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Post by patience on Sept 26, 2011 14:26:33 GMT -6
Poetry has never been my thing. I'd rather do prose anytime, and think I am better at it, for what that is worth. But this came to me when I was cleaning up some of my tools and realized how many of them had been my Grandad's, and also how much both the old man and his tools had inspired me.
The Carpenter
Now the saws are all rusty; The workshop is gone. The carpenter sleeps on the hillside, Yet his memory lives on.
His work still survives, All straight and still true. Solid examples For me and for you.
They show what it means About how to cheat Hell; That a job that's worth doing, Is worth doing well.
I pick up his plane And give it a stroke. A shaving curls out. It's sharp. I feel hope,
That when my day comes To sleep there beside him, My work will live on, Mute words to my kin
Life is given to all, For better or worse. How we live it's the thing, Our blessing, or curse.
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Post by Jerry D Young on Sept 26, 2011 17:42:51 GMT -6
Nice! I like it.
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Post by debralee on Aug 24, 2012 0:31:43 GMT -6
Nice loving tribute to the memory of your grandfather and his work.
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Post by rvm45 on Aug 24, 2012 12:17:44 GMT -6
That is a Fine Tribute to your Grandfather..... Assuming that it is biographical. Nothing wrong with Fictitious Poems..... .....rvm45
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Post by patience on Aug 28, 2012 19:17:32 GMT -6
Thanks to all. Yes, it is biographical; it is my Grandfather I talked about. He was born in 1884 and began as a carpenter with his Dad and brother. By the early 1900's, work was hard to find at home, so he, his brother and a cousin went to the state of Washington to work in a lumber camp. Took a steam train out there and helped cut some of the biggest trees in the US then. Said they had to braze 3 crosscut saws together (each about 6 1/2 feet long), end to end to cut some of the trees = about 16 feet diameter at the stump. He returned to Indiana within a year and made furniture here from about 1910 (with all hand powered tools then) until 1960. The first power in his shop was a "one-lung hit'n miss" engine that ran a lineshaft with flat belts to all the machinery. His shop was all electric long before he retired at about age 70. Since I was age 7, I've slept in the same maple 4 poster bed he made for me. He built the wood lathe that turned the posts with "cannonballs" at the top of each one. Got the chest of drawers, dresser, night table and chair to match. I'm not a poet, and have never written another one. This just came to me one morning early when I was cleaning up some of his old hand tools.
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Post by benjamindean on Jun 9, 2013 23:18:41 GMT -6
Nice poem!
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