Storm surge

The howling wind the willows bend
their heads bow down  in unison
and as a wave they rise again
to straighten like a spring
without their leaves they feel the cold
their backs are turned toward the gale
and bend they must, or break they will
as winter batters in.
The threatening storm pervades the air
and whisks the clouds in frenzied flight
the temperature is falling
feeling colder than the frost
but still the fleeting air is dry
no snow or ice apparent yet
but come the darkness without moon
then - what will be the cost?
The wicked winter tide is rising 
"Spring-tide" only in her name
and joining forces with the North wind
Southward looks to play her game
She thunders up along the beaches
hurling gainst the seawall strong
seeking, searching for a weak spot
to concentrate her efforts on 
but man has worked to keep her out
since fearful night in '53
when terror struck and souls were lost
in acres under sea.
Precautions taken, with good fortune
stop her claiming back the land
and so she heads around the coast
to find the softer sand
of Happisburgh, Palling, Caister, Yarmouth
places all aware of flood 
and washed out beaches, fallen cliffs
and brackish river mud.
With any luck a few degrees 
of changed direction for the wind
will keep the very worst at bay
and let the tide rescind
But be aware! The power of nature
never ever will give way
and Norfolk's coastline will be changing
when Nature choose the day.


©Rob King

Sunsets

I love sunsets....in fact, I spend  quite a lot of time looking at the sky, one way or another. It's the first thing I do every morning, and the last thing I do every night, and I spend a disproportionate part of my day looking up in wonder as well. I take lots of pics of it, and I have a Facebook page of Norfolk Skies too.

This time-lapse video is one I assembled from 1092 jpgs, shot at 3 second intervals on my Panasonic Lumix DMC FZ150 bridge camera.

Just another day!

Facebook, Facebook
everybody take a look
see who's really happy now
or see who's really sad
post, like, poke, share
I don't really have a care
PMSL!
'cause the worlds gone mad! 

©Rob King

The bench

The poem was inspired by this photo, courtesy of Gwyn Stephen. Thank you Gwyn


The fallen leaves lay undisturbed
the park bench moist with moss
it's been this way for several weeks
since Albert suffered loss.
He used to sit here every day
and share lunch with his chum
but sadly, Dicky is no more
so Albert doesn't come.
The bench remains, adorned with fallen
leaves - old years are finished
but come the Spring, new friends will sit
and share life, undiminished.


©Rob King photopoetry

To catch a rainbow...

The spider strove throughout the nightTo weave a net to catch the flight
of insect, humming through the space
twixt soil and grass, a hectic place
where wings do shimmer, buzz and beat
the insect searches food to eat
yet all the while , the spider tries
to make a living snaring flies
but come the dawn, he's only caught
A rainbow!      Now... who would have thought?
©Rob King 2013

Insomnia

I lie quiet - darkness-shrouded,
toast-warm, but uncomfortable,
the ceaseless torrent of chatter
wearing smooth the jagged points
of my thoughts,
then upsetting them,
washing them, churning, separated,
to new resting places
on the bed of Nightriver.

My mind switches subjects
as a Pony Express rider
changes horses -
from stirrup to stirrup,
never touching solid ground.
No time for rest, not even now -
the dedicated time of sleep.
(The mail must get through!)

The button-pressed, blue-figured, back-lit clock
silent shreiks
"Too late to be night-time,
too early to be day-time!"
those unaccounted hours
belonging neither here nor there -
the Limbo of Insomnia
foist upon me
like a prison sentence
awaiting appeal.

Refreshing my position
both physically and mentally
I attempt meditation
that I might silence
the noises and voices,
the screech of speech,
shouted word unheard
but loudly imagined -
to block out all
with a warm blanket of
"Om."

Silence falls.
blessed peace
for one minute -
maybe two,
and then the chattering starts anew,
insistent and persuasive,
devilish and grinning,
prodding, poking, snarling
"You - will - not - silence - ME!"

With renewed determination
I try to shut it out
to bar the door against the ram,
to sand-bag the breach against the flood
to patch the cracks with wet clay
'til nought but the faintest trickle
remains.
Breathe slow and deep -
"Om."

Peering deep into and beyond
the backs of my eyelids
I feel the darkness
slowly closing in
on the candle flame
of my imagined vision.
Concentrating
on the flickering dancing
tear of light
I am aware -
the peripheral vision slowly fades
from red to black,
like a vignette -
gradually sucking light
from the centre
into the dark edges until
all is absorbed,
all is edge,
no light remains.
I sleep..........
............
The day creeps round the curtain edge
and slides, spiteful, along the wall.......

©Rob King 2013

Politics

I haven't written for a while, but here's a little something I've just put together.

Politics

I feel the need to write today
although I haven't much to say
not much, that is, that makes much sense
I feel I'm perched upon the fence.
My mind is filled with questions, sure,
but lying round me on the floor
are  answers, screwed up, thrown away
detritus of a fruitless day.

I never have been much at ease
at seeing wood because the trees
are almost always in the way
and block my vision, sad to say.
But should I rouse, and take a stand
on subjects that of me demand
opinions strong, I know I'll rue
when I hear the others' points of view.

My mind is swirling in full spate
made giddy by the great debate
that voices make, while shouting loud
each side appealing to the crowd.
They bend the facts, tell downright lies
they hide the truth from searching eyes
but if another proves them wrong
they start up with a different song.

And so I ask "Whom to believe?
Who is not trying to deceive?
Where do I find the one to trust,
the one whose cause is true and just?"
I fear that I will never find
an answer fitting to my mind
I know not where to make my mark
while groping blindly in the dark.



© Rob King 2013

Field Maple

Field Maple

Field-maple seed, with twin attached
so silent whirrs, on autumn breeze
and slowly earthward progress makes
away from parent trees.

Touching down it comes to rest
among the upright blades of grass
and nestling closer to the soil
awaits my foot to pass

Delicate wing so soon decays
as Winter water wets the earth
and foot-fall comes and presses seed
to find a place of birth.

When daylight lengthens after snow
seed case splits, root downward probes
and shedding case with upward thrust
reveals two unfurled lobes

Now the time of greatest danger
grazers teeth or mower blade
but fallen branch provides new shelter
first year leaves now fade

Second spring the whip is taller
standing higher than the sward
proudly bearing leaves palmatum
thrusting heavenward.

The branch is moved, the sapling spotted
trowel uproots and lifts it clear
the end of Maple's fine endeavours?
never need to fear.

With care the the sapling is replanted
In a hedge-gap by the lane
and safely there, the maple starts
the cycle once again.

Not many years before the maple
showers seeds with coupled flights
and spreads it's progeny to leeward
small green whirling kites.



©Rob King 2013

Gardener

With strokes deliberate and slow
the gardener displaces weeds
that in between the onion row
would run amok and and cast their seeds.
The weeds are pretty on their own
it's just that here they're out of place,
the seedlings grown for food will drown
'neath mantle green, without a trace
And thus, the hoe will cut them through
and root from soil be surely drawn
to wilt beneath the springtime sun,
sure death before the morrow morn.
The pity is that, if allowed
the weeds would grow to flower full;
the pheasant's eye and pimpernel,
cleavers, crucifix, dead-nettle.
each in it's place a pretty plant,
indicating healthy soil
but just for being where it is,
the gardener will surely spoil.
And so adjacent to my rows,
the ranks resultant of my toil,
I like to leave, just for the weeds,
untended, careless, virgin soil.





© Rob King 2013

Moderately Good

My Claim to Fame

I'm moderately good at poetry
I'm moderately good at art
I'm moderately good at rebuilding things
After I've ripped them apart
I'm moderately good at building from scratch
I can even work from a plan
I once made a dress (though not for myself!)
which is moderately good for a man!
I'm moderately good in the garden
at vegetable growing I'm fair,
but for flowers and plants that hint at romance
I really don't have a flair.
I'm moderately good at cooking
and most things connected with food
bird plucking, bread-baking, beer-brewing, wine-making
are all things I've never eschewed
I'm moderately good at music
playing instruments, mainly by ear
though I can read the dots, I don't do it lots
to remember tunes, I have to hear.
I'm moderately good at singing
though my memory now is much worse
so unlike the birds, I read all the words
or I'd never finish a verse
I'm moderately good at computers
I even built one of my own
suffice it to say it works in its own way
but my knowledge of I T has grown.
I'm moderately good at house-painting
though I think it somewhat of a pain
It seems that you've only just finished the job
and it's time to start it again.
I'm moderately good making baskets
and all things connected with wood
at sawing and planing, and jointing and staining
it's been said that I'm moderately good.
So look at the overall picture
and let it be well understood
that the only thing that I have ever excelled at
is being moderately good.


©Rob King 2013

Spring/Winter (Sprinter)

There was a time I do recall
when seasons stood their test.
each came at its allotted time
and strove to do its best.
In recent years, I 've noticed though
that seasons are less caring
they come and go just as they please
with little pleasure sharing.
Is this just me interpreting
the memories of my youth?
or have the seasons, like myself
grown too long in the tooth
I find it very tiresome now
there being no rhyme or reason
Why I cannot enjoy the day
within the proper season.

Rob King 2013

Summer Revisited

Lying back on the warm sand
I closed my eyes
and felt the low rumble
of the breakers
as they dashed hard against
the ridge of shingle,
giving the appearance of
attempting to both
consolidate and disperse
at one and the same time,
The net result being
little more than
the shuffling of stones
as in a pack of cards.

As the foamy water
receded
the hord of unsettled stones
would rattle their cry
as they were dragged back
to the bottom of the ridge
only to be picked up
again and ever again,
and be violently tossed
up the ridge,
searching for the unique space
that would allow them
rest.

Within my mind I pictured
tail-thrashing salmon,
hook-jawed and determined
fighting up falls
in their desperate bid
to leave the world
to their young.
Is that how the sand was made?
Have these glossy, polished pebbles
given their all
that I might lie here
in comfort?

I smile and give thanks
to the Universe
for its warmth
and support
and a mantle of sleep
overwhelms my earthly musings.

The Writing Process

I hold my pen and wait
silent as the night, peaceful as the dead
breathing easy, barely moving
emptying the garbage from my head

I wait for words to form
pretty little squiggles in a horizontal row
patterns of equal spaces, interspersed uneven black
conveying thoughts of every thing I know

I wait for inspiration
my fingers start to twitch as words take on a shape
shuffling into sentence, changing places, changing words
and looking for an easy rhyming break.

No more waiting
the drip, drip, drip of words is now turning to a trickle
the trickle now expanding to a stream
the stream becomes a spate - a flooding, rushing torrent
and I guide the pen as if I'm in a dream.

At last - it's over
Once more I have possession of the senses left for dead
The  artform's now a shape upon the paper, quite inert.
waiting silently - just waiting to be read.

©Rob King 2013

One of my passions

Looking up, I see a world transformed
a world where nature paints for me an ever-changing view
I close my eyes, and turning down my head,
remember it, and try to capture every subtle hue.
Impossible - I feel the need to look again,
incline my face toward the blue with furbelows of white
I can't hold back - I lift my eyes to see
a different masterpiece she's painted for me, perfect, right.

And so throughout my day, this scene repeats
a gallery of pictures, just one subject 'fore me stands,
a view from just one minute place on earth,
a different scene entirely though, when seen from others' lands
I count myself a very lucky man
to understand the treasure that before me I behold
So grateful I, my eye allowed to see
this mobile painted heavenly vault, magnificent and bold.

©Rob King 2013

This is a very short poem - my attempt to satisfy the requirements of a little Saturday night fun at http://dversepoets.com/2013/03/02/poetics-an-evening-of-short-verse/ 

I don't know if I'm doing it right, but I haven't much time.  ;0)

The Gardener

With hoe, he scraped away the weed
sowed seed with love, his need to feed.

I want to paint!

For a long time I have harboured the desire to paint, and yet I never do. I must overcome this and get started.


I Will Paint!

I long to paint - to make bold strokes
with splashing brush across the page;
to stand well back, with bristled sword;
"Have at thee,canvas. Bear my rage!"
To mark and scar, and thus win over
whitest maiden, pure and clean
and leave her glorious, burst with colour
blossoming like she were a Queen.
My strokes cut clean decisive sweeps
but cov'ring every woven thread,
my dashing boldness never falters,
crimson blood runs to my head.
My pallette shield, it's border garnished,
liquid gems of brilliant hue,
from Yellow Chrome, Sienna, Umber,
vermillion, lamp-black, Prussian Blue.
The Shield-boss littered, swirling shades
of mixes now redundant, dry,
while space remains, yet to be filled
with newer fresher blends to try.
And as my rage begins to leave me
tenderness will then ensue
and finer brush, with closer working,
emphasise the detail true.
At last, I know, will come the moment,
when the last brush-stroke is made,
when all my passion is before me
rightly on the canvas laid.
and I, with empty heart and vision,
brushes cleaned and pallette dry
will turn away to seek fresh canvas,
brushing teardrop from my eye.


© Rob King 2013