Mill Poems - Poems about Mill

grist for the mill

O pure hearts, never forget my words,
When you listen to this pretentious, you give him
grain to be milled,
When you look at this fool, you give him
Grist for the mill.

Thus is the world made, of morality of air and water,
What you think is like the warm wind,
What you say must be written very dear,
So that the

Cider Mill

Eating donuts until we are full.
We take our time, picking our haul.
Apple pie, jam, and cider.
We hear a cute barn cat purr.
We see farm animals too.
Goats climbing, like they do.
On this sunny, fall day.
On this bench, I wish to stay.
But we must go before the rain.
Holding my bag, the trip was not in vain.
At home,

MILL TOWN

In town of Holy Face, now Halez Fax 
Are rows of back-to-backs in terraces 
Between the mills that spill their thick black smoke.   
Industry now dominates hill and dale.     
Manufacture is master with muscle.
Sulphuric fumes poison the once green hills
Turning the trees to charcoal skeletons.

The peaceful sound of silence

John Stuart Mill

English philosopher John Stuart Mill
His social and political theories are practiced still.
Utilitarianism thinking today -
Is it always the most moral way?

Mill Wheel

The Mill Wheel is half-buried.
Did time submerge it or
did the weight of the wheel,
defy the burden of time?

A young child skips-by,
jumps over the stone wheel.
Tall grass parts for her heels,
waving in the breezy air.

The hub of heaven is there,
turning a gridding rock
into a light dance once more.

The Old Mill Is Gone

The streets are filled with crying men,
filling the gutters up with tears.
As we walk from our final shift,
that’s fed us for a hundred years.

Eleven hundred jobs vanished, 
like a leaf caught upon the wind.
And Canton North Carolina,
will never be the same again.

What’s in store for us tomorrow,
no one can ever really know.
When your faith is

Dont Sell Your Heirloom

They’re free to swallow it like bitter pill,
All take it as an interposing hill,
Already, the four do, as they stand still,
At their mum glaring; they could her just kill!

“You sell nothing, until I change my mind,
Though I doubt if I have change in my mind.
Anxious riches the sober casts behind;
A grave bond should noble children

Legislators Are the New Mill Owners

JUSTICE

They stare out at us unsmiling
from tintypes of the first photographs,
from the tea-colored pictures 
of thin, ragged immigrants, huddled 
in cold bare rooms in tenements,
children clinging, dazed and frightened, 
their paltry belongings tied in scarves.
They look out from pictures of dreary pioneers, 
in front of sod houses without windows,
from grim photos of old, weary children
working

The Cider Mill

I always knew the cider mill was across the road,
Down a little ways from Grandma's house.
This day, it must have been October;
The afternoon sun was shining hot; 
The side of the road was dusty.
A steady sound was chug-chugging through the air
On top of the sweet dusky smell of over-ripe apples.
I went to have a look.

The

Foundry and Mill

Larks are ascending funnels of sky,
songs smoke from enteral chimneys.
In an industrial park a fine Autumn light
burns bright.

Shoes fill with walkers,
we are out and praising
the clanking machinery,
for we are all leaves 
in the same furnace.

What we suppose
to be sleep and decline
is a wooded factory, a whittle and grind
gearing-up for an over-spilling,
a bundling color-filled season,
one that

The Mill Town House

Grandfather's house, knocked to the ground - to dust:
The windows wept when the bulldozer came
Timeworn and dirty and wheezing black smoke,
Just like the drab mills where grandfather moiled.

Children play in the intriguing debris
Where, once, children played on the garden path,
Where grandfather told stories of past things
And the children listened wide eyed, in awe.

The door remains

The Beating of the Mill

The beating of the Mill,
we hear it down the hill.
It is the town's heartbeat.
No children on the street
already in the shop
to labor till they drop.
Sold to the upper class;
the mother needs the brass.
The father on the beer;
not working since last year.
The bosses own their soul,
their houses, so they toll;
boy, sister, young as four
stay bailiff from

Mill

Supposed there is a
hint on how to live well
supposed I asked
a question
" What is the north? "
or " What does it mean
to be a philosopher? "
or " What do you mean by 
a tea or lipton? "
supposed someone said
he/she wants to dig deep
and understand when
and how these things
settled here
and if possible can he/she
form a group

Ye Olde Folks Mill

For Angie



The hallways rotated over and around me, maybe it was that aged smell of antiseptic affecting my equilibrium...
Trying to keep my feet, bracing the wall of the room she was assigned with my hand to gain my balance, I was overcome with 
hot vibrations 
of past voices, shrieking, pleading, crying out for lost loved

At the Old Grist Mill

Water rises in damp clouds above the falls
Red from the old grist mill reflecting through
The backlighting sunshine causing ethereal
Rainbow-like patterns in the mistiness, while
I watch the gigantic wheel fling cold water
Downstream where it plunges into the murk,
Creating a deep hole not suitable for diving
And too dangerous for children to swim in, so,
I slip my bare

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