Jim Hime Art and Poetry: 2013

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Rust Fades Into Verdant Fields of Glory

I should tell yew of the Judge,
The judge who climbed the tree.
It was not so long ago,
Not like a distant memory
Or an ancient story.
Just a sunny day I remember,
When the judge climbed the tree.
The world turns around and again,
Floats it seems as it spins,
Around the universe, time, and space,
Provides us with this great place.
In it's journey seems no one knows
What will happen if it shows
The meaning of it's quest.
Possibly a giant cosmic jest?
If it decides to stop
And throw us all off,

Like the day the judge climbed the tree.

Jim Hime ©2000

Across the Nights Sky

The subtle sound of truth
Whispering into our ears
Not spoken aloud above
The din of fears alone in
Our thoughts our minds
On fire with lies we seek
Like jubilant children
Without fathers to rule
Us in our haste to destroy
What we do not understand
Of this world and all it's
Wonderment unguarded
By the light the darkness
Takes it's toll as it rolls
Once more across the
Night's sky.

Jim Hime ©2012

Bad Poets Society

We gather round like children,

Silly minds are smitten,

As stories begin to flow,

The jokes with spite are told,

Giggling sounds of laughter,

Come shortly thereafter,

But then one stands among us,

And every word is rhymed,

The meter and cadenced timed,

Just so and like this,

Like ignorance is bliss,

The world is swirling round,

A deep dark madness found,

Pulling tears from our faces,

Like rain after drought replaces,

Like knowing after doubt disgraces.

A madness deep and dark,

Apparent from the start,

There is no laughter there,

Only the lonely despair,

Joy long gone and forgotten,

And all the songs are rotten,

Sorrow a close held friend,

Ungrateful heart won’t mend,

Nothing can console this,

This dreadful, damnable soulless,

This darkling seems complete,

This damned and damning beat,

The drummer’s wild retreat,

And the Bugler’s silvery sweet,

Sounding sound of defeat.

But even a bad poet,

Is still a poet.

Piano Easter

My mother played the piano in
Church every Easter, the only time
She would darken its doors due
To excessive force I guess when
She was young with brother and
Sister and father and mother like
Clockwork attending without fail
To hear her tell it.

But when she came, though she
Loathed it so, all there were proud
Of her beautiful sound which she
By ear alone, no lessons you see,
But mere, raw talent could provide
What on Easter only was heard
In that little church where her father
Preached and her mother taught
Out of duty and love.

The Blue Sunset

                                                 A meadow shadowed in blue delight
                                                 Amidst trees while hay rolled aright.
                                                 It was from old, so long ago,
                                                 Forgotten with memories that died
                                                 When those that housed them
                                                 Moved into formless forms
                                                 Like spirits dancing in
                                                 The time of the blue sunset.

                                                  Jim Hime©2013

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Lent To Me

What is this time of year?

Another round the path

Of fear in which we move

And have our being

Believing we will stop

Our thieving and lying to

Ourselves and others

Justifying grace

Condemning neighbors

To the dust which cries

Out in agony why we

Must look deep within

This life of sin in which

Our souls long for the

Time which rolls so slowly

In our deprivation holding

Out for hope of Christ's

Redemption.

Delight In Winter Flight

I noticed the deer running today,

Moving quickly from the south,

Wind blowing from the north,

Beseeching a cold, gray, cloudy sky

To bring the cold down,

Low to the ground,

Pale winter brown landscape still,

Trees without leaves or care,

Grass not inviting doe or buck to stop,

On they ran across the flats,

Below the rise, though ravines,

Beyond eyes that might sight,

And take aim for food and delight.

In time they found respite in wooded

Clusters of Oaks that covered them in

Blankets gray like the winter in which

They ran.

Salvation Next

So what’s next,

We do so long for the next,

Since we grow so bored with

The what’s been,

The what would have been,

The what might have been,

The what should have been,

The what was, but we tired of it,

As soon as it emerged and

Tangled up our lives

Like last years Christmas lights.

So what’s next,

Is it life eternal

Or death?

Is it both?

Because we cannot

Make up our minds,

Is it one truth for yew and

Another for me?

Like that’s possible.

Is it time for tea,

Is the island sinking,

In the deep green sea,

Where do we go in the end,

Do we swim on endlessly

Where is the rock of our salvation,

Is He walking on the water

As our hearts fill with

Hate and our eyes deny us?

Original Watercolour by Jim Hime

Tourist In My Hometown

The arrival in town after so many years away brought back the memories

Of the time I lived in the house on the hill exposed, as it were, to the mocking

Glances of those who lived in the nicer parts of town, their houses not so descript,

Those houses of the same in the same and the endless sameness upon itself so,

Comfortable in it’s togetherness among the many as alone I stood, exposed

On the hill, ashamed that I should be seen, apart, different, and without all

That made them so comfortable. I could not belong though I was with them.

I was different and alone among them. I longed to be one of them. But it

Could not be that I was one of them. It was as though the cosmos had shined

A dark light on my existence threatening at all times to expose my lack.

My lack of knowledge, my lack of understanding, my lack of compassion,

My lack of being. On the hill was the house, the faux limestone rock, the tall

Steeped roofline, the large windows that hung in place opening my life for

All to see on the road too busy to live on, not tucked back in the trees and the

Hills where the real people lived in safety. Shaped by these thoughts I made

A place for myself inside myself where I could hide from the brightness of them,

And their impending greatness and success. In this place which could not be seen

By them, I would determine my own way around the bend, doing exactly the opposite

Of what they did, further driving me away from them and all they had and what I

Wanted: safety, belonging, security, protection, love, being. I would, therefore,

Stand alone on the hill with the house that made my existence too noticeable.

I would think; one day I shall return to this house and find that it is no longer

A place for a lonely child living in the open view of the mockers, but a brightly

Colored business, crowded among other brightly colored businesses, bringing

Attention to itself and providing sustenance to the hungry. Giving, providing

To all who entered that for which I so longed so long ago and never found.

The Laughing Rain

I heard the sound of the driving rain

Laughing against the wind.

Lovely it was and endless it seemed,

Until the lightning began.

Across the darkened sky above,

Below the flood did come.

It rose and rose and flowed beyond,

Until the thunder did tell,

And tell it did a story of old,

Of ancient times that time forgot,

Times of old that time would stop,

Until it did,

But it did not,

And it did not go,

It was not time as we had thought,

Because we thought only of what,

What we would do

If only we would,

We could, but

We should not,

As the laughing rain

Swallowed us

Up.

Cadillac, Man, And Pony

Unique in the history of man those

Times which we do not plan

The unrehearsed moment along

Life's movement knowing surprise,

Serendipity.

When yew look over into the car

Next to yew traveling down the

Freeway noticing the nineteen

Sixties floating like a boat

In massive sculpture of chrome

Encrusted oddity from the past

And man driving to match and

The pony in the back

Seat.

Jim Hime Art and Poetry