“Don’t worry he’d whisper its clean dirt”

Following Grandad down that grown-up path walk

Slipping on a fresh cow pat Grandad would whisper, don’t worry its clean dirt

Hold tightly onto the aluminum buckets wire handle

Make sure to keep it on an even keel

 

Not spilling a grain of wheat meal.

The meal mixed wither water from a close by spring well

Ground by Grandads hardened hands fed both chicken and pig.

On return the bucket was filled with turf to build the night fire

 

“Waste not want not” Grandads motto.

Grandad was a dab hand with an axe

Chopping just enough wood to burn until sleep time

What thoughts we cherish of time spent with Grandad

 

Never a cross word did he utter.

Life’s lessons learned in fields of gold, by glowing fire light

As we rambled through mushroom covered fields

He would never tire of questions asked.

 

Walking solitary bohereen’s, driving cows home for milking

We strolled and dreamed in silence.

Living in this artificial civilisation, in the sunset of our years

Remembering the perfect excellence of times long past and Grandad.

(c) Chris Black. October 2018

~The Poet’s Poet~

Hear a spoken word version @

#Poetry #SpokenWord #amwriting

 

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Night Rain

A serious piece of writing, do check it out. Reblogged on Today from the Man Shed.

Gospel Isosceles


“To imagine how the use of our resources deplete’s someone else’s — unless we develop that capacity personally and nationally, we all die. We must see connections or die. Justice is the ability to see connections and live by them.”

— James Carroll, A Terrible Beauty

The world is my prophet
turning my face to fix my gaze
upon the diaspora of my own cells
the promises that dissolve upon leaving the tongue
the prayers that never left
and the self-intoxication from their potency
and the starved faces for whom they were supposed to have medicated

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