Gristmill Poems - Poems about Gristmill

The Gristmill, Life

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

The Gristmill

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

The Gristmill

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 gladly connect with me 
The game starts with thrill
Smilingly cooperates

Yesterday's Gristmill

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

The Old Gristmill

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

I Thought To Write a Poem On a Gristmill

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

The Gristmill Wheel

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

Headed For the Gristmill

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.
  

The Gristmill-F

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 thrills of my early life took place there when a

Gristmill

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

Gristmill Grand Guides

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

The Old Gristmill

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

Stories of the Gristmill

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 makes water spill.
    Once, I went to

The Gristmill

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

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