Gristmill Poems - Poems about Gristmill

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

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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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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...

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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 haunted by the gritty rasp of stone on stone and swirling...

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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 simple Now that I am looking back At how well she ground...

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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 victims killed most gruesomely, the parts of them ground up inside...

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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 to flow in its speed it spins fast and...

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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. ...

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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 thrills of my early life took place there when a...

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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 walls Humming sounds before the dawn, bemoaning hymns of tranquil breathing. The staff...

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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 with grandeur: …“Glare at greediness; guard against gloom!” Grieved am I with...

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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 so it’s written in the mill’s memoir way back in the...

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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 makes water spill. Once, I went to...

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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 gristmill turns burden of stone, its authority crushes the spirit. Who can...

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