The Living Dead

~ Honouring our poetic ancestors ~

Teaching the Kids to Cheat

By Dave King (dec. Oct 4 2013)

We took the kids to the beach for a week.

My brother, having lost his wife, came too.

We thought the kids might have a role to play,

and so they did, they played along just fine

and asked us for the biggest castle ever!

My brother found enormous chunks of flotsam

timbers of all sorts. We laid them on huge rocks

to hold the walls and towers high above

long rows of flimsy arches, gates and roads.

We'd been early to the beach that day and long

before the other children came, the timbers

were well covered by the sand. Kids gathered

to admire -- and to make pleas for castles

of their own like ours. We watched them all collapse --

until our two began to feel the guilt.

Finally, tears led them to the secret shown,

and queues of kids requesting photo-shoots --

posing in our castle grounds, and even on

the battlements. Then when the sea came in

all helped it lay siege to The Castle Cheat.

For many of us (depending on our country and culture) Christmas is coming up – a time for family holidays, and also for remembering loved ones no longer with us. Dave King lived in the UK, so the beach occasion described would not have been associated with Christmas for him, but here in Australia it is very much so. And the family fun he depicts can be translated to any place or season.

He was a lovely gentleman and lovely poet. He may not be 'living' in the sense of more famous dead poets, but for those he touched with his poems, and with his thoughtful comments on our own, he lives in fond memory. His work, too, remains alive at his blog, Pics and Poems.

For people new to our community, let me explain that he died a little over two years ago, of prostate cancer which spread to other areas of the body. His son Gavin posted to his blog on October 9th, 2013 to tell us Dave's death was peaceful.

He wrote some astonishing and beautiful poetry as he faced the prospect of dying. All his poems were worth reading. Do have a look at the blog – whether to refresh your memory or discover him for the first time.

For several of his best poems, plus details about the man, I refer you to our Mary's tribute to him in 'I Wish I'd Written This' on October 10th, 2013.

Of course it is sad to think of a friend and fellow-poet who has left us – but my intention in sharing this particular poem is to give you, via Dave King, an experience of joy.

(There is more joy coming, in Sherry's post of 21 December and Susan's of 6 January.)

Poems and photos posted to 'The Living Dead' for purposes of study and review remain the property of the copyright holders.

I Wish I'd Written This - Poetry of Dave King

A Love Poem

By Dave King (August, 2013)

Do you remember how it was?

It was not always hearts and flowers

and sunshine through the trees.

The clichés sometimes passed us by,

but that first handshake fast became

two hands of friendship -- and the start

of all my happiness to come.

And then it was that joyfulness 

slipped by unnoticed for a while,

the way it often does.

Not just contentment: beauty,

and a kind of bliss I had not known before.

Dormant at times beneath a heap of cares --

the mortgage, job security, the kids --

but there as ever was in that same hand

that shook my world 

when nothing seemed it could.

And now it is that all is treasured

dearly once again, and known for its true worth --

and tightly clutched as in two hands.

A drowning man, I will not let it go.

How do I prepare for death?

By Dave King (September, 2013)

How do I prepare for death?

I asked a wise man long ago.

You don't, my son, 

the wise man said:

Let Death prepare for you. 

Her laundered sheets 

and candle lights

or spring flowers round the bed

will take you back

to early days...

How bright the vision then!

How clear the way ahead!

She'll sweep the house

of all those fears

accrued along the way:

the frights that have no form.

Not dreads of death,

but worse than those:

to not exist;

the aweful void.

Such terrors follow the more solid ones,

those obstacles the world threw up

to make you doubt or start again,

to hesitate.

Each in their turn depart.

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

By Dave King (January, 2009)

Like autumn leaves

we change our colours when we die.

That's all we ever were:

a change of colour on a canvas ground,

one small fleck of difference

on an otherwise flat field

in a desert 

           of indifference.

Here death

          is the death of all

dissimilarity,

             the smudge of detail,

the erosion

           of the figure by the ground.

Death is the perfect decorator,

a broad-brushed artisan

for whom the wall assumes

a perfect matt, flat hue.

Dave King  (19?? - 2013)

Dave King, who blogged at Pics and Poems,  has always been a well-respected poet in the poetry blogosphere, and as most of us know he passed away on October 4, leaving many with a feeling of loss.  Thursday dVerse Meeting the Bar  paid tribute to him (take a look), and we at Poets United thought it would be good to pay our own tribute to Dave as well featuring a few of his poems.

His poem "A Love Poem" is truly a beautiful poem, and a tribute to his long marriage to his wife.   I would say that this poem is one of my all-time favorite Dave King poems, one which truly shows his tender heart.   It is the kind of poem I wish I had written.

The second poem is "How Do I Deal With Death?" And it was his second last poem shared.  It is obvious that death was on his mind, though he advised his readers in his blog, "Don't read too much into this."  (But, of course, I am sure most did)

The third poem is "And Death Shall Have No Dominion," written in 2009.  I like especially the last four lines of that poem. Take a look.

Dave was a private person, for the most part.  He had chosen not to be featured in an interview at Poets United, preferring to keep a low profile.  I do know that he lived in Surrey, England, with his wife Doreen.  (They had at least one child, probably more.) Some of his growing up years were during World War II, and I remember one poem about playing in some of the rubble of war when he was a child & another in which he reminisced about being in the hospital quite seriously ill when he was young.  I always enjoyed his World War II (and after) reminiscences. Dave was a teacher by profession.  He also had a great interest in visual art and made mention of painting himself before his hands began to shake.

Dave was a prolific blogger.  He had blogged since December, 2006, and had hundreds of followers. Up until the last few months of his life he posted a poem every day, and he had a lot of loyal followers (and I am proud to have been one of them).  Dave had a scientific mind as well as a creative mind; and his poems often showed a very unique perspective & were very thoroughly (and almost painstakingly) carried out.  Dave had a style of writing that could be recognized, even if his name was not on the poem.

Last summer he started being absent from the blogosphere some days. In his August 15 entry, he shared why he was far less visible in the blogosphere.  He mentioned Stage 4 prostrate cancer; but he still sounded just a bit hopeful.   He continued to post poems periodically and commented on other poems as much as he could.  His September 16 poem "Why Can Only the Living Mourn?" was the last poem he wrote.  It is worth a look as well, if you haven't read it.  It seems he knew the end was relatively near.  On October 9, Dave's son Gavin wrote in Dave's blog that has father had passed away on October 4.  And thus was the end of the life of a very good man, a fine poet, someone who wrote many poems I would like to have written.

Rest in peace, Dave King.  I am sure many of us have poems of yours we wish we had written.

Any poem or photo used in ‘I Wish I’d Written This’ remains the property of the copyright holder (usually its author).

Blog of the Week ~ Pics and Poems

Kids, I'm sure you have encountered this well-known poet, on your travels around the blogosphere. Poets United member Dave King, gentleman poet extraordinaire, posts with style and wit at  Pics and Poems.

Dave has been blogging since 2006. He is faithful about participating in prompts, and making the rounds to comment on others' work. Here is one of his recent posts, one that I love:


This Be the Planet

This is the planet that nurtured life
from the moment life began,
the way a man will blow on a spark
in order to kindle a flame.

This is the planet that welcomed life
and awarded it top spot,
gave it the keys to its atmosphere,
and the freedom of ocean and rock.

This is the planet that stocked its shelves
with all the essentials for life:
trace elements, carbon and vitamins --
and left it to fashion its prize. 

This is the planet that held its breath,
preserving what others had lost --
and preserved it well until man appeared
and fiddled with all the controls.

This is the planet that healed itself
with feedback, nudge and tweak,
until it was pushed way over the edge
into Chaos and Prospect Bleak.

This is the planet out on  a limb
in need of a settings change.
Its final, desperate hope is to
recapture its maker's range.

I so love this poem! And here is another: 

Ere the First Sad Petal Falls

It always was this way. My age perhaps,
my inner age, the age I've always been,
that I see beauties in a flower long past it's best --
not there when it was in its prime.

The rose that blooms a step too far,
gets over big, too heavy for its stem,
its face too blown. Perhaps
too sated for the bees that visit it,

but in whatever cause, it oversteps the mark,
cannot contain its shape or hue.
If only nature had a reset button for the flower --
as that hid wrapped inside the human brain.

I understand the present beauty of the flower.
Inclusive loveliness.
A montage of the graces that have flown.
To me it says: Perfection never was.

Decay rips silently inside the ache for more.
The artist knows not when to stop.
There is no point at which two visions meet:
This vision of the future on a view of now.

What once seemed consummation of
our hopes, the rose's full potential, its
maturity, was but the master's small 
maquette for what was still to come.

Back then I gave it all my admiration,
but now it has me locked in its embrace,
defenseless in the face of these new charms
and ravished into ecstasy.

So lovely. And one more, my favorite: 

Great Aunt Min

In Islington
did Great Aunt Min
keep a pub
she called an inn.
And there, within,
in golden cage
a regal bird
(then all the rage),
a parakeet
elective mute.
Though quite absurd,
no syllable
would pass its beak
until it heard
the magic words:
"Time, if you please!
Time ladies and
good gentlefolk!
Ti..i..ime... if you please!"

At which the bird
would stretch and shake
and lift its beak
as if to say
"Who reckons me
too dumb to speak?"
And loudly then,
with raucous squawk
would demonstrate
his fruity talk:
"Aint you buggers
got no homes?
Aint you buggers
got no homes?
Aint you buggers
got no homes?"
until Aunt Min
turned out the light
and locked them in
to pass the night,
when meek and mild
as any child
he'd settle down
and wait for her
to cover him.

Thank you, Dave, for your lovely gentlemanly presence in our community. We so appreciate you. I love  your stories of the past, and your kindred view of the present.