tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25085639236343927032024-03-13T17:55:18.713+00:00Pics and PoemsDave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.comBlogger1586125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-22601343297934198012013-10-09T10:01:00.002+01:002013-10-09T10:01:35.422+01:00Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefully, on Friday 4th October; following his recent illness. I know that he really appreciated everyones feedback and support. Kind regards. Gavin King.Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com126tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-76446627229025942032013-09-16T15:32:00.000+01:002013-09-16T15:33:08.137+01:00Why can only the living mourn?<BR>
What makes us suppose<BR>
that only the living grieve?<BR>
<BR>
Now all but lost in this new<BR>
and familiar world<BR>
of tall, leaning-together buildings,<BR>
grey and grubby as they are.<BR>
I walk between them in the rain,<BR>
tasting the water, soaking it in,<BR>
into the pores of my skin,<BR>
into every sensation.<BR>
Pure water. Holy water. Water for baptism.<BR>
Water enough to end a world<BR>
or build another drop by drop,<BR>
enough to bring world peace,<BR>
enough to wash the old one away.<BR>
<BR>
I know these tenements of old,<BR>
she lives in one of them, she whom I mourn.<BR>
All around me the echoes of water. Water running.<BR>
Water splashing and gurgling.<BR>
Holy water to bless my mood.<BR>
Not to rubbish or vanquish it,<BR>
but to fashion and welcome it.<BR>
<BR>
And she, does she grieve for me?<BR>
she in her tall, dark world, <BR>
topped by the light of the sun?<BR>
Does she hear my rain. Or even see it?<BR>
Does she know that I grieve?<BR>
that not only the living can mourn?<BR>
<BR><BR>
Sincere thanks for all the kind and interesting comments on <i>How do I prepare for death? </i>and huge apologies if I frightened anyone. It was, as always, interesting to hear of the beliefs of our Druid, Hindu and other friends. Again,
today's poem was not specifically addressed to my present condition, but I guess must have been influenced by it. Hope it was not another fright or a poem too far!
<BR>
As for the even more appreciated enquiries and good wishes for my health, I cannot begin to tell you how much they mean to me. I did manage to type out a personal reply to each one -- and forgot to save it!! That is about the measure of my present state of mind. I was warned that I would feel exhausted towards the end of my treatment, but in fact I did so from the first day, and still do beyond midday. That might not have mattered, as A.M. was when I mostly worked, but A.M. now seems to be taken up by a steady stream of medics of every hue and tint. I will now do my best to get round to you all. Please keep the comments and posts coming, and I will continue to attempt the same. It is just weakness, sleepiness and a lack of opportunity preventing me from doing more at present. Thanking you once again.Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-90842390823823791632013-09-13T12:23:00.000+01:002013-09-13T12:24:29.410+01:00How do I prepare for death?<BR>
(Not to read too much into this.)
<BR><BR>
<BR>
<i>How do I prepare for death?</i><BR>
I asked a wise man long ago.<BR>
<i>You don't, my son, </i><BR>
the wise man said:<BR>
<i>Let Death prepare for you. </i><BR>
<BR>
Her laundered sheets <BR>
and candle lights<BR>
or spring flowers round the bed<BR>
will take you back<BR>
to early days...<BR>
How bright the vision then!<BR>
How clear the way ahead!<BR>
<BR>
She'll sweep the house<BR>
of all those fears<BR>
accrued along the way:<BR>
the frights that have no form.<BR>
Not dreads of death,<BR>
but worse than those:<BR>
to not exist;<BR>
the aweful void.<BR>
<BR>
Such terrors follow the more solid ones,<BR>
those obstacles the world threw up<BR>
to make you doubt or start again,<BR>
to hesitate.<BR>
Each in their turn depart.<BR><BR>
(Always the optimist, I hope to be around a little more hereon than just recently.)Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-43739526936606466652013-09-06T11:35:00.001+01:002013-09-06T11:35:51.718+01:00There was a witch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IR4sIQBGGfR3hYTS_xvLNHKecsNe6EXlCc5QMt7TZos_GLfkXFxw9AdAnGVcSlBFvJ4U6p14PoHJnkGzou2tFDwwxkLhoEywEtl0ZVYlGLGUF-J-qvTvPuSk0r6IpUS7pFmZ15Uod7ZF/s1600/Jeanie+Tomanek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IR4sIQBGGfR3hYTS_xvLNHKecsNe6EXlCc5QMt7TZos_GLfkXFxw9AdAnGVcSlBFvJ4U6p14PoHJnkGzou2tFDwwxkLhoEywEtl0ZVYlGLGUF-J-qvTvPuSk0r6IpUS7pFmZ15Uod7ZF/s320/Jeanie+Tomanek.jpg" /></a></div>
<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR>
There was a witch once lived in a tree,<BR>
as witchy as any old witch could be --<BR>
not that you'd know, for she dressed quite so,<BR>
sometimes as duchess, sometimes as queen,<BR>
but never were witch's rags to be seen.<BR>
<BR>
The bones of the tree were as dry as hers,<BR>
but she'd wrap herself in some sumptuous furs<BR>
(under which she'd wear but never a stitch)<BR>
and fly to her mansion of musty smells<BR>
in the land of voodoos and spells.<BR>
<BR>
The twigs of her broom were coming apart.<BR>
They should have told her. They hadn't the heart.<BR>
So the three pet birds she kept in the tree --<BR>
Tax and Id and the long-dead Dermy --<BR>
tweeted to warn: <i>Stay away from the sea! </i><BR>
<BR>
But slowly the witch lost power to the deep.<BR>
(Old adversaries these, concerned to keep<BR>
their secret enigmas inviolate.)<BR>
(It seemed inevitable that the weight<BR>
of Nature's mysteries would seal her fate.)<BR><BR>
A late submission to <a href="http://www.magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/">This week's prompt at The Mag.</a>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-23346639989941723582013-09-03T11:11:00.000+01:002013-09-03T11:11:38.821+01:00Silly Little Nonsense Poem<BR>
Down in the left hand corner of the world,<BR>
beyond the rows of buttersplatch<BR>
and gongoliferous trees,<BR>
beyond the stirring spoonpools<BR>
where the sizals ooze their way<BR>
and all the lochs are tightly locked<BR>
except on Turtle Day,<BR>
'tis there my granny taught me<BR>
how to whingel whingels in --<BR>
and please to whingel whingels in<BR>
before they start to spin.<BR>
<BR>
'Twas when whingelling a whingel<BR>
that I almost met my match:<BR>
its krox had ripened early<BR>
and was hanging off the catch.<BR>
With lowered cranial blubberbutt<BR>
it came at me like frrruck --<BR>
which is whingel for the best of rotten luck.<BR>
<BR>
I jumped a passing songtrain<BR>
that the frangle bird had sung<BR>
and clung on to the clutchets<BR>
(which tell us right from wrong)<BR>
'till we got To Pokeham Arrberry<BR>
where I watched them ghoul the sun.<BR>
And having ghouled the sun they went<BR>
and ghouled the blood red ocean espcially for me.<BR>
<BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-9306379643494982102013-08-29T15:02:00.001+01:002013-08-29T15:02:52.850+01:00So who did Raphael Paintif not Isabel de Requesens, wife of the viceroy of Naples?<CENTER>(<a href="http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_d'Isabelle_de_Requesens,_reine_de_Naples">see here</a> )</CENTER>
<BR>
One thing that you should know about this portrait,<BR>
deemed by many, the world's most perfect yet:<BR>
the sitter and the artist never met.<BR>
<BR>
Commission 199: Portrait: Lady <BR>
Viceroy of Malta: a.k.a. The Ice Queen...<BR>
But Raphael was busy, so dispatched<BR>
a Jack-the-Lad assistant from the ranks<BR>
to sketch the high born lady from the sticks<BR>
while he made hay with nobles grown near home.<BR>
<BR>
It's here I interject my small conceit:<BR>
Jack tarried in the local inns a while,<BR>
boasting wildly of the fortune that would follow<BR>
when once he'd lifted this old dame to fame.<BR>
Then on the very eve of the first sit<BR>
a ne'er-do-well who'd overheard him, spiked<BR>
his ale with something clearly meant to put<BR>
Jack in his his power. Jack hardly noticed <BR>
how brush and silverpoint found harmonies<BR>
of flesh and hue which only The Divine<BR>
had seen before. He painted like a man<BR>
possessed, a man possessed of every skill<BR>
and passion which the artist craves, the like<BR>
of which were never in his bag before.<BR>
And none could say the model's likeness had<BR>
in any truthful way been captured in <BR>
Jack's image. But neither could be found just<BR>
one detractor who would say the two were<BR>
not the same. From fevered art a beauty<BR>
radiated that was never in the flesh<BR>
<BR>
And then there was the business of the eyes.<BR>
As Jack unrolled his work to Raphael and<BR>
the studio, it would become quite clear<BR>
that Jack had changed, not once but many times,<BR>
his subject's eyes from straight ahead to left<BR>
or right then back again -- details all of<BR>
iconography to show her status.<BR>
How come her status was not known to Jack?<BR>
How come her beauty paled Jack's art?<BR>
Who was this dame he picked up at the inn?<BR><BR>
<b>Notes: </b>
The third line of this poem is the only trustworthy one.
The business of the eyes is factual, but relates to Raphael's (?) final painting and not <i>Jack's</i> sketches.
<br><BR>
From The Sleepy Zombie.Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-86632059668764381782013-08-18T11:47:00.000+01:002013-08-18T11:51:41.817+01:00The Kaleidoscope and the Microscope<BR>
My body had died<BR>
and only my head and two hands were alive.<BR>
So what can a head and two hands do<BR>
when that is all there is of you?<BR>
<BR>
The head can think and the hands can move,<BR>
you could imagine a world more in the groove,<BR>
more open to all the needs of man<BR>
and sketch it there where your world began.<BR>
<BR>
You could paint all the pictures in The Louvre<BR>
in alternative hues, in DayGlo bright<BR>
or Virgin white with just a touch of celestial light<BR>
and newly constructed, enlightened views.<BR>
<BR>
Trite images from yesterday, perhaps, but in the plan<BR>
displaying all the powers and skills of old <BR>
Renaissance man. His masterpieces all survived <BR>
traumatic lives, endured abuse, are damaged souls,<BR>
<BR>
are halfmen walking in the light,<BR>
conquerors of their own, more personal night.<BR>
But damaged people just might ghost <BR>
the blueprints for the world that lies in limbo now.<BR>
<BR>
This wasn't a dream or a reverie<BR>
or a nearer to death experience,<BR>
but the bump of a spacecraft back on Earth<BR>
and I the only occupant -- Pro Tem disabled by the bump.<BR>
<BR>
As with The Louvre, so with the forest and the high rise town:<BR>
look where you will, in church and factory, <BR>
in school, on playing field, in airport lounge<BR>
and shopping mall, on road and rail, in hospital<BR>
<BR>
and swimming pool, you'll see <BR>
the blueprints for a better deal.<BR>
These are the ghosts that haunt the now,<BR>
the dead men live on tomorrow's page.<BR><BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-11222256885702018782013-08-17T09:50:00.000+01:002013-08-17T09:52:09.654+01:00I Miss Me Hot Flushes!<BR>
Mum!<BR>
They're changing me treatment,<BR>
me hot flushes have gone!<BR>
With side-effects missing,<BR>
it all feels quite wrong.<BR>
<BR>
Mum!<BR>
There's nothing to kid me<BR>
this thing's on the run<BR>
without a small heat wave<BR>
to rival the sun.<BR>
<BR>
Mum!<BR>
There's no reassurance<BR>
that the plan's still on track...<BR>
has it simply stopped working,<BR>
or found a new tack?<BR>
<BR>
Mum!<BR>
Can you not fix it<BR>
that when it kicks in<BR>
it will give indications,<BR>
say a flush or a spin?<BR>
<BR>
Mum!<BR>
There's nothing comes back to me<BR>
as sign from the war<BR>
to say how it's going,<BR>
to let me keep score.<BR>
<BR>
Mum!<BR>
Could you speak to the doctors,<BR>
have some flushes restored,<BR>
something to stop me<BR>
getting anxious or bored?<BR>
<BR>
Mum!<BR>
I miss me hot flushes,<BR>
I miss 'em like hell:<BR>
a quickie at bedtime<BR>
would suit me real swell!<BR><BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-46622878251596622272013-08-16T11:27:00.000+01:002013-08-16T11:29:10.436+01:00Teaching the Kids to Cheat<BR>
We took the kids to the beach for a week.<BR>
My brother, having lost his wife, came too.<BR>
We thought the kids might have a role to play,<BR>
and so they did, they played along just fine<BR>
and asked us for <i>the biggest castle ever!</i><BR>
<BR>
My brother found enormous chunks of flotsam<BR>
timbers of all sorts. We laid them on huge rocks<BR>
to hold the walls and towers high above<BR>
long rows of flimsy arches, gates and roads.<BR>
We'd been early to the beach that day and long<BR>
<BR>
before the other children came, the timbers<BR>
were well covered by the sand. Kids gathered<BR>
to admire -- and to make pleas for castles<BR>
of their own like ours. We watched them all collapse --<BR>
until our two began to feel the guilt.<BR>
<BR>
Finally, tears led them to the secret shown,<BR>
and queues of kids requesting photo-shoots --<BR>
posing in our castle grounds, and even on<BR>
the battlements. Then when the sea came in<BR>
all helped it lay siege to <i>The Castle Cheat</i>.<BR><BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-18569541711553426642013-08-15T09:24:00.000+01:002013-08-15T09:24:01.458+01:00I am far less visible in Bloggolandthan I was when I was far more visible than I am now. Furthermore, numerous kind -- and tactful -- fellow bloggers have given me opportunity to tell why, and although I have been very moved by your concerns, I have mostly not answered them, certainly not adequately. So time is, I think, to give some indication of what is going on.<BR>
<BR>
In March of last year I was diagnosed with terminal prostrate cancer, the tumour having already spread to various bony bits. I was put on a course of hormone therapy, and for a while this worked splendidly. Then the tumour went out of control and spread to my liver and into the bowel. It was at this time that I haemorrhaged and was hospitalized for six days, having various scans and blood transfusions and so on. Next week I start a course of radio therapy and may disappear from the scene completely for a while -- or maybe not!<BR>
<BR>
It is not that I am too ill to work, or anything like that, though reading anything longer than poem length becomes an effort at times. Meanwhile, your blogs are a vital part of what keeps me going! Thank you all so much. I have no plans to drop completely off the radar in the immediate future or to do so without a hint of some kind in the future.Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-37383192568241625832013-08-14T09:15:00.000+01:002013-08-14T09:22:28.982+01:00The Original Dancing Bear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizy53EkNcJBFGgm1KT4HtNqFNLTmvYaP98YJ1V8X8H_ZG4K7ucxhIYrOgFkTI6HlkpZSaZn8y3OTH9VXGsWpTVwcPSJdKKIiYRdpafI_mZasf2KanATfIp24CDqETpymHoaANl08qvrJ_z/s1600/Spirit_Bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizy53EkNcJBFGgm1KT4HtNqFNLTmvYaP98YJ1V8X8H_ZG4K7ucxhIYrOgFkTI6HlkpZSaZn8y3OTH9VXGsWpTVwcPSJdKKIiYRdpafI_mZasf2KanATfIp24CDqETpymHoaANl08qvrJ_z/s320/Spirit_Bear.jpg" /></a></div>
<BR><BR>
<i>Spirit Bear</i> from Wiki Commons
<BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR><BR>
This is the bear not forced to dance,<BR>
for this is the bear that was born to dance,<BR>
this is the bear that brought the dance<BR>
to a race called man that had yet by chance<BR>
to discover the rhythms of heart and breath,<BR>
but moved as if to a timely death,<BR>
each step the same as the one before,<BR>
not faster, not slower, not less nor more.<BR>
<BR>
This is the bear that could vary its gait<BR>
from heavy to light, and with change of weight<BR>
express the vicissitudes of fate.<BR>
This is the bear that could shuffle or spin,<BR>
the second for virtue, the former for sin.<BR>
This is the bear whose movements would tell<BR>
all the dramas of Heaven and deepest Hell,<BR>
born of the spirit with us to dwell.<BR>
<BR>
This is the bear that was in the groove,<BR>
who taught the rest of the world to move,<BR>
the first of its kind, with nothing to prove,<BR>
it danced for itself, 'till the world fell behind --<BR>
and movement at last was quite unconfined.<BR>
Then from seeds called art, being sown in mankind<BR>
came wild things tough as the redwood trees<BR>
and others with grace that danced in the breeze.<BR><BR>
<BR>
Submitted to <a href="http://dversepoets.com/">dVerse Poets Open Link Night</a>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-41477275477978225202013-08-09T09:28:00.001+01:002013-08-09T11:13:53.381+01:00A Funny Thing<BR>
In a week or so<BR>
children in the playground<BR>
will flee before him<BR>
like chicks before<BR>
some predatory bird --<BR>
or stutter to a stop<BR>
transfixed<BR>
by threatening looks.<BR>
<BR>
Now here he comes, the new<BR>
alarming deputy,<BR>
to share my dinner duty<BR>
for the first time. Beneath<BR>
his arm the sin-black... what<BR>
this time? A Bible? Prayer Book?<BR>
Hymn book? Or Detention Journal?<BR>
<BR>
The children wait with patience<BR>
to queue up at the serving hatch<BR>
one table at a time. But first,<BR>
the Holiest of matters: Grace.<BR>
All eyes are closed - <BR>
except of course, for a few sinners.<BR>
<i>I'm looking at you bunch of miscreants<BR>
back there! Delinquents..! reprobates..! <BR>
and I'm not liking much <BR>
the transgressing that I see. And<BR>
what occurs to me is that <BR>
Almighty God is looking at you too - <BR>
and He's not liking what He sees,<BR>
and your immortal souls are hanging <BR>
in the balance here!</i><BR>
<BR>
Thwack! The hymnal lands a direct blow.<BR>
(On what I cannot say, <BR>
but the whole dining hall<BR>
is suddenly electrified.)<BR>
The children shiver in their most<BR>
impressive Holy Manner.<BR>
<BR>
So now you've met him:<BR>
Mr Fulcher, <i>Responsible<BR>
for discipline around the school. </i><BR>
Fourteen Christian names, he has --<BR>
Which maybe why I can't remember one<BR>
of them! Each one a saint, none known to me.<BR>
The children have their own, <BR>
a fifteenth name for him.<BR>
To them he is The Vulture.<BR>
<BR>
Now here's the funny thing:<BR>
while all but one class in the school<BR>
will hate and fear the man<BR>
that one small group (his class --<BR>
and later on, all those who ever<BR>
were in his class)<BR>
will see a different side,<BR>
will come to love,<BR>
adore the man, and hear no wrong<BR>
in him at all.<BR>
<BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-51053270615935337362013-08-06T16:10:00.003+01:002013-08-06T16:14:08.537+01:00The Boys Run a Dolls' Slave Market.
<BR>
Against the fence are dolls arrayed:<BR>
rag or china, wood or bone,<BR>
never a doll stands there alone,<BR>
and in their hands are signs displayed<BR>
of what you might give to make one your own.<BR>
<BR>
Role model <i>X</i> stands third in line --<BR>
though on his shirt a number 9 --<BR>
strikes his pose: the Alpha Male...<BR>
The price for him? A pint of ale!<BR>
(Or a pair of boots of exclusive design.)<BR>
<BR>
Or what would you give for The Evil One,<BR>
for his brand of nonsense to enlighten your fun?<BR>
For hours of unrivalled iniquity?<BR>
To complete each each day with such devilry<BR>
the ask is a Nat King Cole C.D.!<BR>
<BR>
There's a dragon on fire (seems a strange device)<BR>
with a list of apps as its bargain price.<BR>
So what should one do with a dragon on fire,<BR>
but use it to light the funeral pyre<BR>
of the dead girl begging a bowl of rice.<BR>
<BR>
There's a skeleton rising out of a grave<BR>
bristling with sensors and weapons of death.<BR>
He's come to destroy or he's come for to save.<BR>
he's hero or villain, but don't smell his breath!<BR>
He's yours for a Batmobile and cave.<BR>
<BR>
There comes a small girl with dolls in a pram --<BR>
F1 vintage and faster than that. Stops with a slam.<BR>
Dolls tumble together. Beware of whiplash.<BR>
Displays for the boys a purse full of cash.<BR>
<i>I'll buy them all, boys. Wham-banger- Bam!</i><BR>
<BR>
They laugh at her then, so she goes in the shop,<BR>
comes out with a box of small bags of sweets,<BR>
hundreds and thousands and toffees that pop<BR>
and liquorice boot laces and faces and teets.<BR>
The deal is soon done, the air full of tweets.<BR>
<BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-80124525027927160682013-08-02T11:18:00.000+01:002013-08-07T09:53:04.428+01:00A Love Poem<BR>
Do you remember how it was?<BR>
It was not always hearts and flowers<BR>
and sunshine through the trees.<BR>
The clichés sometimes passed us by,<BR>
but that first handshake fast became<BR>
two hands of friendship -- and the start<BR>
of all my happiness to come.<BR>
<BR>
And then it was that joyfulness <BR>
slipped by unnoticed for a while,<BR>
the way it often does.<BR>
Not just contentment: beauty,<BR>
and a kind of bliss I had not known before.<BR>
Dormant at times beneath a heap of cares --<BR>
the mortgage, job security, the kids --<BR>
<BR>
but there as ever was in that same hand<BR>
that shook my world <BR>
when nothing seemed it could.<BR>
And now it is that all is treasured<BR>
dearly once again, and known for its true worth --<BR>
and tightly clutched as in two hands.<BR>
A drowning man, I will not let it go.<BR>
<BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-26822045431468471542013-07-31T09:27:00.000+01:002013-07-31T09:29:22.413+01:00Two Poems<BR>
<b>Where To? </b><BR>
<BR>
With our new technologies,<BR>
awareness of the pitfalls<BR>
of attempts to re-tune nature,<BR>
new understandings<BR>
of the ways that nature works,<BR>
we should be heading for<BR>
a new age of enlightenment.<BR>
<BR>
I do not think we are.<BR>
<BR>
I think we're heading for a new dark age<BR>
and taking all our gadgets with us --<BR>
which will make the new dark age<BR>
much darker the old.<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
<b>Special Delivery </b><BR>
<BR>
Delivered just this morning<BR>
by courier<BR>
(Stork Logistics Inc)<BR>
a wooden crate<BR>
stuffed with straw:<BR>
the very latest<BR>
new idea.<BR>
Not in solid form,<BR>
no clever<BR>
shiny<BR>
artefact<BR>
but<BR>
the newest of ideas<BR>
still at its inception,<BR>
lost among the straw.<BR>
<BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-60347393140834991992013-07-28T12:10:00.000+01:002013-07-28T12:10:50.498+01:00Conversation Piece<BR>
Too far-fetched by half, it seemed,<BR>
to those whose births had been less public,<BR>
that you could bolt a man together.<BR>
<BR>
But so he'd been;<BR>
assembled there from six steel bars,<BR>
their eyes by turns<BR>
amused and disbelieving.<BR>
<BR>
The one raised from a bag of dust<BR>
had found it most incredulous,<BR>
the other two seemed not to care,<BR>
were happy to enjoy the show.<BR>
<BR>
One against each wall they stand,<BR>
too far apart for intimates,<BR>
yet visitors can plainly sense<BR>
there's dialogue between the four.<BR>
<BR>
The steel man<BR>
confident<BR>
in new zinc coat<BR>
and pastel shade of patina, <BR>
rings forth his voice<BR>
(as well he might)<BR>
whenever small boys<BR>
(armed with questionnaires <BR>
and drawing books)<BR>
tap him with their pencils.<BR>
<BR>
The woodblock man<BR>
happy to be free<BR>
exhumed at last<BR>
to be himself<BR>
not part of something else,<BR>
shaved to a baldness that is sensuous,<BR>
invites the hands of visitors<BR>
to assist their eyes,<BR>
range over contours<BR>
and discover forms.<BR>
<BR>
And from a hundred hands a day, he learns<BR>
the image that is new to him,<BR>
the image of himself.<BR>
<BR>
The man raised from the dust,<BR>
mixed with water, pummelled <BR>
to a new consistency and shape,<BR>
with every birth pang left --<BR>
a kind of hall mark --<BR>
on the surface of the clay.<BR>
He is the guru of the four:<BR>
too old, too wise, too holy<BR>
for the straying hands to touch.<BR>
<BR>
The stone man is the most remote of all.<BR>
Has most in common <BR>
with the wood block, I suppose.<BR>
Except he is aloof, a world unto himself.<BR>
Perhaps his birth was just too difficult,<BR>
the trauma just too great to overcome.<BR>
<BR>
Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-81667431678174598372013-07-26T12:26:00.001+01:002013-07-26T12:39:05.543+01:00The Great Exchange<BR>
You are lost in a wood.<BR>
It is a real wood,<BR>
a wood you thought you knew --<BR>
that was until a moment back<BR>
when all the trees changed places<BR>
with their cousins from your dream.<BR>
<BR>
Now here you are,<BR>
facing all the threats of dream<BR>
in vulnerable life.<BR>
<BR>
You start to panic,<BR>
though in truth<BR>
not all the panic's yours.<BR>
Some comes from the wood.<BR>
There's panic in the leaves.<BR>
<i>Which way will you go? </i>they say.<BR>
<i>Not this! Not that! Not there!<BR>
Not if you want to live! </i><BR>
<BR>
There are whispers all around,<BR>
the snap of breaking twigs,<BR>
but you are frozen<BR>
in the moment of<BR>
The Great Exchange of Trees.<BR>
<BR>
The trees are busy<BR>
(as they always are).<BR>
You are a paper cut-out <BR>
from another land.<BR>
<BR>
The wind is slowly rising<BR>
and for sure will take you<BR>
to a place where what is real<BR>
is only dreamed about.<BR>
<BR>
You see a thorn tree,<BR>
visualise yourself<BR>
impaled upon its horns.<BR>
You've seen the tree before.<BR>
It features in your dream.<BR>
There, the thorns are quite benign,<BR>
but here they drip with blood.<BR>
You wonder if it's yours.<BR>
<BR>
A feather reassures.<BR>
The impaled one was a bird,<BR>
and you remember now<BR>
how in the dream the sky<BR>
was never crossed by birds.<BR>
<BR>
Dream was a no-fly zone.<BR>
Birds need reality<BR>
the way reality needs birds.<BR>
<BR>
You see a nest,<BR>
some fledgelings<BR>
and a kite.<BR>
<BR>
The leaves are calmer now,<BR>
the birds are coming back.<BR>
The wood is less frenetic.<BR>
<BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-7785504787160578382013-07-23T11:36:00.000+01:002013-07-24T14:39:31.208+01:00The Trees Are Pulling Up Their Roots<BR>
The trees are pulling up their roots,<BR>
not waiting for the end.<BR>
They always did have cultures of their own,<BR>
could calculate at dusk how much<BR>
of every vital nourishment they'd need<BR>
to see them through the night. Not only that,<BR>
they knew to make the hard decisions<BR>
when reservoirs ran low.<BR>
<BR>
And now in pulling up their roots<BR>
they have a purpose loud and clear --<BR>
though quite mysterious to us.<BR>
They've pushed their complex mathematics <BR>
far beyond their world, investigated ours<BR>
and made their careful audits, sensed <BR>
what we still doubt -- or so dishonestly debate.<BR>
They've fixed their faith in life's finality.<BR>
<BR>
Perhaps they've other thought forms underground --<BR>
their leaves a product of some secret art,<BR>
and not what we had thought. For sure<BR>
they had their land art long before<BR>
we had the nous to think of ours.<BR>
The oaks and redwoods lead the way,<BR>
the smaller trees, like children in their play,<BR>
do what they see the grown-ups do.<BR>
<BR>
They were the first to feel earth tremble at the thought<BR>
of what must come to pass, the first to catch<BR>
the note of grief the trembling portrayed,<BR>
and were the first to say <i>'tis time to go at last! </i><BR>
They'd watched the birds fly off much earlier this year,<BR>
leaves drop like dead flies shrivelled by the sun;<BR>
they'd caught the resignation that we fear<BR>
when what's to come can't hold a candle to the past.<BR>
<BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-20150421489753822582013-07-19T09:58:00.001+01:002013-07-19T09:58:45.496+01:00Three Short Poems<BR>
<b>1</b>
<BR>
New boy on the block<BR>
CostCutters shop<BR>
has opened on the square<BR>
and for our anniversary<BR>
(Doreen's and mine)<BR>
bedecked a corner<BR>
that was looking bare<BR>
with buckets full of flowers!<BR>
<BR><BR>
<b>2</b><BR>
<BR>
Ask any local, he will tell<BR>
how she has always had<BR>
that evil glint in her blind eye<BR>
when she <i>been 'bout to flood</i>.<BR>
<BR>
Below the cataract<BR>
in that dark pool<BR>
you'll see the bones of her<BR>
before you see the glint --<BR>
the bones Dark Jesse laid<BR>
before he had his way with her.<BR>
<BR>
The glint's to say<BR>
she's tucked her skirts up high<BR>
around her waist -- as Jesse did --<BR>
her eyes are down,<BR>
the flood of retribution<BR>
still to come.<BR>
<BR><BR>
<b>3</b><BR>
<BR>
I thought the kids had lost it on the square.<BR>
High voices raised in squeaky rage:<BR>
<i>Fxxx off home, you fXXXXXg wXXXXXr! </i>--<BR>
Stuff I'd not heard since playground duty days.<BR>
<BR>
But now, from where I've come to watch -- small<BR>
bedroom eyrie looking out between<BR>
the acer and the tall (unpruned) forsythia --<BR>
an old man slightly staggering,<BR>
adjusting spectacles and finger combing hair<BR>
makes for the safety of the shop.<BR>
<BR>
The shopkeeper comes out to comfort him --<BR>
arm round the shoulder sort of thing --<BR>
before a youth (inelegant) appears.<BR>
<BR>
The two men remonstrate. He starts to sing.<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
Written for Tony's Mix and Match prompt at <a href="http://dversepoets.com/">dVerse Poets.</a> It relates to the "Short Poem" prompt of March 3 2013.
Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-8152469705986685132013-07-16T09:55:00.000+01:002013-07-16T09:55:48.523+01:00Fishing<BR>
The neural net<BR>
sifts ocean depths.<BR>
Catching what?<BR>
<BR>
Old ideas,<BR>
offspring of those old ideas,<BR>
what is or was,<BR>
rejects<BR>
of the days before<BR>
their time had come.<BR>
<BR>
These throwbacks hope<BR>
to come into their own<BR>
the second time around;<BR>
<BR>
seem larger now;<BR>
ARE larger -- in their context --<BR>
than before.<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
Sometimes<BR>
a sleep is long enough<BR>
for offspring to mature;<BR>
assorted flotsam<BR>
show its provenance;<BR>
a harvest wave<BR>
wash through the mesh.<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
So listen as you dream<BR>
how gently rocks<BR>
the harbour buoy;<BR>
its solitary bell,<BR>
soft hollow toll<BR>
monotonous low DONG!<BR>
<BR>
(which means in dreamspeak that<BR>
the fish are up<BR>
and answers the soprano TING! TING!<BR>
from the altar boy's new hand bell<BR>
in the church)<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
The net is fragile --<BR>
there's the rub.<BR>
Ideas have heft<BR>
have life:<BR>
a momentary<BR>
change of colour<BR>
and they're gone.<BR>
<BR>
They've slipped away.<BR>
<BR>
Not having notions, then,<BR>
but landing them,<BR>
is all the thinker's task.<BR>
<BR>
Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-75158192668275701592013-07-14T09:12:00.000+01:002013-07-14T09:12:05.492+01:00Open Day<BR>
Too hot to eat,<BR>
school dinners go to waste;<BR>
too hot to play,<BR>
the kids look to the shade.<BR>
<BR>
Nurse Rose gives two<BR>
(who'd fainted on the field)<BR>
her ice and water cure<BR>
when through the open sick room door<BR>
they see <i>The Stranger </i>-- quickly changed<BR>
to <i>our new teacher for next year! </i><BR>
<BR>
Tall, in six inch heels,<BR>
a conflagration of red hair,<BR>
and arms piled high with books,<BR>
she walked down to the hall -- they said --<BR>
and disappeared.<BR>
<BR>
The rumour quickly spread,<BR>
I tried to kill it off:<BR>
<i>Where is she then...?<BR>
The heat... a mirage... and<BR>
the school's a brand new building. New<BR>
buildings don't have ghosts --<BR>
and would I take on someone <BR>
dressed to kill? </i><BR>
<BR>
The feeling was, I would!<BR>
And so the story clung, and I<BR>
pooh-poohed it best I could --<BR>
until I later learnt<BR>
my wife had seen her too.<BR>
<BR>
Claudia at <a href="http://dversepoets.com/">dVerse Poets</a> asks us to write on mirages, summer heat illusions, etcDave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-51261708684139648352013-07-11T12:39:00.000+01:002013-07-11T12:42:15.089+01:00Figure in LandscapePlease take a look at Peter Doig's <i>Jetty, the inspiration for this poem </i><a href="http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/peter-doig/jetty">,(here)</a>
<BR><BR>
Man<BR>
(potent)<BR>
in landscape<BR>
<BR>
lost<BR>
in his own thoughts.<BR>
<BR>
So:<BR>
is the mind active<BR>
or passive?<BR>
<BR>
Is he thinking <BR>
thoughts of himself<BR>
or being thought of<BR>
by some inner self?<BR>
<BR>
The landscape<BR>
intense<BR>
saturated<BR>
drips with self-absorption.<BR>
Is one <BR>
with the manner <BR>
of his thinking.<BR>
<BR>
Sometimes<BR>
only the indefinable<BR>
has the detail<BR>
to define us,<BR>
archiving our profiles<BR>
for some future<BR>
day of the spirit.<BR>
<BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-48693949686193312372013-07-10T09:18:00.000+01:002013-07-10T09:32:04.593+01:00Transcending Time : Three Poems<BR>
<b>1</b><BR>
<BR>
Bronze man<BR>
<b>+ </b>heat<BR>
(blowtorch)<BR>
<b>+ </b>acid<BR>
<b>= </b>patina<BR>
<BR>
<b>8 </b>bronze figures<BR>
<b>+ </b>variety of temperatures<BR>
<b>+ </b>acid<BR>
gives range of patinas<BR>
(colours)<BR>
<BR>
Transcending time.<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
<b>2</b><BR>
<BR>
Painter<BR>
at easel<BR>
<BR>
paint<BR>
and vision<BR>
<b>= </b>mismatch.<BR>
<BR>
Painter<BR>
battles through<BR>
<BR>
Transcending time.<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
<b>3 </b><BR>
<BR>
Artist<BR>
at easel<BR>
<BR>
Landscape<BR>
<b>+ </b>figure(s)<BR>
<b>-</b> narrative<BR>
<BR>
Transcending time.<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-44583907657980835422013-07-05T11:16:00.000+01:002013-07-05T11:16:26.060+01:00The Empty Box<BR>
Opening the matchbox<BR>
is a safety curtain raised<BR>
an opera revealed<BR>
a space completely filled<BR>
by a vertical black wheel,<BR>
a stationary hub<BR>
round which the stage<BR>
proscenium arch and orchestra<BR>
are turned like turtles, like a page<BR>
of music that the maestro missed.<BR>
<BR>
Watch when the box is upside down<BR>
how every match has tumbled out<BR>
and struck its flame upon the ground...<BR>
<BR>
From sight comes sound<BR>
from fire comes song,<BR>
the matches dance off two-by-two<BR>
in high duet or<i> pas de deux</i>.<BR>
<BR>
Shadows fall of spoke and rim,<BR>
fire turns the wheel that would not move,<BR>
the world must follow in its groove<BR>
and all obsessed by flame or song<BR>
be crushed beneath the awesome heft.<BR>
<BR>
What will be left?<BR>
The matchbox holding empty space<BR>
remakes itself and finds the grace<BR>
for buffalo and killer whale,<BR>
an octopus, a small boy's zoo<BR>
of mini-beasts from underground --<BR>
revolting seen in morning light --<BR>
that turn most adults chalky white.<BR>
<BR>
It's from this box your nightmares come.<BR>
Abhoring vacuums, nature boasts<BR>
that little boys oft help it out,<BR>
that vacuums are a nightmare's home,<BR>
an empty box a place for ghosts.<BR>
<BR>
The matchbox closed, the small boy smiles:<BR>
he's trapped a world with childish wiles.<BR>
What when your muse moves to dispense<BR>
inspiring thoughts that make no sense?<BR>
<BR>
Beneath the blankets through the night<BR>
the small boy makes his curtain calls,<BR>
the matchbox opening a chink.<BR>
Man thinks of God with thoughts that shrink.<BR>
<BR><BR>
Anna at <a href="http://dversepoets.com/">dVerse Poets</a><b> Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft</b> is asking us to consider Atmosphere in our writing.
Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2508563923634392703.post-43206126156055949572013-07-03T09:25:00.000+01:002013-07-03T09:25:06.582+01:00The Rest of Creation<BR>
I wonder if God meant<BR>
to fill the world<BR>
quite as full of us<BR>
as it's become.<BR>
<BR>
I can't believe <BR>
He saw us from the first<BR>
as cuckoos in the nest<BR>
edging all His<BR>
other creatures out.<BR>
<BR>
And when he used such words<BR>
as <i>fruitful, multiply,<BR>
dominion... </i><BR>
did He stop to think<BR>
what we might make of them?<BR>
<BR>
They were a license,<BR>
we supposed,<BR>
to bully and abuse<BR>
the rest of His creation.<BR>
To procreate among ourselves<BR>
without restraint.<BR>
<BR>Dave Kinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430484174826768488noreply@blogger.com13