April 5 - Pockets of Resistance

Pockets of Resistance 

Out in the black and angry places of the world
Dark clouds rest on the very tops of mountain peaks
The bottom of the sky held up by ragged pyramids
To give a little breathing space for those of us beneath.

Not every one of us embrace the darkness overhead.
Some come together in pockets of resistance here and there.
Little stubborn bands of hopeful souls, all saying no
To the hopelessness, intimidation and despair.

Little pockets of light that flicker in the shadowlands
Little flames all fed by knowledge of the One
Shining still, there above the other side of darkness
Streams of light that break through from the Son.

© by Tom King

April 4 -I ❤ Buffalo and Wolves

I ❤ Buffalo and Wolves

I know, they're really bison, but our grandfathers' name for them,
Stuck and I'm from the heartland where we've no need to prove
That we are intellectually or morally superior to city people.
We just know it and live happily in our quaint little rural groove.

Let's bring the buffalo or the bison or the American bison back
Whatever you call them and while we're at it wolves, bears and panthers
Wouldn't that be nice? And sure the Native Americans would just love it.
They're all so beautiful and natural and we city people have all the anthers.

Ever notice how many of them lisp like that; as they tell us what we ought
To do with the land our restless ancestors farmed and ranched and died on?
"I know let's put some wolves on some guy's ranch or how about mountain lions?
"I know, here's a little bit of forest by the Sabine River some bears would like to lie on.

It's funny, but you just know if a reconstituted herd of half a million bison,
Came stampeding through their communities knocking down those wrought iron gates
And trampling down the rose beds and taking baths in upscale swimming pools
That nine-one-one would be deluged with half a million angry resident complaints.

And the first time a pack of wolves set up camp in someone's yard,
Waiting to see if the lavender smelling poodle would soon come on outside,
Or the day one's toddler shouted "kitty" and toddled off across the yard
To pet the pretty panther, sitting at the end of the child-safe play fort slide.

Or the black bear, not bright enough to recognize the river as a border,
Nor knowing that in Texas after swimming the Sabine one must
Never slap a kitty off a rail, and have it for your lunch for there'd be trouble
Cause in Texas kitty's mama's shotgun judgment is considered imminently just,

Or if we dropped the surplus predators in some West or East Coast town,
Just to give the nature lovers a little taste as predator populations do pick up,
Perhaps some folk would not be quite so ready to be occasionally eaten
By bears or hunted down by the hungry packs just to keep the gray wolf numbers up.

© by Tom King

April 3 - I Am Not a Union Man

I Am Not a Union Man

I am not a union man and I am not ashamed
It's not that I do not appreciate what union men
Have done to improve the lot of workers in the past
Midst the great onrush of the industrial revolution.

Am I ungrateful not to join? Some say it's so,
Not to join up and stick it to the corporate beast,
To join the last revolution's organized resistance
And oppose the old robber barons, long since dead.

It's always a revolution it seems, with new enemies
And new calls to join the latest collective in its holy war
Against whoever it is that has got what the revolution wants
And to bury them 'neath the stampede of historical inevitability.

First it was the primitives warring against the land
To bring it into submission and establish their own dominance.
Then a new wave of settlers whose economy soon came
To depend on driving the primitives away or to extinction.

Then it was the ranchers and the farmers with cavalry and Indians
Thrown in, leftover from the previous generation's war
Then farmers moved to cities to work in factories and shops.
Then promptly went to war with those who owned them.

Now the compilers of data and sellers of access have overcome
The factory men and unions and push them out before
The inexorable tide of computers and information and access.
The data men who now, having resisted, must soon resist something else.

What will we resist tomorrow? What's the next baron, king or prince
We will need to band together to resist, to preserve some status quo,
Sublimating our lives, our liberty and our happiness because,
We owe the old unions such a debt of gratitude for our current comfort?

For one brief shining moment in a thousand years, some took a stand in unity,
Not to preserve the collective but to set the servants of the king at liberty.
To give to men and women, not membership, but freedom to be
What they are and if they want, by choice to not be union men unless we wish it.

© 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 1 - If I Were God

If I Were God

Were I God, I would not wish

To lose a single beautiful thing

I would take them all as trophies

And when I returned I'd sing,

A victory song o'er all the beauty

That my children saved from loss

Singing over every child of mine whose art

Reflects what such salvation cost.

Were I God, each song, each painting

Each precious thing my children made

In unconscious imitation of creation

Each farmer, each gardener with a spade

I'd gather them all up and carefully transplant

Each musician, singer, poet, healer and homemaker,

Each one who rescues animals, birds or kids

Each child who is a by choice a giver, not a taker.

If I were God, I'd make the world anew;

Strip it bare and start it up again.

I'd scatter my children over every inch

To build homes and rich gardens to grow and tend

To build airy boats, to make wings to soar

Upon the seas and winds like birds all colored bright

To spread joy and wonder as their Father does,
And to drink eternity by Creation's healing light.
 

© 2017 by Tom King

The Earth Breathing

Photo © by Glenn Sackett

The Earth Breathing

Sunrises are the opposite of sunsets.

Sunsets make you breathe out,

Sunrises make you breathe in.

The deep and rhythmic breathing of the day.

© 2017 by Tom King

Lifting With My Legs

I remember skipping down a woodland path

Because when I was young - it was faster than walking

And not as much work as running flat out;

Skipping’s just the speed for taking in the scenery.

I was a kid then with strong bones and healthy joints,

Because I got my daily servings of dairy and vegetables

And I avoided swimming for at least one hour,

After eating all those recommended daily allowances.

Over the years, I was told to stay out of drafts
Because I might catch pneumonia

And wore a hat in winter so that

I would not catch my death of cold.

My bosses told me lift with your legs

Because it will save your back from damage

And so I religiously lifted with my legs.
And sure enough it saved my back.

I have never had a broken bone in all my life

Because of all that calcium and the veggies,
And I wore a hat and never got pneumonia – not at all;

And never drowned and so far haven’t caught my death.

I seldom skip these days, satisfied with a more leisurely pace

Because all that lifting with my legs apparently wrecked my knees

Running’s too much work, skipping’s out of the question,

But my back’s terrific - so far so good.

© 2017 by Tom King