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.