on when I was called
To new responsibilities. Others took my place and rode my Cinnamon.
I have to believe that in a new world, beyond this one. 
There, we won't have to leave the ones we love behind, whether human,
Dogs or horses or any soul whose trust we worked so hard to gain.

I can close my eyes dreaming Cinnamon and I take long canters,
In the woodlands of an Earth made new and green.
There's even my old dog Daisy romping along beside, sniffing the air;
Taking in the smells of an undying world. Cinnamon's nostrils flare,
And the three of us drink in the scent of Creation as it should be.

 

Bird in the Desert

 

"Bird in the Desert"
                by Sheila King

Just like a little bird,
Flying out into the desert,
All of my hopes and dreams,
Had flown away.

Without a chance at all,
Go I into the desert.
That's when I heard a voice,
Saying to me,

"Come drink from my well,
Where the water is cool and free.
You will not die here alone.
I promise you'll be here with me.

I care for My little ones
And I care for my sparrows.
Stay for a while, you are my child.
Live here with me".

Just like a little bird,
Flying out into the desert,
I left my home, took off on my own,
Let life pull me away.

But what does a sparrow know,
Of life out in the desert?
Unable to fly, waiting to die,
'til I hear Him say..."

"Come drink from my well,
Where the water is cool and free.
You will not die here alone,
I promise you'll be here with me.

I care for My little ones,
And I still care for My sparrows.
Stay for a while. Be My child.
Live here with me".

April 15: Learning Silence

  Learning Silence

  by Tom King 

 People like me, boiling over with thoughts
We talk too much for others' taste.
People for whom an excess of words
Seems too much; a thorough conversational waste

The truth be known, we chatterboxes.
Collecting knowledge's a kind of hoarding addiction, 
Sadly we delude ourselves that all of you,
Are also info junkies, sharing our affliction

We're trying not to be annoying, but like a pot on a stove,
We bubble over, given the least encouragement..
We have come to suspect you don't want to hear all that,
Probably you want, for your time, some reimbursement.

So on behalf of all us ADD know-it-alls,
I'd like to extend to all of you an apology.
So I'm writing blogs and books and poems instead,
As a way to address my own pathology. 

So I'm sorry.
    I'll shut up now!