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
Categories:
gristmill, nature, summer,
Form: Free verse
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 haunted by the gritty rasp of stone on stone
and swirling tendrils of fine dust doing a serpentine dance
through heavy air, reaching like so many ghoulish fingers
grasping desperately before dissolving;
coating my memories and that dusty wood-planked floor.
Yesterday I yearned for simpler times when
I would lazily strum my second-hand guitar
from a mossy log in the shade of our old gristmill.
Plucking those plaintive songs of young heartache
or gleefully accompanying cardinals in a nearby thicket.
But today all that remains is corporate.
Steel rollers chain driven by diesel motors.
A dried up creek bed cutting an over-burdened field
of chemical pesticides and fertilizers to grow
everything but food for my soul.
6/3/2018
Written for The Gristmill Poetry Contest
Hosted by Craig Cornish
Categories:
gristmill, environment, memory, music, nature,
Form: Free verse
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 simple
Now that I am looking back
At how well she ground my corn
And the way she held my sack
Times have really changed though
I buy cornmeal in a bag
And the girl from the Gristmill
Is now a mean old hag
Yes, those days seemed simple
Now that I am looking back
At how well she ground my corn
And the way she held my sack
Times have really changed though
I buy cornmeal in a bag
And the girl from the Gristmill
Is now a mean old hag
Categories:
gristmill, first love, humor, humorous,
Form: Lyric
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 victims killed most gruesomely,
the parts of them ground up inside a mill!
But no, a gristmill is nothing so sinister as that!
“Grist” is just another word for grain (the grain for grinding into flour).
A gristmill, therefore, is the name for the machine or for the building
where the gristing is performed!
Strange that I’d only heard it in my region called a mill.
If the word “mill” denotes the place for the grinding,
isn’t it redunant to add a word
which also is as repugnant as the word “grist” seems to be?
Or maybe it’s only I that find the word so ugly -
ugly like the words gargle, gagging, maggots or mucus.
Funny to think that since my ancestors likely worked in gristmills,
my maiden name might have been “Gristmiller” and not Miller.
I thought to write a poem on a gristmill, but ended up with this!
June 2, 2018 for The Gristmill Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
Categories:
gristmill, words,
Form: Free verse
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 to flow in its speed
it spins fast and slow dependent on the water feed
and rains may fall occasionally on demand
to restore hidden ledgers and scales of time stands.
No one stirs, no hidden shadows still walk or can be seen,
times have changed and distant factories now glean
the corn, the rye, the wheat from the outstretched fields,
gold glittered shades yellow silk, maize crushed quietly to yield.
Narragansett White Flint Corn husked and dried now snooze
no longer freed to the damsel as it shook down to the shoes
now the chaff is separate, screened and sifted
but it is only a historic memory lifted,
savored by few who recall the old days finds
with dreams and images recalling simpler times,
spin and turn the gristmill wheel of days long passed
like the revolving earth on which these human lives are cast.
Categories:
gristmill, perspective, time,
Form: Rhyme
Yesterday’s sweet corn
now rests among the shucked,
where norms’ victims lay.
Side-by-side in rusty silos,
awaiting the gristmill;
dull substance feeds the masses.
Look at us, Mr. Kipling.
What became of “The Man Who Would Be King”?
Laugh at us.
Anesthetized aspirations
embalmed by mediocrity,
hacks without hopes rest in a garden of low expectations.
Individuality sacrificed,
we are the dull fruit
carried in coffins created by conformity.
What is left to feed the next generation,
but the seeds of monotony
without a kernel of creativity?
*May 26, 2018
Categories:
gristmill, angst, metaphor,
Form: Lyric
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 walls
Humming sounds before the dawn,
bemoaning hymns of tranquil breathing.
The staff of life was there for reaping
until winds hushed this quiet song
No stone could grind the past away
The heart of life kept beating on,...
until the clock ran down
__________________________________________________
5/25/18
Contest: The Gristmill
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Categories:
gristmill, history, nostalgia, places,
Form: Free verse
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 with grandeur:
…“Glare at greediness; guard against gloom!”
Grieved am I with grimes of guile:
…“Get away from gruesome graft!”
Gradually, I go for growth as glorious gristmill:
…“Gain from glamor-gleanings!”
Gently, I grab gear-ups and give up garbage:
…“Goodbye grumblings and grudges!”
*Psalm 73:1 Truly God is good ... even to such as are of a clean heart.
May 25, 2018
VOGON: FRUITY DELIGHT
Fulfillingest cravingous plight
Festivenest midst colorouss bright
Filledest with nutrientsous delight
Fruitserest along sweetous blendouss aright
Flavoredest by creamous and cheesyous bite
Funfullest treatous of healthyous height!
Categories:
gristmill, blessing, character, devotion, encouraging,
Form: Alliteration
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 so it’s written in the mill’s memoir
way back in the day ‘twas a shining star.
Today a dull grey, surrounded by weeds,
this once majestic mill has many needs
to bring her to life and save from decay,
surrounded by weeds, today a dull grey.
Her wheel no longer turns, rotted by age;
the roof is sagging as time turns it’s page.
To return to glory her yearning burns;
rotted by age, her wheel no longer turns.
The greatness is gone with passage of time,
just like an old man who’s way past his prime.
Only mem’ries remain, the future’s drawn;
with passage of time, the greatness is gone.
May24, 2018
Contest: The Gristmill
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Categories:
gristmill, nostalgia, old, sad,
Form: Rhyme
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 gristmill turns
burden of stone, its authority crushes
the spirit. Who can break this
massive millstone, treading over
the tormented masses?
A desperate angst arises to rid the
wretched bile that contaminates the land
strike down the carnivorous bear
and with sheer will and determination
break the terrible gristmill of tyranny.
Written on 5/22/2018
Categories:
gristmill, change, freedom, political,
Form: Free verse