the puzzling King Tim
Comments: 2 - Date: June 23rd, 2008 - Categories: Original Work
I submitted this poem for my CLB321 assignment. Out of the three poems, I like this one the best. I was hoping to convey a sense of playfulness and childish innocence. Afterall, ‘Tim’ is based on a Prep kid at the afterschool care where I worked. He’s a really cute 5 year old and very very smart too. I know having favourites is not good, but this boy is really mine. I wanted to have a ‘cheerful’ poem, and I had this boy in mind when I was writing this poem.
The two other poems that I submitted were quite serious, that’s why I have this one. When I read this poem again, it doesn’t seem very cheerful. Looks like I’m doomed to be an ‘un-cheerful’ writer. 
To make matters worse, my lecturer’s comment on this one was "This one puzzles me". What kind of puzzling does he actually means? The intriguing kind of puzzling or the I-dunno-what-you-think-you-are-writing kind of puzzling. When I received my assignment back, I’m quite satisfied with the grade (it’s a 5). But this one comment really bugs me. Nothing that I can do about it now. So, here’s King Tim. Enjoy.
KING TIM
A boy stands,
With a football in his hands,
And he broods,
Because he wanted to go into the woods,
His mother wouldn’t let him,
It was very very grim,
He thinks.
He went to the field,
Watching other children play,
The football is his to wield,
That is his mother’s way,
So friendships he could build,
No thank you! alone he would stay.
He creeps to the edge of the woods,
Going through a secret secret path,
he had found when he was wondering,
where once he snuck foods,
to hide the whole day when he’s too lazy to bath,
And get away from mother’s yapping.
At the end of the secret special path,
Is his very own secret special shrubbery,
Where he hid his secret treasury,
Forbidden items that will incur the wrath,
Of Miss February,
His evil sister Mary.
Now his evil sister Mary,
Good as a saint,
Has many friends,
Born in February,
The month of love and red paint,
His mother’s own saint,
Annoys him to no end.
He prays and prays and prays,
For no evil sister in his realm,
A secret kingdom where he rules,
Where the birds and sunrays,
Give him calm,
Where there is no shadows, no ghouls.
Slowly, so slowly he lifts the lid of the chest,
A peek into his treasury,
Mary’s comb with the family crest,
Mother’s fake jewellery,
A piece of father’s vest,
A feather from grandma’s yellow canary.
Oh, how would they howl,
if they knew,
It’s little Tim all this is due,
They would all scowl,
He gave Mary sorrow,
He made mother fret,
Made father growl,
Only grandma chuckled,
Loving Tim the best.
Tim lays on his back,
Sunlight through the leaves are little stars,
Illuminating his vast kingdom,
Under the rule of the great King Tim,
Come what may, King Tim is never lazy,
Charging bulls or wild boars,
King Tim for freedom!
King Tim! King Tim!
