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Inspiration
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| Father by Ted Kooser (US Poet Laureate) May 19, 1999 Today you would be ninety-seven From Delights & Shadows by Ted Kooser, |
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| My Father's Hat by Mark Irwin Sunday mornings I would reach high into his dark closet while standing on a chair and tiptoeing reach higher, touching, sometimes fumbling the soft crowns and imagine I was in a forest, wind hymning through pines, where the musky scent of rain clinging to damp earth was his scent I loved, lingering on bands, leather, and on the inner silk crowns where I would smell his hair and almost think I was being held, or climbing a tree, touching the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent was that of a clove in the godsome air, as now, thinking of his fabulous sleep, I stand on this canyon floor and watch light slowly close on water I'm not sure is there. From Bright Hunger by Mark Irwin. Copyright ©2004 by Mark Irwin. Reprinted by permission of BOA Editions, Ltd. All rights reserved. |
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“My heart is happy, my mind is free— I had a father who talked with me” Hilda Bigelow |
| Whose Mouth Do I Speak With by Suzanne Rancourt I can remember my father bringing home spruce gum. He worked in the woods and filled his pockets with golden chunks of pitch. For his children he provided this special sacrament and we'd gather at this feet, around his legs, bumping his lunchbox, and his empty thermos rattled inside. Our skin would stick to Daddy's gluey clothing and we'd smell like Mumma's Pine Sol. We had no money for store bought gum but that's all right. The spruce gum was so close to chewing amber as though in our mouths we held the eyes of Coyote and how many other children had fathers that placed on their innocent, anxious tongue the blood of tree? From Billboard in the Clouds by Suzanne Rancourt. Copyright © 2004 by Suzanne Rancourt. Published by Curbstone Press. Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Dist. Reprinted by permission of Curbstone Press. |
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My Papa's Waltz
by Theodore Roethke
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
Theodore Roethke, 'My Papa's Waltz,' from The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke. Copyright © 1940, 1954 by Theodore Roethke.






