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The Tip

At the end
of the river's exhausted reach
where swamp firmed
into solid ground, there was a place
the locals used as a tip.
Broken, worn out stuff
from clean outs, hoarded 
household effects finally let go,
garage junk 
and the discarded leftovers 
from deceased estates
were dumped there.

The place was a goldmine for boys
on the hunt for soapbox wheels
and parts or anything 
that could be used to build 
wonders blueprinted
on raging minds. Pipes bent 
into chopper handlebars 
to lend lift to a boring bike, fit outs
for tree houses, defenses for forts,
the frames for boats and airplanes 
that were born in hope
but would never float or fly
beyond a backyard.
The thrill was in the making.

When the council closed the tip
and moved it miles away,
it was as if a vital organ
in the neighborhood soul had been
taken out. Boys were deprived 
of the lifeblood and source
of their making. For some time,
groups would ride their bikes there
and pause before an empty space
and stare. They had no words 
for their grief. Slowly, the hole 
healed over though something
inside had been lost. The bounty
that was once provided by the tip
was replaced by shiny things 
bought brand new from shops.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2024




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Date: 6/16/2024 7:14:00 PM
Nostalgia of the extraordinary sort from your talented pen, Paul. Pure enjoyment. Thanks, Gershon
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Paul Willason
Date: 6/17/2024 3:12:00 AM
So kind my dear Gershon...honored to receive such comments. Very much valued, cheers, Paul
Date: 6/16/2024 6:52:00 AM
I do remember going to the tip, Paul. One man's junk is another man's treasure. Such a clever idea for a poem. Cultural changes are so fascinating even the humble dump had its reason d'etre. Cheers, SuZ
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Paul Willason
Date: 6/17/2024 3:10:00 AM
It's amazing how these things become cemented in memory and take on such significance in revisting childhood. Making stuff was central to creative development me thinks. So good to hear from you Suzanne....take care, Paul
Date: 6/16/2024 3:50:00 AM
Haha Paul you took me back to the old tip days! I didn’t go as a girl but did as an adult and enjoyed finding treasures in the days when you could! I read your poem to my husband who isn’t into poetry and he related and enjoyed…..he did exactly the same….but he called your soapbox a hill trolley!! Another beauty! Debx
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Paul Willason
Date: 6/17/2024 3:05:00 AM
Thankyou Deb for your lovely comments...tip related stories are a common thread to growing up in those times. Taught us how to be creative and resourceful. Do hope the poem wasn't too much of a strain on your husband. Take care...
Date: 6/15/2024 5:40:00 PM
Dear Paul, you transported me back to that place at the river’s edge, where discarded treasures lay waiting for curious hands. You fueled my imagination which makes it a wonderful poem. - Blessings, My Friend, Daniel
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Paul Willason
Date: 6/17/2024 3:00:00 AM
Good to hear the poem stimulated the imagination Daniel. Many thanks for reading...your kindly words always a source of encouragement my friend.
Date: 6/15/2024 4:56:00 AM
...we called the "buckboards" found or "acquired" baby coach wheels, old 2x4's, a dubious steering mechanism controlled by a knotted rope....and we rode them down the hills of city streets into traffic and lived to tell the tales. My cousin also "found" a dog at the end of a rope...
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Paul Willason
Date: 6/17/2024 2:55:00 AM
Yours sound like indy cars compared to my sluggush specimens. We had no hills to launch down..propulsion was by some poor volunteer pushing from behind. But our bikes drew a gasp. Thanks for reading and sharing some common memories. Cheers my friend....
Date: 6/15/2024 3:26:00 AM
Shiny and new can never replace the old worn out gems that boys love to find on their own. "The thrill was in the making" and making those old things into something new. Well written, Paul. I've been out of town and out of touch, but hopefully back for a while, anyway.
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Paul Willason
Date: 6/17/2024 2:40:00 AM
Give me the old and worn any day...just look at us poets taking the old and making the ordinary into the new. We make an art of scrounging our own souls for gems. So lovely to hear from you my friend...

Book: Reflection on the Important Things