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Garden Tools: Poems by David W. Berner
Garden Tools evokes the essence of life, from the moon's glow at twilight to a child's gaze, a woodland stroll, and our fleeting existence. David W. Berner finds richness in daily life, marvels in nature, and ponders the human spirit's mysteries. With inquisitive eyes, he discerns subtle details in the ordinary, revealing nature's, the divine's, and life's magic often concealed in quiet corners.
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About the author
David W. Berner
29 books94 followersDavid W. Berner is an award-winning journalist, broadcaster, author, and teacher. As a writer, he has been the recipient of awards from the prestigious Society of Midland Authors and the Chicago Writers Association. David has more than forty years experience in broadcast journalism as a reporter, anchor, news director, and program director. He has contributed to the CBS Radio Network and to public radio stations around the country, including NPR’s Weekend edition.
David has also performed live literature readings at 2nd Story, Essay Fiesta, Waterline Writers, and Sunday Salon. And regularly conducts workshops on writing and memoir.
David has also performed live literature readings at 2nd Story, Essay Fiesta, Waterline Writers, and Sunday Salon. And regularly conducts workshops on writing and memoir.
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
December 29, 2025
A Review of Garden Tools by David W. Berner
The opening lines of “Desert Prayer,” the first poem in Garden Tools, give us the perfect opening for this review:
“If I were to swallow the earth,
I would taste cinnamon in the
desert’s red rocks,
where the light catches
the edges of the heart,
and the table is set for one.”
Yes, the table is set for one, the reader. And reading through this volume of poetry demonstrates how this poet has “swallowed the earth” and through the mouth of his pen echoes all of the flavors of nature and how they have been such a major influence on his poetry.
In “The Last Tulip,” David gives us “from the deep-brown ground comes/ an owl-brown, dying plant, dying for now.” We see summer on its last legs, trying to stretch itself out for just a few more days.
“but there is an uncertain death---
a burning in the night or a slow goodbye
without ever opening in the midday sun.”
Perhaps, some of us never quite achieve what we could be in full bloom before fall takes us away.
This poet gave me such an emotional turn in his poem “Workshop.” He dedicates this piece to his father, but the universality with which David writes allows the readers to bring their own experiences and feelings to the works. For me, this poem reminds me so much of my engineer father. A brilliant man in his field, a little less handy at home with his own tools.
“A jigsaw
Coping saw
Keyhole saw
and a bone saw”
Inside, I often smirked because Dad would be determined to do it himself. Most often he would get there after several failed attempts and a barrage of curses to the god of home repairs. Much like Berner’s father:
“He decided long ago
he was to be a woodworker
a carpenter who made
dining room tables, rocking horses, and humidors.”
My father was not that extravagant with his endeavors---but with much of the same result.
David’s poem “Illness” reminded me of my mother’s last couple years.
“What tells us
when it’s time
to restart a life
to shed a skin?”
There was a shedding of skin, but her life was to be restarted in the Heavens above.
“Revival comes
In the desperate places
Found in the underbelly
of sickness.”
And thus, she(my mother) left us to shed our own skins one day.
On the lighter side, David gives us the poem called “Fists.” He reminisces of the boy in the schoolyard always wanting to fight him.
“Running straight to each other
as fast as we could
embracing with smashing fists.”
Oh, I had such a similar situation. But not being proficient with fists, I often took the brunt of punishment. I had one advantage. I was stronger and could wrestle. So, eventually, I would get tired of getting hit and grab him and put him on the ground, while sitting on top of him until he would cry “Uncle.” He hated being the submissive one.
“I wonder if he remembers”
And often I wondered if years later, he remembered those days.
Another wonderful poem in this book is “For the Writer.” He scribes:
“And on my desk
A typewriter sits
My journal at its side
pen before the page
in the mystic
I dream of magic”
Such a great use of near rhyme this poet so often uses. All of us writers dream of that magic. We hope that this might occur:
“I forever hammer
at the bark
in silent night
or morning moon
my beak against the wood.”
Peck, peck, pecking at the keys with something worthwhile to say.
In “Thinking of Death” the poet speaks of having his sister’s ashes in his car, driving her around the block and that she will hear the music on the radio. And he ends the poem with this line. “I hope someone drives me around when I’m dead.”
I suppose it would be nice to be the passenger after a life of driving ourselves everywhere, including “Crazy.”
In his final poem “December,” he speaks of “coming on winter” and finishes the poem with these appropriate lines:
“in the lattice work of clouds
to fall on skeleton reeds
of decayed thistles
stillness takes hold
be silent
pause.”
And as Hamlet said “The rest is silence.” David W. Berner’s poetry is concise. He wastes not one word. And it is much more than just reading. It is the experience of seeing and feeling nature and how that nature nurtures us and provides a perfect setting for the portraits we paint of our own lives.
(jacob erin-cilberto, author of A Jersey Shore in Ryegate)
The opening lines of “Desert Prayer,” the first poem in Garden Tools, give us the perfect opening for this review:
“If I were to swallow the earth,
I would taste cinnamon in the
desert’s red rocks,
where the light catches
the edges of the heart,
and the table is set for one.”
Yes, the table is set for one, the reader. And reading through this volume of poetry demonstrates how this poet has “swallowed the earth” and through the mouth of his pen echoes all of the flavors of nature and how they have been such a major influence on his poetry.
In “The Last Tulip,” David gives us “from the deep-brown ground comes/ an owl-brown, dying plant, dying for now.” We see summer on its last legs, trying to stretch itself out for just a few more days.
“but there is an uncertain death---
a burning in the night or a slow goodbye
without ever opening in the midday sun.”
Perhaps, some of us never quite achieve what we could be in full bloom before fall takes us away.
This poet gave me such an emotional turn in his poem “Workshop.” He dedicates this piece to his father, but the universality with which David writes allows the readers to bring their own experiences and feelings to the works. For me, this poem reminds me so much of my engineer father. A brilliant man in his field, a little less handy at home with his own tools.
“A jigsaw
Coping saw
Keyhole saw
and a bone saw”
Inside, I often smirked because Dad would be determined to do it himself. Most often he would get there after several failed attempts and a barrage of curses to the god of home repairs. Much like Berner’s father:
“He decided long ago
he was to be a woodworker
a carpenter who made
dining room tables, rocking horses, and humidors.”
My father was not that extravagant with his endeavors---but with much of the same result.
David’s poem “Illness” reminded me of my mother’s last couple years.
“What tells us
when it’s time
to restart a life
to shed a skin?”
There was a shedding of skin, but her life was to be restarted in the Heavens above.
“Revival comes
In the desperate places
Found in the underbelly
of sickness.”
And thus, she(my mother) left us to shed our own skins one day.
On the lighter side, David gives us the poem called “Fists.” He reminisces of the boy in the schoolyard always wanting to fight him.
“Running straight to each other
as fast as we could
embracing with smashing fists.”
Oh, I had such a similar situation. But not being proficient with fists, I often took the brunt of punishment. I had one advantage. I was stronger and could wrestle. So, eventually, I would get tired of getting hit and grab him and put him on the ground, while sitting on top of him until he would cry “Uncle.” He hated being the submissive one.
“I wonder if he remembers”
And often I wondered if years later, he remembered those days.
Another wonderful poem in this book is “For the Writer.” He scribes:
“And on my desk
A typewriter sits
My journal at its side
pen before the page
in the mystic
I dream of magic”
Such a great use of near rhyme this poet so often uses. All of us writers dream of that magic. We hope that this might occur:
“I forever hammer
at the bark
in silent night
or morning moon
my beak against the wood.”
Peck, peck, pecking at the keys with something worthwhile to say.
In “Thinking of Death” the poet speaks of having his sister’s ashes in his car, driving her around the block and that she will hear the music on the radio. And he ends the poem with this line. “I hope someone drives me around when I’m dead.”
I suppose it would be nice to be the passenger after a life of driving ourselves everywhere, including “Crazy.”
In his final poem “December,” he speaks of “coming on winter” and finishes the poem with these appropriate lines:
“in the lattice work of clouds
to fall on skeleton reeds
of decayed thistles
stillness takes hold
be silent
pause.”
And as Hamlet said “The rest is silence.” David W. Berner’s poetry is concise. He wastes not one word. And it is much more than just reading. It is the experience of seeing and feeling nature and how that nature nurtures us and provides a perfect setting for the portraits we paint of our own lives.
(jacob erin-cilberto, author of A Jersey Shore in Ryegate)
October 29, 2025
David Berner’s Garden Tools weaves together nature and our very human urge to shape it, along with our equally futile desire to control time and memory.
In the poem March Morning, Berner walks barefoot through the frosted grass: “The icy bite reminds me / that I am alive / and tomorrow morning / the frost will be gone.” A simple image reflects this collection’s premise of how fleeting moments root us in the present even as they slip away.
The book is filled with intelligent, reflective, and poignant poems, but what I appreciate is Berner’s ability to undercut his own depth. In “Gone Walking,” he reminds us not everything needs to be profound: “It’s a walk / not an epiphany / not a solitary gift / not a / meditation / but a walk / pure / unadorned / take the dog / revolt against purpose / stop pretending.” I love this quiet declaration about being human. Sometimes it’s enough to just be here.
In the poem March Morning, Berner walks barefoot through the frosted grass: “The icy bite reminds me / that I am alive / and tomorrow morning / the frost will be gone.” A simple image reflects this collection’s premise of how fleeting moments root us in the present even as they slip away.
The book is filled with intelligent, reflective, and poignant poems, but what I appreciate is Berner’s ability to undercut his own depth. In “Gone Walking,” he reminds us not everything needs to be profound: “It’s a walk / not an epiphany / not a solitary gift / not a / meditation / but a walk / pure / unadorned / take the dog / revolt against purpose / stop pretending.” I love this quiet declaration about being human. Sometimes it’s enough to just be here.
October 31, 2025
Poignant poems that flow like the first cup of warm tea on a chilly morning--bringing comfort, solace, and a sigh of recognition. Gentle reflections carry the bounty, the beauty, and the bittersweet of this fleeting life.
All of these gifts lie among the pages -- with no decoder ring needed.
All of these gifts lie among the pages -- with no decoder ring needed.
November 7, 2025
This is a great collection of poems. Very moving.
December 26, 2025
Some books announce themselves loudly. Garden Tools does not. It waits, the way a garden does in early spring, asking only that you slow down enough to notice what is already there. Reading David W. Berner’s first collection of poetry feels less like consuming a book and more like accompanying someone on a series of walks, pauses, and quiet reckonings. You are not pushed toward meaning. You arrive there gradually, often realizing only afterward that something essential has shifted.
There is a scientific term called attentional restoration, the idea that time spent noticing nature gently repairs a tired mind. This collection seems to understand that instinctively. Berner’s poems linger on frost, birds, kitchen rituals, aging bodies, and ordinary love, all grounded in close observation. The language is accessible, almost conversational, yet careful. Nothing is rushed. Even when the poems touch illness, grief, or mortality, they do so with restraint. There is no spectacle, only recognition. Haven’t we all stood at a window during bad weather and felt strangely exposed? Haven’t we all wondered when innocence quietly left the room?
An unconventional pleasure of this book is how often it makes the reader complicit. You find yourself remembering your own grandparents while reading about tools in a workshop, or recalling a childhood bicycle while standing beside one abandoned in the rain. Neuroscience tells us that memory is associative rather than linear, and Garden Tools leans into that truth. One poem unlocks another memory you did not expect to revisit. The effect is cumulative, not dramatic, but deeply persuasive.
The collection is structured around landscapes, love, and longing, though it never feels boxed in by those categories. Berner’s voice remains steady throughout, reflective without becoming abstract, emotional without asking for sympathy. He writes as someone attentive to time, particularly how it passes without asking permission. The recurring presence of gardens, weather, and daily rituals grounds the work in physical reality. This is poetry that believes meaning is earned through attention rather than revelation.
This book is for readers who are willing to sit with a poem instead of racing through it, for those who enjoy noticing how light changes over the course of a day or how a small kindness can linger longer than a grand gesture. It will resonate with adults who have lived long enough to carry memory and anticipation at the same time. It is probably not for readers looking for puzzles, formal experimentation, or sharp narrative twists. Nor is it aimed at those who want poetry to impress rather than to accompany.
What makes Garden Tools quietly effective is its trust in the reader. It assumes we already know something about loss, love, and hope, even if we rarely say it out loud. Berner simply places those truths on the page, like clean tools set out for the next season, and invites us to pick them up when we are ready.
There is a scientific term called attentional restoration, the idea that time spent noticing nature gently repairs a tired mind. This collection seems to understand that instinctively. Berner’s poems linger on frost, birds, kitchen rituals, aging bodies, and ordinary love, all grounded in close observation. The language is accessible, almost conversational, yet careful. Nothing is rushed. Even when the poems touch illness, grief, or mortality, they do so with restraint. There is no spectacle, only recognition. Haven’t we all stood at a window during bad weather and felt strangely exposed? Haven’t we all wondered when innocence quietly left the room?
An unconventional pleasure of this book is how often it makes the reader complicit. You find yourself remembering your own grandparents while reading about tools in a workshop, or recalling a childhood bicycle while standing beside one abandoned in the rain. Neuroscience tells us that memory is associative rather than linear, and Garden Tools leans into that truth. One poem unlocks another memory you did not expect to revisit. The effect is cumulative, not dramatic, but deeply persuasive.
The collection is structured around landscapes, love, and longing, though it never feels boxed in by those categories. Berner’s voice remains steady throughout, reflective without becoming abstract, emotional without asking for sympathy. He writes as someone attentive to time, particularly how it passes without asking permission. The recurring presence of gardens, weather, and daily rituals grounds the work in physical reality. This is poetry that believes meaning is earned through attention rather than revelation.
This book is for readers who are willing to sit with a poem instead of racing through it, for those who enjoy noticing how light changes over the course of a day or how a small kindness can linger longer than a grand gesture. It will resonate with adults who have lived long enough to carry memory and anticipation at the same time. It is probably not for readers looking for puzzles, formal experimentation, or sharp narrative twists. Nor is it aimed at those who want poetry to impress rather than to accompany.
What makes Garden Tools quietly effective is its trust in the reader. It assumes we already know something about loss, love, and hope, even if we rarely say it out loud. Berner simply places those truths on the page, like clean tools set out for the next season, and invites us to pick them up when we are ready.
December 9, 2025
The prolific and multi-genre author David Berner has a clear "message" to convey as he ventures into poetry with his first collection--pay attention--to everything: from the low buzz of nature as it surrounds you on a quiet morning or greets you in the sweeping waves of the Irish sea, to a the icy bite of frosted grass against your shoe on a March day, to the startling recall of a vet who sums up his life after seeing a war movie with a single sentence,"I can still smell the bodies." Open your senses to the sights and smells around you, open your memory to the clues it holds to the life you've led. Engage, appreciate, contemplate. Take the time, enjoy the wonder, don't let it all pass too quickly and unexamined. Don't age out of the robust experience that is yours for the taking. It's your life, don't miss what it offers as it speaks quietly as well as when it roars. Don't miss this remarkable collection. It will change you.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews