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

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