The mining villages of Wales
are steeped in history and tales
of sons and fathers, duty-bound
who earned a pittance underground.
For generations miners toiled
with picks and shovels, faces soiled.
Their throats parched dry and fingers raw,
black gold the aim, etched scars the score.
And mountains whisper tales of men
who failed to re-emerge again.
Or nevermore could breathe with ease;
Sad victims of black lung disease.
In valleys shaped by pride and grit
within the black and hostile pit,
black powder prowled and took its prey
but brotherhood did not give way.
11/11/18
'Black powder poetry contest' : Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Your Choice (3), sponsored by Brian Strand
All of the Gnomes from around the globe
Just sneezed their very last sneeze
They've had enough of this allergy stuff
And from the garden they're taking their leave
They packed up their bags, donned their bonnet's and caps
Left in the cover of night
Said goodbye to the trees along with the birds and the bees
And headed out for the big city life
No one had a clue from which wind the Gnomes blew
It was Wa-La they were suddenly there
From Bankers to Lawyers to Tele-marketer callers
They infiltrated every career
Soon they were drinking like fountains as the bills started mounting
With the pressures of the ride to the top
Pills became an everyday need to stay awake and fall asleep
Not sure when this madness will stop
On top of it all they started to cough from the smog
And wondered which one was the worst
The garden allergies or this black lung disease
Either way the Gnomes felt mankind's curse
So they turned in their suits and their ill gotten loot
And took a trip back to the suberbs
Now in the garden they smile cause they know all the while
Yes...it could be a lot worse
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