Mike King Poems

I'm not tired of living, I'm too tired to live.
I've seen and done more than a thousand men.
How's that possible?
I'll tell you.
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I'm a blackbird.
All night long I
Cry for my mate,
But she doesnt
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Gray squirrel sitting on branch above bird feeder- tail fluttering
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What is this? Who cares if you miss! Let go of it all, So what if you fall You'll get back up! You're still ok. How the hell did you get here anyway? It doesn't matter That you're mad as a hatter! It's how you handle it You stupid git! Dear Santa, please bring me A beautiful Christmas tree! I haven't had one In many a year. So get busy Santa And bring it here! I'm just sayin' If you're not real Then why keep prayin'? To hell with this! I have to piss. When you're sixty-nine And doin' fine Get out of the line.
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He's dead, it's true. But he lived as he wanted to. He didn't care about convention, His life was an invention, Of dreams and intention. He loved to create figurations And abstractions To hell with distractions! He lived with this conviction That to live fully one must Accept its contradictions And damn its limitations! He's dead, It's true.
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Death is the `only way `to check out. `We are doomed `from the start. `Did we choose `to disobey? `We can't stop `from sinning. `Adam made `sure of that. `The wages `of sin-death. `Is that fair? `I don't know. `All I know `the horror `will not stop. `Nov.2024
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Her eyes are `blue fire. `Her long hair `golden wheat. `Succulent `her lips are. `Her skin is `soft to touch. `Her voice taught `birds to sing. `Her gaze will `enthrall you. `She is a `Greek goddess, `her body a `perfect sculptujre.
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All things considered
I've passed my seventy-third year.
I'm entering my seventy-fourth
Still glad to be here.
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