A Poem

Thomason

Thomason

Joined
Nov 28, 2002
Messages
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I stumble upon this poem by accident. "A Certain Man Had Two" by Robert W. Duvall (not the actor).

A certain man had two

A certain man had two
not one pocket knife
but two pocket knifes.
Common is a pocket knife
deep in the pockets
of Cahahrts and Pointers.
Usually one knife per owner.
Two call for a story.

From the overalls of a certain dead man
not one but two
pocket knives are unearthed
along with a ring of keys
buck thirty in change,
cotton hanky and pocket comb.

The knives lay
with an easy heft in the palm.
One brilliant, one dull
One meant for show,
One meant to meet the needs of the day.
A knife worn and sharpened.
A knife pearled and shinning.

A certain man had two.
A son who made a name in the far country
returned home with bright fame.
Another son stayed close to home,
a constant and comfortable sweater for dad.

The knives were presented in the open palm.
The two wept for that certain man.
The two grieved as they touched,
handled and passed the two knives.
The story spilled out.
One knife cut the day to day problems.
The other knife was for show,
a prized gift from his boys.

Each time he withdrew the show knife
there was occasion for brag on his boys.
Each time the work-a-day knife blade opened;
the gifted two sons rose before his eyes.
A certain man had two.
 
So see,there was knife nuts back then,too.;)
Girlie knife purses (way back when) & now,knifenuts,too,I knew it !

Rob,Thanks for that,You're the man! :thumbup:
-Vince :):):)
 
This was actually a song by Guy Clark...

The Randall Knife

My father had a Randall knife
My mother gave it to him
When he went off to WWII
To save us all from ruin
If you've ever held a Randall knife
Then you know my father well
If a better blade was ever made
It was probably forged in hell

My father was a good man
A lawyer by his trade
And only once did I ever see
Him misuse the blade
It almost cut his thumb off
When he took it for a tool
The knife was made for darker things
And you could not bend the rules

He let me take it camping once
On a Boy Scout jamboree
And I broke a half an inch off
Trying to stick it in a tree
I hid it from him for a while
But the knife and he were one
He put it in his bottom drawer
Without a hard word one

There it slept and there it stayed
For twenty some odd years
Sort of like Excalibur
Except waiting for a tear

My father died when I was forty
And I couldn't find a way to cry
Not because I didn't love him
Not because he didn't try
I'd cried for every lesser thing
Whiskey, pain and beauty
But he deserved a better tear
And I was not quite ready

So we took his ashed out to sea
And poured `em off the stern
And threw the roses in the wake
Of everything we'd learned
When we got back to the house
They asked me what I wanted
Not the lawbooks not the watch
I need the things he's haunted

My hand burned for the Randall knife
There in the bottom drawer
And I found a tear for my father's life
And all that it stood for.

[youtube]KY5MOUO464Q[/youtube]
 
I wonder how they would re-write that to describe me. "A Certain Man Had 65?" It doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

For all that, though, there's only one I carry with me every day.
 
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