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

There's no place

 It's been a cold, wet, and miserable winter's day today, but I've had the benefit of a fire to warm my backside by, and hot food and drink.

Others aren't so well blessed.

There’s no place….

Today has been the kind of day that

shows a man no pity

sarcastic showers of icy rain that

laughing, cut him cold

they’re driven on by gusts of wind that

if dry, would be gritty

but even without dust and grit they

make his joints feel old

The cloud conspires to fill the skies and

block the sun from shining

and driving rain is crystalising,

turning now to sleet

his threadbare clothes are not enough,

without their inner lining

hands thrust deep in empty pockets,

split shoes on bare feet.

This young man stands dejected without

solace in this cold world

his empty heart is lonely, with no

friends or loving care,

Society has rejected him, he

struggles to connect again

but people have no pity on worn

clothes and matted hair

He keeps on walking, even though

his journey leads him nowhere

It’s all that keeps him warm, he’s had no

drink or food to eat

for several days it’s been like this

he’s feeling quite beyond care

he dreams of tea, and egg and chips

or God forbid, some meat.

All the while, he’s looking out for a

warm and cosy alcove

somewhere that he can hide away from

Winter’s boning-knife

and if he’s really lucky, there’ll be a

grille with warm air venting

from a kitchen in the basement

that will maybe save his life.

But sadly, that is not to be,

this mere hallucination

is all he has to cling to

just a dream within his head

For come the morning under snow

his rigid body will be found

In a corner with some rubbish

curled up, foetal, frozen, dead.

Lady Hedgerow

 It seems I am transfixed by all things to do with Nature and the seasons at the moment.  I have become so much more aware of my surroundings this year, and enjoy noticing the changes taking place daily. I've been taking lots of sky photos ,and nearly all my poems are to do with my feelings about the changing seasons, and this one is no exception.

Lady Hedgerow

The chilling breeze rips off the leaves
in flurries they keep falling
poor Lady Hedgerow's golden dress
is being ripped to shreds
To strip her gown this time of year
is thoughtlessness appalling
as it leaves her standing shivering,
grey and naked, in distress.

'Twas not so many months ago
with sun so full of promise
She donned chemise of palest green
and stretched her arms in splendour
preparing for the Summer Ball
in clothing bright and honest
with thoughts of days so clear and gay
and evenings warm and tender

The Bryony and Honeysuckle
clad her thighs with stockings fine
and wild Hop clambered over all
to vainly make her bonnet
but having fruited, they no longer
care to make her pretty
and a stocking soon is fallen
when there is no garter on it.

So, where the romance? Where the love?
Where the lasting passion?
What of all the twittering birds
that round her shoulders flew?
Dowdy now, she feels the cold
no longer in high fashion
the rime adorns her shoulders
and her fingertips are blue.

So sleep, my Lady Hedgerow, sleep
and let this Winter season
pass you by unnoticed,
just as clouds care naught for me
The birds will sing when come the Spring
and wake you shall with reason
to dress again to cheer my soul
and render spirits free.
   


© Rob King 2012

The new dawn

....and thus the daylight comes again
I never doubted that it would
The darkness of the night recedes
The dawn creeps in, and all is good.
Today we will be bathed in light
and even though it cloudy be
light will prevail, at least enough
for us the distant features see.
What only in imagination
in the darkness we have dreamed
we now discern, but with our eyes
and all is not quite as it seemed
reality the picture paints
fear, with the darkness fades away
for what we see can now be touched
and truth begins another day.



 © Rob King 2012

Early memories

This is one of my early memories, when my Uncle took me fishing for the first time.


Fishing
Was I four, or five, or six
when Uncle Bob first took me fishing?
down upon the tannery steps,
an alley off the market place
Damp dark morning, rain-drops hissing
on the river’s oily surface
black and swirling, gloomy, brooding
almost brutal, without grace.
I remember being frightened
by the unfamiliar sounds
How I wished that we were fishing
on the far bank’s open ground.
Barges moored there bump and jostle
Leviathans of black steel plate
With creaking voices they rub shoulders
grunting, groaning, misery-moaning
stretching chains that grind and grate.
There were high walls built of red-brick
reaching up on either side
four floors tall, the shops and factory
cave-like alley, eight feet wide
My fishing rod was three feet long
a little taller then than I.
made of stiff wire, wooden handled.
to me it reached right to the sky.
The reel was just a tiny bobbin,
with little bobble float and hook,
and if a fish had seen my maggot,
it wouldn’t take a second look.
I remember stench of leather
from the factory long since gone
just the thought will bring it back now
Ah! But sixty years have flown.
Kingston’s changed now
Gone the coal-yard, tannery, wood-yard
barges, cranes
and all the closed-in, dark, damp alleys
gone for ever, naught remains
Uncle Bob, (who was a postman)
last fished forty years ago
taken early by The Reaper,
heart attack, poor so-and-so.
And thus, it’s only in my memory
that this vignette still replays
unless I put the pen to paper
write about this, my first caper
Times of happy, scary days.


 © Rob King 2012

One wet autumn night.

The sticky tapping chitter chatting
raindrops splatting on the glass

The leaves beyond Wisteria frond
and shallow pond  upon the path 

The black night framed within the window
sucking light without the room

The soul inside determined bide
refuse to ride into the gloom.

The warm moist air beyond the stair
calls body down to guard the fire

The cracking log upon the dog
glowing, fills heart with desire

Would winter come and winter go
and leave my weary soul forlorn?

I know not, care not even dare not
be aware, not 'til the dawn.

Autumn again

All too soon
the Summer sheds her gown of green
and dons her cloak of rust
impatient to be moving on
and filled with next years lust
No sooner fitted and attired
she throws her garment down
upon the floor, and naked stands
and lets it turn to brown.
November mist will hide her shame
though sullen sun expose her
and shivering through the winter months
the white flakes cling and clothe her
The winds of March blow fresh thoughts in
and waken her from sleeping
and thread by thread, the green appears
and sets her heart a-leaping
and none too soon
She's gaily dressed
and all the world is smiling
her warmth and colour fill our souls,
Her prettiness beguiling.



© Rob King 2012

Onset of Autumn

-

Onset of Autumn

The low grey morning cloud
in the wake of the cold night rain
scuds swiftly from the windward,
attempting to suck the light
from the growing day.
The half-clothed Poplars
rustle flimsy petticoats
in protest, attempting to halt
the clouds progress
but they are relentless
in their drive toward
the North-East, their sights set
on the cold North Sea,
Scandinavia, and beyond.
Little know they
that their progress will be checked
by Earth's rotational forces,
and their heads will be turned
like some wild-eyed
driving-horses
reined in from bolting, having spooked
in the dark wet night.

Drawn back toward the land, they tire
and give up the fight for flight,
and with the sun on their backs
they meekly evaporate
into.....
thin.....
air.



 ©Rob King 2012

Starting My Day

Opening the back door, I stepped out into the cool September morning air. With the

first draught of fresh air filling my lungs, I revelled in its intoxicating flavour, and

helped myself to another lungful for good measure.

Mounting the four brick steps up to garden level, I noted that the paving slabs were dry this morning, although there was a heavy dew on the slightly unkempt mossy lawn, and the cobwebs that laced the teasel heads together were hung with tiny crystal droplets like a fine diamond necklace designed by and for Mother Nature herself, the weight of the droplets pulling the long threads downward in a perfect catenary curve, one of natures mathematical wonders.

Bright Phoebe was already climbing heavenward on the rungs of her invisible arched

ladder and had dispelled the early morning mist that there obviously had been, and was now glimmering through the leaves of the Ash tree at the end of the garden, causing a flickering dappled light to play across most of the garden, which, coupled with the absolute clarity of the air now, gave one the feeling that all was well with this day.

 A light breeze raised the hair on my uncovered legs, for I was still in my dressing

gown, and I felt as if a ghostly cat had just brushed past me on it's way into the house

for food. I shivered lightly, a just reaction to that feeling, but thought little more

about it.

Taking a sip from my coffee mug, my thoughts turned inward to reflect on what this

day might bring; what good fortune the Universe would provide for me, for it was all

there for the asking; all there to be enjoyed.

Setting my coffee mug on the mesh-topped patio table, I looked up, and my breath was stolen by the formation of clouds that was stretched thin across the sky. The mares' tails looked like dry white brush strokes dashed in straight lines but with a wind-blown curl at the eastern end. The washed out vapour trails told of a multiplicity of journeys passing over this country. Off to the North, a patch of Mackerel sky added another texture to the painting. I slowly turned full circle, taking in the heavenly sight that this pristine morning presented to me; the delicate white lace on cyan background stretched high above me, and as far as the eye could see.

I was truly grateful that I lived in open country, where no tall buildings could hem me in, for it is then, without nature’s constant reminders, that one can become forgetful of the truth of life, and become completely embroiled in the culture of Self, with it’s adherents - loneliness, and discontent.

Turning round once more, I took in everything that I could see, slowly absorbing every colour, and every shade of every colour, from the multitude of greens that gave each of the trees their own identity, to the misplaced earthy terra-cotta of the pantiled roof, each tile of which had its own patch of discolouration from the dust and soot that the rains had washed down the rounded valleys of the vertical rows.

The flower gardens were now past their best, with only the stragglers of the late perennials still in bloom, but it had been a magnificent show, considering the extremes of weather that we had experienced this year; very warm very early in the year, then the wettest second quarter on record. Haymaking was difficult, to say the least, and lucky was the farmer who got some good grass in store. Then the harvest weather had been dismal to begin with, brightening later, but by that time, the crops were in very poor heart, with the grains empty and shrivelled.

The fruit trees around the garden were very variable in crop, as there were a couple of wicked air-frosts around blossoming time. Only the later blossoming trees bore fruit, and that in abundance, Cox and Russet apples a-plenty, but pears, plums, gages, none; but the peach, the heavenly peach,  against the Southern workshop wall held out against the frost, and produced half its normal crop, but still plenty of juice to dribble down my chin.

The Wisteria, which graced the Southern and Eastern walls of the house, took the frost very badly, and the flower buds, which were on the point of opening, turned to rotten pulp and dropped off, allowing me to think that she would not survive another year, but nature having her own mind, gave her a second petticoat of flowers in the late Summer; not the usual magnificent show of pendulous pale blue blooms, for by now, there was a very heavy growth of leaves, which wouldn’t normally be there at flowering time, and the blooms had to fight their way out of the foliage.  This was the chosen home for a second clutch of Blackbird’s eggs, the products of which were now scuttling around the garden, turning leaves and wood-chips in their hunt for food.

Breathing a sigh that belied the smile on my face, and quietly thanking the Universe, I turned back, picked up my mug, and took the steps down to the house, where I would prepare myself for the day ahead.

 © Rob King 06-09-2012

The Weybourne cliffs

The Weybourne Cliffs

Walking on the Webburn cliffs,
on a clear bright July morning
so much to be seen
in the plant-life on the tops
the summer having been so wet
the wild flowers all were blooming
together, not in sequence
for the prettiest picture yet.

The larks were singing Glories
as they rose into the cyan air
their vertical ascent distracting
raiders from their nests
they were likened unto angels
not white, but brown, and miniature
and filled with Hallelujas that came
tumbling from their breasts.

Looking from the cliff-top
out to sea, beyond the pebbles
the bobbing of the marker buoys
told tales of crab-pot lines
their coloured flags were waving 
briskly on the rolling waters
like some celebrating seals
at Coronation party time.

The sky was vivid blue
and that self-same regal hue
was reflected on the waters,
normally sandy brown and dull
and if a cloud should intervene
the colour changed from blue to green
but there was nothing in that morning that
could cause the soul to lull.

Walking inland from the shore line
cross the railway 'long by Scots pine
eating chocolate on a bench
then stepping back into the sun
heard the steam train's whistle rent the air
and watched it chuntering along
A July day enjoyed, and then
remembered when it's done.