The Blade Show Atlanta Georgia 2002

A poem, a poem: however far I roam,
my heart is still inclined to home --
but don't you worry, I'm in no hurry,
this buying of knives is far more than a flurry!
I'm glad to fly off, and I'm glad to fly back.
It's only the money to rush off again that I lack!

My blades are never vicious and my friends are never knaves,
our hobby is of works of art, from beauty we will never part,
I fear the poets are the ones whose work it is that no one craves.

* ****** **** ****** *

When we go to knife shows
we don't go alone
and when we get there
who do we see
but other knife knuts far from home

We spend as much time
meeting friends
as looking at the knives
and if we buy that's only one
of many reasons for the ride

This is the Buyer of the Blade

A knife came today in the mail,
And I know I will try, without fail,
To cut up some thing,
And I hope it won't sting,
Like the time that I stepped on a nail.

The knives I collect, sharp and shiny,
Are often quite large, rarely tiny;
Whether sleek or more jagged,
Their edges, not ragged,
Will slice anyone who gets whiny.

Rudyard Kipling wasn't wrong
When he told us in his song,
"This is the Buyer of the Blade,
Be afraid!"
Well-armed can even beat the strong.

What survives

Deep in the forest the squirrels are quiet,
Something is coming that squirrels don't like.
Humans with rifles are coming to shoot them,
Nuts to all that!  They will all run and hide.

Swimming against all the cold rushing waters,
Game fish will struggle as long as they can.
Sensible fish, though, show much more acumen,
Following water that's rushing on down.

Birds of the air and birds of the water
Share the bright feathers that dinosaurs wore.
Once long ago, before the great asteroid,
Birds would have sunk their teeth into our throats.

A little cloud, a little sky, a little wet, a little dry,
Another day as life goes on to find its own way.

Hey, Robbie!

SOG knives build on tradition
but they can innovate too.

To anyone else,
a revolver's a handgun,
from SOG
it's like two knives in one.

Tactical knives
and tradesman's tools
and a whole new hunting line,
I'd like to see kitchen cutlery
come out of the shop sometime.

The Shabaria

Thanks to Spyderco for producing this knife and James Mattis of Chai Cutlery for carrying it.

The ancient design is new to us,
Since tactical knives all look the same.
It's exciting to see the possibilities
In a blade that looks like a flame.

VG-10 is hard and sharp,
It slips through meat and fruit and bread;
But the blade is much too narrow
To use on any kind of spread.

Its razor edge is hollow-ground,
The recurved blade angles down.
With narrow, wasp-waist handle slabs
It might make people frown.

It reminds me of knives
Of days long past,
When work demanded
The sharp and fast.
For self-defense or sacrifice,
Our forefathers liked
This kind of knife.

from June 16, 2000 

i missed six months

i missed the mist
got up too late
lingered over the breakfast plate
but when i left to walk outside
i found the morning dew had scarcely dried
and gleamed like scattered, precious gems
in the growing heat of the summer sun

Time

 Inexorable, unkind.

Tell me that one day it will all be over
with no control by those of us
most effected by the loss.

Do we have no rights in this universe
that spit us up like subatomic particles
overwhelmed by incomprehensible laws?

Not good.
I want to go through it again
with some memory of what it's about!

SF

What happened to the old SF,
replaced by elves & trolls,
replaced by horror movies --
no more galactic goals?

The arching sky is calling
spacemen back to their trade,
but we watch in the growing darkness
as Bob Heinlein starts to fade ...

So it's either silly season
or commercial hardware flying.
The Sense of Wonder's gone away,
Suspension of Disbelief is dying.

Sand

Sand through an hourglass
times our days away,
sand lying on a beach
stretches to eternity! 

This tiny cove, I do not doubt
will open up to ocean's broad expanse.
But I prefer to stay within my sandy shelter
and on this beach to dance to dance to dance

The ancient quarrel

Time is what comes later, now is where we're at.
Measure each moment or live your life --
which will bring you happiness, and which will not?

The ancient quarrel that we of Earth hold with Fate:
whatever we accomplish always seems to come too late.

we can see the picture

See my list of poetry.
Written for me?   Written for you?
Whoever likes them best is welcome
to claim the thought, whatever I do.

Hasten to scribble, rush to write,
get it all down by sun or lamp.
Once the document's sealed and sent
is plenty of time for the hand to cramp.

The future is always clearer once it's past
and we can see the picture at last
that smeared across the canvas of our lives
as we performed among an ever-changing cast.

Illusion

Poet, or pagan, or wandering Jew,
battling the world for a place, for a view,
for a chance to see farther than ever before,
a chance to rise up and walk out my front door.

The universe turns within a dark mind
with nirvana to come when we leave it behind,
as if anything matters but what we believe,
fruit of a shriveled and infertile tree.

Tilt my hat and set my feet to walking
till I found the front door open and went in.
The bar was packed but the band was playing
so I found someone and we stepped out to dance.

Let the light within you shine
and never mind the sun and stars
whose distant warmth is metaphoric
while conversation here is so euphoric.