April 12 - Did Someone Say Lunch?

 

Did Someone Say Lunch?

(Selective Hearing)

When she's hot on the scent of a field mouse,

Or snuffling the trail of a squirrel,

And it's time to go home and I'm calling

She'll pretend to be deaf to the world.

But oh let her hear cellophane crinkle,

Or a can opener starting to whir,

Then her ears are as sharp as a cave full of bats,

And on her way to the kitchen she's a blur.

© 2019 by Tom King
 

April 11 - Man's Machines

Man's Machines

Since he walked out of the garden,
Men have been building machines.
Simple at first, hoes and shovels,
Then, carts and plows and cranes.

Gradually more complicated they grew.
War made them more beautiful and deadly.
Trade made them bigger and more essential.
Finally boats as intricate as a Rube Goldberg dream.

One of the most beautiful things man's ever created,
Fifty to half a thousand men dancing together
In time to the wind and the waves and currents
Just to make a windjammer fly across the water. 

Tens of thousands of intricately interconnected
Rope, pins, pulleys, and broad sheets of canvas,
Rudder, yards, tackle, sheets and men, a symphony,
In blood and bone, hemp and wood and steel.

Our machines are mostly steel now; things we
Sit upon and turn a key or flip a switch.
And off they go without us except maybe
To be carried along, holding the tiller.

© 2019 by Tom King

April 10 - Return to Nantucket

Return to Nantucket

Do you remember the man from Nantucket?
Who never recovered his bucket.
One day Nan came home.
Left her ex all alone. 
But as for the bucket, Nantucket.

But then Nan made a run for Pawtucket.
Found a plane to Bermuda and tuck it.
With Dad the cash she's splitting.
On a beach she's now sitting.
With a brand new guitar and she'll pluck it.

© 2019 by Tom King

April 9 - Grandpa's Mouth Harp

Grandpa's Mouth Harp
                             (a haiku)

Grandpa's easy chair
He blows languid riffs - train sounds,
From his old mouth harp.

© 2019 by Tom King

April 8 - Flying My Own Flag

Flying My Own Flag

I'm like a lot of people, when something awful happens
   To my home, my family, my nation, my world.
My first impulse is to hoist a flag in solidarity.
   A banner over me and mine and yours unfurled.
With pipes and drums and marching brothers in a line.
   We have mourned together, while pipers moaned and skirled.
Amazing Grace gets woven deep into our common grief;
   A blood red river flowing, sweeping, self-elucidation swirled,

Our flags define us. I'm flying four of them right now.
   A nation's and two state's flags and one flag a navy jack.
The defunct Texas Navy ensign flies beside my doorpost like 
   The ratty sailor's queue that even now hangs down my back.
I've fancied myself a sailor ever since I was a kid. 
   Swashbuckling from the oak tree "masts" out in the back;
Hanging mama's sheets from trees. Then later running up,
   Into the leafy canopy, my very own and private navy jack.
  
Finally I set real sails on Texas lakes and taught myself the knack,
   Of coaxing my ersatz frigate home upon a whisper of a breeze,
Laugh if you will. I'm not alone in flying private flags.
   We each and every one of us sail day to day on secret seas.
You cannot sail the oceans of experiences we've navigated
   Without you've collected a veritable cargo of idiosyncracies.
Renaissance Fairs, garden clubs, Scouts, reenactors, gamers 
   Hoisting banners, trailing would-be glories yet to seize.

I fly my own flags, though you may not see them hanging
   From my porch, nor even folded away inside some chest.
I, like most of us, may never hang my pennant on the mast
   But that will not preclude me looking to utter East and West,
Until I find a coat of arms and the perfect flag that suits me. 
   I'll never have a castle, nor an escort riding four abreast.
I'll never have a retinue, nor a navy of my own.
   But someday I will find my flag before I gain my rest.

© 2019 by Tom King

April 7 - Same Paths, Different Times

Same Paths, Different Times

Feet shuffling along in the snow,
Hooves and sneakers several hours apart.
Going the same direction but drifting
Slightly either side of center
Paths shifted one way and another
By terrain hidden beneath the snow,
Chance steps pushing our paths gently
Sometimes together, other times apart.

© 2019 by Tom King

April 6 - Ya'll Lookie Here!

Ya'll Lookie Here!

I'm a Texan and I always will be
I thought my state was ground twice blessed
Grew up between the piney woods in the East
And the wild grasslands in the West

I got some redneck goin' from somewhere,
I got some interestin' genes from pop and mother
Teachers and preachers up one branch
Rednecks, and union men up another.

I once taught school and another time rode
And wrangled 20 horses, 7 hours a day.
I never broke a bone, just sprains and bruises
That was something of a miracle I would say.

Now I'm sittin' in a padded chair my feet
Propped up, my knees iced down and medicated.
Rethinking stuff I jumped off, climbed up and fell from.
Almost regretting some of the joints that I rotated.

Notice I said "almost", 'cause I'm not so sure I would
Take back, the fun and make the joint pain disappear,
Those times I got to thinkin', "Hey what if I climbed up on..."
Threw up my arms and shouted, "Hey, y'all lookie here!"

© 2019 by Tom King