I view my hand. I see an ancient land.
A melanomic crater, deep in the desert,
speaks of greedy sun-soaked days.
Wanton then. Gone now.
Sparse wispy palm trees cluster,
storm ravaged, angled randomly,
now almost invisible,
now silver in the light.
Ravines compressed in lines
symmetrical, as from space,
appearing geometric,
requiring translation,
needing understanding,
awaiting exploration.
Ahead, beyond the fault line,
mountains expand and converge,
blue-edged and rising high
above the sandy plain, sinuous,
majestic, uncharted.
Stretching and contracting
as wrinkled parchment
in a shoreline breeze,
pointing the way to the long journey’s end.
Translucent and yes still beautiful.
A multitude of moments
has slowly wrought such change.
Soul-stirring eloquence silently tells
of times and deeds long past,
though yet concealing secrets deep,
of silken dreams within a lover’s sleep,
and memories of a sweet caress,
Categories:
old hand, age, memory,
Form: Free verse
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The skilsaw superseded; a cold,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:
old hand, inspirational,
Form: Verse
...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superseded; a cold, efficient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:
old hand, 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:
old hand, 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:
old hand, 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:
old hand, 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:
old hand, 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:
old hand, 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:
old hand, 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:
old hand, fatherold, old,
Form: Verse