Best Gristmill Poems

Yesterday’s sweet corn
     now rests among the shucked,
          where norms’ victims lay.

Side-by-side in rusty silos,
     awaiting the gristmill;
          dull...

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Sometimes, I can hear that happy, bubbly brook
bouncing over stones and under the wheel…that giant wheel.
It would drone along groaning a wooden song;
each night luring the brassy sun ever toward a distant skyline
by soft chattering of cog on cog and mesmerizing clockwork. 

Other times I’m...

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Ah, the "daily grind" ...
          spin, spin, the big stone wheels,
                    the weighty rollers of life trundle...

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Whether the shadow of your face
Or the stripes of grace on the leaves
Whether the water and soil
In turmoil to sprout and  bloom out
Releasing the stress of the bones
Into the cones of the buds
All I collect
In the micro baskets

The moment I get a racket
And you...

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So, this  is where the sheaves were hauled
Where corn was husked, and seeds were hulled

So, this is where the meal was ground,
until the clock ran down

Round and round
a donkey bound
Asleep, awake.  By night and day
The millstone tossed the dust around

Vibrations trembled thick stone...

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I thought to write a poem on a gristmill.
First I googled it, having never really heard that term before.
The “grist” part had conjured up for me
images of grisly scenes like in a horror movie
in which all that remained of dead bodies
was the ghastly gristle of...

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My grandmother sure liked a good story,
so did her mother, and her mother Flori;
    who settled in New France,
    coming to take a chance.
These ancestors who built a wood gristmill,
down a rambling country road, still;
where a great turning wheel...

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Gladly, I greet the gristmill guard:
…..“God is good!”*

Governed am I by this goal in the granary:
…“Grind the golden grains gaily!”

Gallantly, I am gripped with grace-greatness:
…“Garner gems of generosity!”
 
Geared am I to grasp by grueling guaranty: 
…“Gird-up for next generation-grants!” 

Gazing at goodness-gleam, I glow...

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The Old Gristmill
(Not fit for the contest)


Way across the glen,
Many years gone passed
There lived a beauty of a woman
With her fine little lass

Her daughter was a charmer
And she could take me at will
To do a little grinding, 
At that wonderful old mill

Yes, those days seemed...

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Bright among the trees,  red walls
shelter sleeping machines. Silently, 
the mill watches over the spring.

Blue green water from deep secret caves
splashes down the mill race
but no longer turns turbines.

Dragonflies dart through the reeds.
Summer hums a drowsy tune.


June 6, 2018...

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A frigid landscape casts a bitter pall
over a barren nation of weary souls
imprisoned and laden under a regime
of hammer and sickle, numb and cold.

Regimented are the eyes of oppression  
unblinking, endlessly watching
scrutinizing, searching, ever searching
grinding down the will, receding hope.

The slow wheel of the...

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It was a strong wood-frame structure originally designed for a very special purpose. But in the early 60's, my father converted it into an entertainment hall and a little cafe for young people.  Though I never learned how to dance, one of the great...

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Down by the stream on the outskirts of town
stands the old gristmill who’s facing sundown.
The glory days bygone are but a dream,
on the outskirts of town, down by the stream.

‘Twas a shining star way back in the day
viewed by all as the town’s crowning bouquet,
and...

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Deep in the overgrown hollow of the woods
  the gristmill wheel still turns where memories once stood,
  splashing water lightly on each rung some worn and gone
  as it circles the breeze with creeks and aching yawns.
As long as the stream continues...

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