I See the Lightning

 

I See the Lightning

I still see the lightning flash

Even though my eyes are closed.

Illumination comes to me even when

I do not wish to see it.

I still can write in shaky cursive,

Though I have only printed

Since I was a boy back in seventh grade

And my poor teacher begged me to write legibly.

I still can ride a bicycle

Even though I'm old

And my center of gravity

Has shifted considerably.

I still get the urge to take off running

Even though my knees can't take it anymore

Just for the sheer joy of the thing,

To fly like wind across an open field.

I still carry in me all that I have learned

Though most of it I learned when I was young,

It was part of growing up back then,

And to my surprise, a part of simply breathing now.

© 2017 by Tom King

April 18 - Dam It!

Dam It!

Beavers have the right idea.

The water's moving too fast?

Need a place away from the wolves?

Got a stream?  Well dam it!

So your life is out of control,

The pace is too fast.  Need to slow it,

So you have time to think before acting? 

Got life rushing by? Well dam it!

© 2017 by Tom King

April 10 - These Trees are Not as Old as Me

 













These Trees Are Not as Old as Me

We're surrounded by a stand of mighty Douglas Firs.
I felt I was walking in a forest of ancient trees.
Towering overhead, blocking out the sun,
Their tops swaying in a breathy morning breeze.

I had it all in my head, I imagined those giant sentinels
As they look from the ridge down to where Native villages dot
The valley below, smoke curling from their cooking fires
The evening meal simmering in the village cooking pot.

So when a big one toppled to the ground, riddled
By woodpeckers, cut down sawed up by some guys,
The neighbors hired to take it safely to the ground.
If fell my lot to chop it into firewood where it lies.

Eagerly I counted up the rings so clearly on display,
I expected to count for a while, but it was not to be.
I counted once, then unbelieving twice and thrice again.
And to my dismay the fallen giant ain't but forty-three.

Why I've underpants as old as that. What a disappointment,
To discover all my ancient trees are but children next to me.
I suppose I shouldn't romanticize the plant life like that.
Lest the harsh light of truth deflate my wildwood fantasies.

And I wonder in all the time they've been here,
Growing firm in place these mighty massive trees,
I wonder what my rootless wanderings have cost
And have these old trees grown up more than me.

© 2017 by Tom King

April 2 - End of Winter

End of Winter

I stumbled on a picture I took a week ago

While I was out walking after spending days inside;

Doing the obligatory loop around the neighborhood

To survey the aftermath of winter's final gasp.

We'd had two feet of snow upon the ground

Just a few days ago. Then the warm winds came,

Brought back the drizzle, making mush

Of all that sound-softening blanket

That had made a reverent place of our little wood,

For a day or two and kept us warm and snug inside.

Now all that's left are traces piled in chunks

Along the streets and sidewalks where

Travelers afoot and drivers wheeling along the road

Had pushed the snow up in piles beside the ditches.

A few sturdy hunks of white remain, softly sheening,

A glaze laid on by relentless mist and rain.

Green grass, watered slowly pushes up behind

The snow as it is gently washed away,

And the wood is not so quiet anymore, the birds not so reverent

And spring is here again with a frenzy of demands.

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

Mamaw’s Hands

By Sheila King

The withered hands once strong and sure,

   Though weighed with time and trembling now,

Moved by love, through pain made pure;

   Oft touched the fevered brow

They toiled in diligence and patient love,

   The precious fruits of life to tend,

As though guided from above

   All cares, all sorrows, theirs to mend.

Frail hands I wrap safe up in mine,

One last sweet touch, then softly gone

To fold in rest until the time

They wake and journey on.

© 2016

Love Abides

Love Abides

Upon the bleak fields of February

Mottled shadows crawl across the forest floor,

Cast by sun half-hearted glowering

Behind the drooping winter sky.

Spring still sleeping beneath wet leaves;

Warm rot, the blanket for the seeds

Last autumn cast carelessly, it seemed to me,

Upon the hard ground.

The dying leaves I watched them fall.

The green time done and gone again,

To ochre, scarlet, yellow, brown.

Question, acceptance, then finally revelation.

The green time comes and goes,

Skin fades, mottles, wrinkles;

Hair falls, eyes dim, bones weaken;

Even music slips away with time.

Till warm we wait beneath

The blanket earth like seeds sown,

To be lifted up when February’s

Done its gray deed and Spring is come.

In faith we live the green times

In hope the ochre, scarlet, yellow, brown.

But it is in the February gray

We know that Love abides.

By Tom King

April 2 - The Falls

The Falls

by Tom King

I found them in a quiet place

Where no one ever goes.

Where you have to cut a path

If you have a mind to find them.

I lay down upon the bank 

And listened for a while

To the symphony that God plays

Upon instruments designed by Him.

And in that solitude I saw

The winter ice returning

Down effervescent cataracts

A thousand miles to go,

Until at last some distant sea

Its arms spread welcoming

Will take the errant droplets and

Give them up again for snow.

© 2014