Chip King
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At a very special lecture some years ago, the concept of “thin places” was introduced to me. Thin poems describe people, places or experiences where boundaries between the spirit world and the secular or material world are more transparent. This transparency, or “thinness”, enables a greater perception of spiritual matters, an encounter with God, a more spiritual approach to life. Thin places is a term that was given to sacred space, originally associated with Celtic Christians in the late Fifth Century. This book is organized into two thematic areas: Thin Places and Thin Experiences. Thin places can be found through travel, work, neighborhoods, nature and families. Thin experiences can be found through health, dreams, memories, spirituality and people. The title of the book comes from a self-label that evolved during a journey with cancer. The Author identifies himself with being a gentle warrior, one who strives for peace, harmony and balance. He hopes that readers will find these poems inspiring, comforting and useful.
Chip King has been writing poems for over thirty years. After attending a Billy Collins workshop in 2003, he became more serious about poetry. Chip makes his living as a city planning consultant, in Denver, Colorado, but takes as much time as he can to write and read poetry. When he was diagnosed with prostate cancer six years ago, poetry served as one therapy. He has traveled extensively. As he traveled, Chip became intrigued with the concept of “thin places” as an aspect of spirituality. This selection of poems has been chosen to express his feelings about thin places. Developing his spiritual side is very important and poetry is a means which has helped Chip to do this. Chip has described himself as being a gentle warrior, one who looks for thin places to guide him in his quest towards healing, wholeness and purpose.
Wandering at 2 AM
Wandering, pacing—the old pads of his feet
make little slapping sounds on our wood floor,
as he circles round and round, looking
for a place to lie, but not finding one.
Disoriented when we fix dinner,
he looks up the step he no longer climbs.
When you go out he whines,
facing the door, infinitely awaiting your return.
Across the country, my mother waits, too,
pining for the Michigan she cannot visit anymore.
waiting to be able to chew again, forgetting again,
her broken jaw and the reasons for staying in the Memory Unit.
Helpless in my bed at 2 AM, I consider both their vacant stares,
the ravages time has wrought.
Yet, within the mystical space in which they now must live,
lies some peaceful world, whose peace I do not yet possess.
A Smile at the Edge of Morning
Sitting in the meditation garden
began my day.
Sounds of workmen already at work
behind our house, punctuated sounds of water
falling out of a bamboo pipe into the pond below.
A morning swim felt good, the water warmish;
my body seemed to flow with effortless strokes
from one end of the pool to the other.
Frank, the shoeshine man from Africa, smiled—
we shook hands in friendship.
On the way home, an orthodox Jew emerged
from Temple after finishing morning prayers.
He sniffed the air, smiling, his braids
swinging in the morning air
as he turned to walk towards the street.
Later on, leaving to meet my daughter,
I glimpsed a couple holding hands
walking along the busy roadway.
Returning I saw them again, still holding hands,
broadly smiling and clasping a cardboard begging sign.
He didn’t smile, a dour man at the bus stop,
holding his cane with stern expression.
Who knows what burdens he faced that morning,
preventing his smile, so I did it for him.
