Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Eastern Montana Badlands 1930s.... Coal where one found it, Scoria hills, Layered lignite Waiting near the surface. Burning lignite beds, Smoldering centuries old, Scarring and turning clay to scoria, Crumbling rock, Testimony to lightning fires Beneath the hills. Crude mines backed into cliffs, Pick and shoveled coal Free for the risky taking Heated homes. Coal caves, Low and gaping, Horizontal shafts. Wagons first, then Trucks backed in. Crowbars and picks Brought lignite ceilings Crashing in rotten shatters Mounding, sometimes burying Trucks below. My father told me How he helped Chris Ginther, Deaf coal miner, Hammer holes, Insert charges, Long fuses, trailing. Old Chris packing holes, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping... Lighting fuses, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping. My father said he'd yell "We need to go!" Old Chris Seemed never to hear, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping, Until finally... Sauntering out Before the rumbling Thump. I can see the two, Chris and my father, Just a boy, Lost in lignite clouds, Coughing.
0
Jan 28, 2022
Jan 28, 2022 at 9:21 AM UTC
Lignite
Eastern Montana Badlands 1930s.... Coal where one found it, Scoria hills, Layered lignite Waiting near the surface. Burning lignite beds, Smoldering centuries old, Scarring and turning clay to scoria, Crumbling rock, Testimony to lightning fires Beneath the hills. Crude mines backed into cliffs, Pick and shoveled coal Free for the risky taking Heated homes. Coal caves, Low and gaping, Horizontal shafts. Wagons first, then Trucks backed in. Crowbars and picks Brought lignite ceilings Crashing in rotten shatters Mounding, sometimes burying Trucks below. My father told me How he helped Chris Ginther, Deaf coal miner, Hammer holes, Insert charges, Long fuses, trailing. Old Chris packing holes, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping... Lighting fuses, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping. My father said he'd yell "We need to go!" Old Chris Seemed never to hear, Tamping, Tamping, Tamping, Until finally... Sauntering out Before the rumbling Thump. I can see the two, Chris and my father, Just a boy, Lost in lignite clouds, Coughing.
Funny how even 10 years gone, I can hear my father's voice.... He told us this story many times while we were growing up.
don-bouchard
Written by
66/M/American
Jan 28, 2022
Jan 28, 2022 at 9:21 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem