Comic Book Philosophy
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Monday, August 18, 2014
THE WAY THINGS ARE
THE WAY THINGS ARE
©2014 Ken Finton
“What are we going to tell her, John?
“We just can’t tell her that it died.
She’ll take it very hard.
It wasn’t much of a kitty, I know,
Just a little yellow cat like the ones
You see on every street at night,
The eyes sort of shining like marbles.
It always purred. It even purred while dying.
Oh, John, she’ll take it so very hard.”
“We’ll have to tell her that she’s gone.
She’ll know anyway. You can’t hide something
Like that from a child. Listen, here she comes now.”
“Where's my kitty? Is she still sick?
I dreamed about her once last night.”
“John?”
“You handle it. I’ve got the cows to milk.”
“Where’s my kitty? Is she hurting yet?”
“Honey, no, the kitty died. It won’t hurt anymore.
God has taken it away like he did Grandpa
Nearly a year ago. You remember
How it was when Grandpa left?
He was so sick and frail and coughed so hard
And couldn’t find it in himself to breathe.”
“It was my kitty. God should give him back.
He doesn’t have to take her from me.
He has lots of kitties, I have one.”
“But darling, there is nothing we can do.
She’s gone... John, help me, please.
Don’t just stand there saying nothing.”
"What can I say? You’ve said it all. She understands...”
"I want my kitty."
“But, darling, now your kitty's gone.
It cannot hurt like it did last night.
It fell asleep and cannot wake.”
“Do kitties dream when they fall fast asleep?”
“Why, I don't know, but I suppose they do.”
“Then maybe now she 's dreaming about me
And how it used to be when she was well.
Will God take care of her like I did?
Give her warm milk and scratch her ears at night?”
“Yes, of course, and give her a little house
Somewhere in the stars where she can grow
And have a family of her own.”
"He doesn't need my kitty. Why did he take her?
Why my kitty and not the one that scratches when
You try to pick her up?"
“Yes, why? I wonder why myself sometimes.
I only guess that's just the way things are.”
“I’m going to milk the cows,” John said.
Friday, August 8, 2014
THE TURTLE
THE TURTLE
© 2014 KENNETH HARPER FINTON
Four she is, just four years old,
And she had never fished.
“I want to fish,” she told her Dad.
“I want to catch a fishie.”
Dad could think of no good reason
Not take her fishing.
They went on down to Turtle Lake
One muggy, summer evening.
The birds were gone, the wind was still
The lake was grey and sullen.
She cast a line along the shore
And watched where it had fallen.
Before too long her bobber sank
She had a bite ‘twas certain.
Dad showed her how to reel it in
And she was quite determined.
To her surprise, the line she’d cast
Had hooked a snapping turtle.
She dropped the pole and ran away
As fast as she was able.
“I killed him,” she screamed all aghast
“I’ve killed a lovely turtle.”
She ran into approaching night
Jumped over the bog myrtle.
Dad could only shake his head
And think of his selection
Of this lake to take the child.
It was a valid question.
The next day she said she would try
Once more to hook a ‘fishie’.
Evidently, she’d forgot
Her earlier misgivings.
This time she caught a smaller fish.
Her smile was so contagious.
If nothing else, she learned about
The values found in patience.
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