Read Ted Kooser. Save your egg cartons until you have a fitted stack tall enough to be mistaken for an art project. Melt them down in a bucket of water. See how the float at first, then slowly succumb. Do not tell anyone about the egg cartons until they have fully disintegrated. Drink Rhubarb wine. Buy the straw hat from the old Vietnamese lady at your local Farmer’s Market. The smile she gives you will sate you for years to come. Fall in love. Do not be afraid to slap the five pound bag of rice in the supermarket. You will get looks, but you will be more alive than those watching. Write for someone else. Make them up, or pick someone out of a magazine. They can be your age, or not. It is up to fate more than your own brain. Understand that you are doing very well, and that there is value in waking up. Do not be afraid that you can’t remember dreams, or that you dream of a huge black wall moving in like a season. Read some more Ted Kooser. Laugh often, and easily. Die on a few small hills. Create a list of advice for young poets to discover who you really are.
Categories:
kooser, writing,
Form: Prose Poetry
...for Ted Kooser
It belonged to my dad.
More antique than useful it lay
in my tool box begging to be used.
Soaped and sharpened so many times
before use, its blade was now dull and lifeless.
I took it with me everywhere I went
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up. The skilsaw
superseded; a cold, efficient
implement that did as it was told
with ne'er a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I'd nicked and cut until I bled
when choosing my old friend;
museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away.
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
Categories:
kooser, father,
Form: Verse
...for Ted Kooser
A reminder of my father;
more antique than useful it was tucked
inside my tool box ever ready to be used.
Soaped and sharpened many times
the blade was keen and hungry.
I took it with me everywhere
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up.
The skilsaw superseded; a cold,
efficient implement that did as it was told,
never a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I slipped and sliced until I bled
when choosing my old friend.
Museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away;
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
Categories:
kooser, tribute, writing,
Form: Verse
...for Ted Kooser
A reminder of my father;
more antique than useful it was tucked
inside my tool box ever ready to be used.
Soaped and sharpened many times
the blade was keen and hungry.
I took it with me everywhere
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up.
The skilsaw superseded; a cold,
efficient implement that did as it was told,
never a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I slipped and sliced until I bled
when choosing my old friend.
Museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away;
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
Categories:
kooser, tribute, writing,
Form: Verse
...for Ted Kooser
A reminder of my father;
more antique than useful it was tucked
inside my tool box ever ready to be used.
Soaped and sharpened many times
the blade was keen and hungry.
I took it with me everywhere
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up.
The skilsaw superseded; a cold,
efficient implement that did as it was told,
never a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I slipped and sliced until I bled
when choosing my old friend.
Museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away;
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
Categories:
kooser, dedication, devotion, friendship,
Form: Verse
...for Ted Kooser
A reminder of my father;
more antique than useful it was tucked
inside my tool box ever ready to be used.
Soaped and sharpened many times
the blade was keen and hungry.
I took it with me everywhere
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up.
The skilsaw superseded; a cold,
efficient implement that did as it was told,
never a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I slipped and sliced until I bled
when choosing my old friend.
Museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away;
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
Categories:
kooser, inspirational, uplifting,
Form: Verse
...for Ted Kooser
A reminder of my father;
more antique than useful it was tucked
inside my tool box ever ready to be used.
Soaped and sharpened many times
the blade was keen and hungry.
I took it with me everywhere
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up.
The skilsaw superseded; a cold,
efficient implement that did as it was told,
never a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I slipped and sliced until I bled
when choosing my old friend.
Museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away;
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
Categories:
kooser, inspirational,
Form: Verse
...for Ted Kooser
A reminder of my father;
more antique than useful it was tucked
inside my tool box ever ready to be used.
Soaped and sharpened many times
the blade was keen and hungry.
I took it with me everywhere
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up.
The skilsaw superseded; a cold,
efficient implement that did as it was told,
never a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I slipped and sliced until I bled
when choosing my old friend.
Museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away;
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
Categories:
kooser, father
Form: Verse
The Old Hand Saw
...for Ted Kooser
It belonged to my dad.
More antique than useful it lay
in my tool box begging to be used.
Soaped and sharpened so many times
its blade was dull and lifeless.
I took it with me everywhere I went
'til pure gave way to power,
and through the years it waited,
I could never give it up. The skilsaw
superseded; a cold, efficient
implement that did as it was told
with ne'er a slip. As my effectiveness
fell short, my eyes became unsure,
my hands bore witness to the times
I'd nicked and cut until I bled
when choosing my old friend;
museum pieces, he and I,
both worn and put away.
I still recall the touch, the feel,
the smell of yesterday.
Categories:
kooser, fatherold, old,
Form: Verse
She was a pallor woman, says the mirror on the
Wall above her bureau: A tranquil woman too,
Says her diary which lay near her bed on the
Floor; and a deathless woman, says the crimson
Stain upon her blouse that lay draped over a
Chair in the corner of the room; but not one
For sunlight, say the black velvet cloak that
Lay neatly on her bed.
She lived alone, says the empty room next to
Hers; She was barren, says the long black
Dress that was worn; money was not a problem,
Says the antique furniture around the room; and
Her heart cold, says the silence that floats
Forever throughout the dusty bedchamber.
Something went wrong, says the lingering scent
Of death in the room. The faded painting -of
Darkness on a cold winter night- on her
Wall, say her life was an immoral one; untouched
Morsels left on delicate china that sits on the
End table, says she never felt hunger. And her
Victims? Never to be found or seen again-their
Bodies left lifeless on some unknown terrain.
Something went wrong, they say.
This is a dark poem in the form of "Abandoned Farmhouse" by Ted Kooser
Categories:
kooser, mystery,
Form: Free verse