Long Blacksmiths Poems
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Old Caleb Trotter had great plans for his town in Colorado.
For years he'd roamed the Rockies, finally finding his El Dorado!
He discovered glittering gold that would surely make him flush!
He founded Trotter's Gulch and soon there was a frenzied rush!
Cabins were built on plots that prospective miners selected.
Why, there was even a school and three churches were erected!
'Twas a bawdy place with the usual brawls and seedy saloons.
Soiled doves and gamblers invaded the town by platoons!
Time moved on and Caleb established a general store,
Figuring that the mining game wasn't for him anymore.
He made his fortune catering shovels, overalls and boots,
To hard-rock prospectors and other such galoots!
The population reached ten thousand and showed great potential.
It boasted a railroad station and other services essential.
It included three undertakers, five blacksmiths and ten preachers,
Four doctors, two newspapers and twelve well-respected teachers!
Alas, the pay dirt around Trotter's Gulch soon petered out.
The future of the town was left very much in doubt.
'Twas soon abandoned and another ghost town was born.
'Tis no longer on the map - it now lies desolate and forlorn!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
1860, is the date we start
Secession in question, this Slavery art
The Blue and the Grey about to differ
This growing giant about to shiver.
April 12th 1861, inevitably the fire of a gun
Fort Sumter in SC
Was the place in question it happened to be
And alls about to break loose you'll see.
Armies were gathered, families stretched
Leaving their farms, Militia etched
Joining up with strangers and friends
Soon to be on the devils rend.
Emancipation Lincolns thoughts
No more Slaves can be bought
To press this task so they can roam
The Blue and the Grey, at mouths they foam.
Robert E Lee pressed and surged
Until it came to Gettysburg
Pressed back and defeated here
The demise of the South i beg to fear.
The Battle Of Vicksburg
If you were there to tell
Was the Start of End of the Souths rebel
As Sherman marched on to the sea
Confirming the Feds would no longer be.
If you look at the names who fought and died
From various Countries and walks of life
Doctors, Blacksmiths and many a man
Did what was right, the best they can
They stood in lines as they marched a hoot
As they got so close the others would shoot
The pride and passion as they fell, mown down
From many a city, and many a town.
Its many years now, as we bow our heads
Look to the past, as we salute our dead
My America now, from actions to this
Freedom our cry, and happily bliss
My ancestors proud as they should be
Whether Blue or Grey
I thank thee.
Barmy blacksmiths, forging Fate
Smack-dab, smashed and working late
Stuck deep in and wrenching wrists
Tattered skin on itchy fists
Spewing salty starless space
Into eyes and all over face
The wall and put your best foot on
A boxy board housing Spawn
Groggy gauges, clicking close
To the time the Boss had chose
Feeling funny, one Smith exits
Others watch him through their slits
Lined looking, between blades
Hanging hazards, shovels and spades
Their brother's bowel blows and boils
As life's liquid bursts and soils
Clothes clamped, stammered sound
Shrieking lumps, lurching around
Weapons washed, in red and green
The first, and last, blacksmith seen.
Life, in its cruelest joke, gives us only enough time to discover ourselves,
we toil through the years of uncertainty, forging identities like soul blacksmiths,
sharpening our talents, enduring betrayals and broken hearts,
reaching the peak of self-possession only to be ready to depart.
This is the irony of life, where maturity comes hand in hand with obsolescence,
wisdom, that hard-earned prize, merely the prelude to irrelevance,
we master existence just in time to leave it, a bitter joke of time,
a brief rehearsal for an unscripted exit, without applause.
We gaze into the abyss of the inevitable, death, with eyes wide open to infinity,
living under the shadow of our own mortality, shadows dancing on the earth,
we crawl through the days of life with the burden of knowing our fate presses upon us,
the weight of the days is dreadful, a sad song in the cold wind.
We practice existence under the indifferent sky, between magical sunrises and sunsets,
like actors on the stage of a play whose end is already written in the stars,
each day, in this theater of time, we seek unseen meaning,
how to find essence when we are destined to be merely passing dreamers?
Perhaps in this journey, between dream and awakening, we find a hidden beauty,
perhaps in each step toward the abyss there is a dance of life and death,
a dance whose rhythm we cannot stop, a waltz of ephemeral eternity,
yet, in our fragility, in the awareness of the end, we find strength.
A strength to love, to create, to hope with intensity and passion,
even knowing that our story will end like any other story,
we live each chapter like a fire that lights up the dark night,
for between light and shadow there is always a beginning and an end.
Today April 06,2020 in my city
In the time of return home from my office
In GEC circle I am advised by a duty police to stay safe from nCoV-19
'To wear face mask and wash hands'
I was laughing at the advice with my inside mind
I do not know actually
If wearing mask and washing hands can save a life
Then no need to live with overall neat and clean body,
Then who will wash the most used and poisonous taka, every seat of buses
Then who will save thousands of homeless street beggars,
Then who will save the poor sweepers, blacksmiths, potters, burga farmers
those who live always with filthy dust, dustbin, rubbish, mud....
06.04.2020 (Chattogram City)
This is midnight, all slept indeed,
The factory bells do chime,
Ding-dong dong, thrice the sounds arise
From yonder darkling clime.
No one is there, two faint lamps glare,
Who rang the rusty bell?
It must be three, a shade does flee
In earshot of the knell.
Upon my eave the pigeons live,
One flutters tender wings,
It heard a whiz as soft as grease,
And to the wall it clings.
There is a grange, a mansion old,
Deserted since the yore,
Such creatures as with deep black fur,
Hold sway around its floor.
No iron melts on fire these days,
The blacksmiths all have left,
And all day long a thrush her song
Attunes to good effect.
She quavers in her leafy nest,
The pale shades pass again,
The rumbling sky does well deny
A sound sleep while she's lain.
Mine eyes are closed yet well awake,
The pattering distant rain
Revives the tendrils grown unsought,
An omen of the bane.
My windows smeared with mizzle mist,
That dreamy opaque layer,
Obtrudes my view with chilly dew,
A fancied world lays bare.
"Don't be afraid", a voice just said,
A whisper grim and grave,
As from a king or ancient sage,
Conquerer of the knave.
That moment my door shook its hinge,
Something had wrenched its knobs,
The bats beseech with a sudden screech,
And fill my home with sobs.
A pain of olden times deludes,
My grandsire died this day,
A tremor stirs after these years,
Benumbed and dozed I lay.
The dawn has worn her purple gown,
It's four, the chimes sojourn,
Her mellow light dissolves my night
Into a canny morn.
28th September, 2021
Written: November 06, 2023
___________________________________________
A swarm of herring gulls amassed
Nexus Nautilus nabbed by zealous winds,
whitening the black soil
we hold spears in our hands.
blood-stained thorns on the side
sullen squawks a skirmishing sporophyte,
dubious, grayish rumors must be buried
drave in a drizzle, drape to deities.
Installation of sentry fences
Sisyphean stones
anchor down using seal and string
flaws in the swings used by blacksmiths
Unborn burning bullion bludgeon
Savage sunless swords embryonic
Edgeless, with no reflections.
Each peak over the Edenic Steppes is sprayed,
using torn paper candles as bait
climbing scaffolds with lumber rungs
pounding of leather-heavy boots
darkened, grimacing features
Flocks failing feathers or flight.
Our hold slips on windswept
Windswept updrafts carry us away
as offspring of the royal family.
July 22, 2011
A sea of flowers and candles grew outside the Cathedral
- in total 15 tons
Solidarity, an unbreakable bond of care, democracy
Terrorist attack, 77 people died
grotesque images on the retina
Sound of gunshots and desperate screams
The killers ideology
referred to himself as "A Templar knight"
Artists Tobbe Malm and Tone Karlsrud
invite blacksmiths from all over the world
to forge roses in iron as a memorial
People acted spontaneously
Grief was wrought in iron
"The iron roses" ... the abyss sea
will always remind us of all those we lost
"Hidden in heaven, but never forgotten"