Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Poetry: Man of Brass

So I entered this poem in a poetry contest.  I did not win, but, hey, them's the breaks.  I never met my grandfather, but this poem is about him in a way.

Man of Brass

The brass is cooled.  The forge is cracked.
The mill is silent in the day.
The shop is closed.  The dog is caged.
The church is sold for bills to pay.

His hands are weak.  His face is wan.
His family fingers colored beads.
His eyes are wild, His muscles worn.
His morphine drips; the pain recedes.

The dream is dark.  The sun is dead.
The moon is greedy with its light.
The cloud is dense.  The race is done.
The goblins rule the land of night.

If brass was worked, if brass was wrought,
If mill-men lit the forge anew,
Then dark would wane, and light would gain,
And Mill-Man would himself renew.

Then brass would sing, and pistons ring,
And working men would lift their voice.
If song took wing, then everything
Would always follow Mill-Man's choice.

But strength is spent, and dreams are rent
By mental metal scored with rills.
The craft was bent, without consent,
By other men in other mills.

The forges fell.  The church's bell
Is rung, and Mill-Man's son ensures
The papers tell he lived life well.
Mill-Man is dead, but brass endures.

I'm going to try some non-rhyming poetry in the near future.  I want to get the words to come alive on the page.  Maybe I'm trying too hard to rhyme?

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