Long Miners Poems
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The land of my Fathers is where I belong,
Its valleys and hillsides all bursting with song.
The tale of 'Myfanwy' is often retold
And grown men shed tears as the sad facts unfold.
This haunting refrain from a Welsh male voice choir
Will cause even cynical hearts to admire.
Welsh daffodil woods put forced roses to shame,
Whilst Cambrian coastlines make others look lame.
A fearless red dragon fires mythical tales
Along with Saint David, the Patron of Wales.
And soulful Welsh poetry lives on with pride;
Its lyrical excellence can't be denied.
Like Bard, Dylan Thomas, Welsh spirits still fight
They 'do not go gentle into that good night'.
Old chapels still echo revivals of old
And heart-rending tales of brave miners unfold.
The land of my birth and my forefathers' rest
Provides a warm homeland for which I feel blessed.
02/09/18
'My country 'tis of thee' Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brahn Bailey
revised : 10/12/18 for the contest : 'Tribute to native culture poetry contest'
sponsored by Line Gauthier
I warned you about Mother telling her stories.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
I warned you about the magic
of golem and djinn,
about lilac walks
and mysterious circuses.
Stranded mice,
abandoned mice,
runaway mice,
unexceptional princesses,
all fodder for the worst sort of daydreaming.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Sisters telling stories in bird language
as they browse bookstores in Paris
and tapestries of tales
told by women who are unicorns
invite all sorts of imaginings,
nothing practical,
all frivolous flights of fancy.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Leave Avalon to lie in the mist,
allow the city of chains
to fall into the abyss,
let wolf-women run
through Rome’s seven hills alone.
Close your ears to Mother’s stories,
cover your eyes so you aren’t ensnared
by the magic of gesture.
Let the story end,
leave the queen encased in crystal
and the flower-maiden weeping
in underground halls;
don’t send the children out
to peek under toadstool and
fern forests for wee wicked folk.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Tell them no,
you’ll not hear the hoofbeats
as the horseman stalks the village,
rabbits don’t wear watches,
mermaids don’t dance,
fillies don’t fly.
Tell the children no,
abandoned princesses don’t wear crowns of stars,
maids don’t marry monsters
in return for a single rose,
they don’t marry the north wind,
they don’t spin dynasties
on outlawed spinning wheels.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
See what comes of Mother’s stories:
the children run wild through the wood
seeking musical menageries,
they wade into seaside caves
singing for selkies.
They ask for tales told
by orphaned princesses
hiding in palace gardens
and songs sung by shieldmaidens.
They want stories
of women made of glass
and sagas sung by lionesses,
princesses who save miners’ sons
and princesses who save themselves.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
No good will come of Mother’s stories,
I said,
and now all is topsy-turvy
and the children have run off
to the goblin market.
Black Diamond Night (a coal miner’s cemetery)
Where the ebony, we call “NIGHT”,
Old black rocks sit under the twilight
Diamond shape eyes unclear and lonely,
Sinister through hostile spirits only,
I stumble across these stones without a bone
A solitary confinement alone,
From a barren zone the light transcend
Only in time, our minds will mend
Endless valleys and limitless stones
These bones- these bones they sit alone
The abyss, of rotten cavities with no fill,
A system no power can unwell the drill
The blood that passed over without a spill
Peaks collapse into a spellbinding chill
They are trapped! They are trapped!
Another diamond in the rough
Is what they left
Obsessed with the dead without a death
A death that impatiently awaited their last breath
Gushing, into the gems of dead chemistry,
Diamonds holding its own intensity,
These lonely graves, on top of sycamore hill
Coal mining hearts that will never heal
If only shiny eyes could see?
These lonely bones inside of me!
Moving in every direction possible
Flowing in every direction noticeable
Sockets without eyes.
Stones hiding under the cobalt skies.
The mad sparkles, the madness dies.
Throughout this mess, we held in the blasphemous
Intervening lots of gems so miraculous
Into a stone of self-religion,
A black night filled of legions
Acknowledging the soul's capacity of free
Near the frail bones that sit alone,
Alone they sit in a morbid home.
Through a path unclear and all alone,
Troubled by the visions of my own stone
Where the night takes place in the dark
The ebony rides under the diamond bark
Along with the coal miners who never got to see the;
“Diamonds of another day!”
We will write
For every thousand ton of ore
There is a nugget,
And so we will write like miners,
Breathing the dust of our darkness,
Filling our veins and lungs
With the choke of our lives.
As words are milk to suckled piglets,
We write with starvation and hunger,
Hoping to balance inequities,
Satiate an endless thirst for peace.
Past lives will crash and updrafts of multitudes
Will be born and born again.
Christians in a hurricane of rain aimed at
the ruin of Roe v. Wade,
And we will write.
Our Lantern is Hope, Our Plea a Silent Sea
Of Restoration.
Through the mist of shallow ears, into
The Droning Deafness of Controversy
We will write.
Words that speak the language of Mind.
An Internal Braille that rolls over tongues
With the coarseness and taste of strife
Luring all gentler souls to a softer life
We write in story, prose and poem
It does not matter if our words are never heard
Or read
From the moment we give them birth,
They are dead.
We also know that death is not an end
The line continues beneath the water
The lure is at the tip
It baits a new beginning
Something will end - something will begin
And we will write
Me father was a collier, worked Harton off the coast
Though he rattled from the coal dust he was whiter than a ghost
But the one thing that reviled him in his God-forsaken post
Was the torment of the pit ponies who he'd love and trust the most.
Shetlands worked the low seams, Gallers the big pit
And they toiled in dust and danger in the darkness and the grit
Blinkered up between the limbers, heaving coal, tubs full of it
Were the brave young beasts of burden, all a-frothing at the bit.
And Blackie was a strong 'un, he'd been down since '34
But he earned the lads good bonus so they worked him more and more
Till the weight buckled his legs and he stumbled to the floor
And he just laid there a-panting, all a-choking in his craw.
Ah me Da would bring them sugar and share with them his bait,
Now his mind was torn with fury and his heart was filled with hate
So raging black with anger he made the butchers wait
And he vowed he'd take the pony back up with him in the crate
Then Da's no longer digging, they locked him up you see,
For misappropriating mineowners property,
But you cannot cage a conscience, he'd set the brave one free,
From the bittered, blackened hellhole that had been his slavery..
Now Blackie's in the meadow with horses by his side
When the miners bring their children down he takes them for a ride
And he passes by the pithead and the place he nearly died
And he brays a silent prayer for the others still inside
For the broken, bloodied ponies and the tears yet to be cried
There's torment in them ponies down the mine, Hear me well, lad
There's torment in them ponies down the mine, Hear me well, lad
There's torment in them ponies down the mine.
HEAR ME SING THIS IN CONCERT ON YOUTUBE: 'Louis Spence.Ballard of Blackie'
THANK YOU.
First night in his final place
My dad called me weeping
“Please Bobby bring me home.”
His skin like ice cream
Melting on handle bars
Plopped in his wheelchair
Square
In the center cone of an empty room
Plaster cracked
A single nail
Where a clock once hung like a moon
He said, “They won’t tell me what time it is.
I don’t know what time it is.”
I hung his hat on that abandoned fish hook
Bent to his knees
Took off his shoes and massaged his feet
Re-storing the bait of heat to his bones.
“It’s nearly midnight Dad.”
The best time to sit beside a lake
With a fire flirting on the lunar water
And Aristotle fishing with balled up bread.
My Dad, once a boy floating famously on his back
Away on Lake Gogebic
In an afternoon polished by copper miners
To now, a lifetime later of sailing a Butterfly boat
Through two-footers on Torch Lake
His worn hands joined with his boy’s creamy hands
To a rope slipped through a pulley
Tightening the sail against the northern wind
Creating more speed and angling the boat almost to its side
Flattened to the lake
Our bodies standing up
Face to face
To the white sheet pulled and taut
Over the nose and chin of the choppy waves.
Later that night and forever more
My cell phone chimes like a clock
Every quarter hour
Shaking on my nightstand
From Dad’s new land line.
Playground taunts have allways been.' A
Phase of growing up ( some really mean )
I never, ever' knew of police being called
To haul away ( either victim or bully ) any
Day.. into thrall; and incaserated' it seems way
Beyond the pall..Now lets take England as
A guide.? Well not today.. Oh woe and betide.' I reacall there were better years even decades, mental souveniers.? This a
Western Christian Nation, as many others
Run by Adults, once children from those
Playground years, whose encounters often made ( some lovers.) Of freedom of testing
Of making amends, maybe marrying the
Girls they'd called brats.' Yes there is a lot here my friends..They became politicans not my 'favorite ilk' yet not the type to lock
Up seniors..Who posted valid thoughts, not
Those who would lick an idle-loges toes or
Many other depravitys.' Of which I would rather not know.' Others made miners farmers grocers and cops, seamstresses
Cake makers, all sorta tough.' Who could
Balace prioritys defend in a war.' Standing
Together the ( greater good was no chore )
These people would rise to any challenge.'
And pull an enemy down.' And batter them
Senseless to be run out of their l borders with world reknown.' So they did with axis
Powers in 1945. Herin lies one lesson; for
eternity.'
Never willingly take a dive.'
A cat sniffs the crooked brown dough of the sullen moon;
The tempting smell of warm bread seems held by a glass sky
Old age, carefully steps on the glass, always ready to cry
Like they`d learn again to walk,holding an invisible balloon.
With glassy eyes looking at the strange baked moon,
The large dynasty of the unemployed and ex-miners,
Ecologists and readers of Bible, embarrassed beginners
Cannot "hear at a little distance", in the brown afternoon;
But a short-sighted misanthropist, observed while acting
As a conductor of the strike`s syncopation turned in syncope:
“Even the doctor with infinite awkwardness used his stethoscope;
I think, -because, no one can communicate only through feelings”
The brown cat in the street, shining eyes round about;
All cars seem gathered in the same frozen town;
The only birch tree from the hill was cut down;
Mourning neighbors live in their permanent doubt
To protest against solitude, and so many noisy cars;
And obviously, too many accidents in the town;
“Wait on the zebra…Don`t cross Mr. Brown!”
Lonely crowds, picture of still life with cellulars…
Seasons buried the face in tired brown fountains,
Long dirty brown drifts of snow and brown sensations
Step with ugly brown clay, and let traces for generations,
Because, cyanide used to pull gold from Red Mountains;
Everybody is in such a brown hurry towards nowhere.
Halt!Mr. Brown looks for his cat; the firemen help him to sit.
The cat climbed the moon, ready in a hurry to taste it;
Winter and cat stay with claws out;silence and the brown vault.
No doubt there are some folks who will scoff at the concept I propose,
But I think God chose courageous leaders when times of adversity arose.
He's done a pretty good job of selecting people who acted with determination,
To bring triumph out of chaos leading others to their ultimate salvation!
He selected Moses to lead His people out of bondage to the Promised Land.
Through many trials and tribulations they reached freedom under his command!
He chose a Babe to lead His Kingdom here on earth for the redemption of man.
Though He was rejected and was to die on The Cross, He rose to rule again!
Washington was named to break the bonds of tyranny that bound this nation.
He faced formidable obstacles - lesser men would have given up in frustration!
God wisely chose Lincoln who led a broken nation with wisdom and resolve.
Though facing untold challenges he persevered that a united nation might evolve!
That mighty oak, Roosevelt, led the nation to victory during World War Two.
God named him the leader and gave him the strength to see the battle through!
Surely God chose Martin Luther King to deliver his message of reconciliation,
To strive for the integration of all races and religions of this great nation!
Senor Luis Urzua, the hero of the Chilean mine disaster and highly respected boss,
With superb leadership reunited 33 miners with their families without a single loss!
To list all great leaders who by God's grace have emerged down through the ages,
Is certainly beyond my meager abilities but would fill tomes and tomes of pages!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Surrounded by the Bay of Conception
Bell Island anchored for miles perception
Deep deep under the mine that was drudged
Remnants of rail blind horses that tugged
Not the mainland but off Canada's shore
The iron ore mines that are no more
Deep in the ground of old Newfoundland
To far the ore that made it grand
No longer the mine that prosperity gave
But a wondrous long mysterious cave
The pumps are off the water it fills
Divers around go diving for thrills
With caution it's done for there is a list
Many dead miners it does exist
Even though the mine is gone
I've heard some divers have move on
Now some would say there is a ghost
It might be fearful scary to most
Maybe some spirit or even a fairy
This one could be an old Canterbury
None the less men will explore
That is how we got the ore
So once again you go down under
Miles of caves and all its wonder
Fulfill your quest a bucket list
Check it off and dive the mist
Follow the rope and stay the course
Find the shoe of the old black horse
Search you will with flipper and light
To plunder a relic you'll feel the smite
Of an old ghost miner with pick and shovel
He'll take it back that item you smuggle
So resist the urge to pillage and plunder
We can't get out from so far under
Take our tools you'll leave us bare
So put them down or else beware
Of the old ghost miners protecting this place
We once lived and ran life's race
We are no more to cross the Bay
Make the ferry at the end of the day