"metals" poems
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine
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You are like the rarest of metals,
found on Mars.
Bright green and deep purple
Like the most beautiful stars.
The boring affairs on planet Earth,
Left far behind.
Always moving our perception,
changing our states of mind.
Like all lovers,
we pretend the galaxy moves around us.
I'm Homerus and you be my Venus.
Loving you makes inspiration easy,
Maybe thats why i had to write something cheesy.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
I'm not sure how to wear self confidence
but I do know how many calories are in every food I consume
And my heart may be bottomless
but my make up seems to claim my entire room
And my mirror may be shattered with disgust and desperation
but at least my closets are full of Gucci, Prada, and Dior
And maybe I can be happy with lonely isolation
Gives me more time for the materials I adore
And you might as well chain me to my shopping bag
That are filled with platinum, silver, and gold
Cause I will make up for the soul I lack
With the plastics, metals, and materials cold
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
*Intimate surprises
spun
from thin air.
Precious metals
forged
to last an eternity.
Unwavering.
Uncompromising.
Unapologetically bold.
Unlike anything else.
The incomparable thrill
of one-of-a-kind.*
/ Alexandra Mor
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
The city spearheads the futures we sincerely sold,
As it pluckers your pennies and your coins of gold.
I felt poor amid the auras of their fearsome metals,
Cowering in the clothes of our daily struggles.
I am destitute enough
To bleach out the interests of my cards,
To shatter your savings for a disabled future,
To rummage the stock markets for apertures.
Yet within you exhales tentacles of the color Yellow.
Yellow as in,
The scattered stars that scorch the injured sky,
The mellowing voices of neon artificial lights,
The apex of fire alight in frostbitten nights,
And the yolk of hope my cheers rely.
So while you chase the sun
with your copper-clad hands,
remember but this:
all that glitters is not gold,
It’s the color Yellow in these eyes I behold.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk
Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish ----
Such queer moons we live with
Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting
The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small
Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,
Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.
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Its just a fantasy the only regret is permanence,
The life of a modern day gypsy, an unknown destination.
I wake up to new faces from past day's bruises,
A long journey into some town, exploring the unknown.
Green sanctum reflecting the temple top,
Woken up by the gong of the ancient metals.
Treated like a royal guest, offered a lot of the harvest,
Walking down the symmetric coconut grooves.
I see vessels carrying newest of the goods,
But here they still stick to their roots.
True its a gods own country, abundant beauty,
I'm lost amidst the hills sipping the Malabar coffee.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
You don't need the smoky colored quartz dangling in your hair,
Or the liquid rubies painted onto your soft lips,
Or the powdered gold dusted onto your eyelids to hide the look of pain.
You don't need the silver buttons strung up your shirt to make your aura seem pure,
Or the perfect pearls around your throat to tease and allure,
Or the obsidian skirt hugging your thighs to add the finishing touch.
You don't need the diamond blade to make you bleed imperial topaz onto your marble floor,
Or the laxatives made of howlites to cut your figure thin,
Or the breast implants made of danburites to make you seem attractive.
You are worth more than the emeralds that people compare your eyes to.
You are worth more than the sapphires that make up the water in your body.
And you are worth more than the taaffeites that compose the air you breath.
You are a perfect angel without the expensive things.
Just sing sweet lullabies of the truth and be yourself,
To ensure you live in a beautiful reality.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
probly a few minutes
and i was done
writing wasn't feeling the same
i stood on top like
bricks around disaster
i was looking up
i took my shoes off
threw them aside still laced
i wasn't being funny
i know where this is going
where i write
where i see cracks in perfect paths
where blood taste like metals of purity
with every year burning
where these flowers like to live
die on vines from inside
allowing ivy to climb my back
i am a length of fence
in a yard with no dog
on a gate without reason
sitting on a post during live events
i am a fool for giving into seasons
romancing everything like a poet
following every inch of broken glass
nodding to my friends that i'm willing to mend
but waiting for them to laugh
outlined with chalk on the sidewalk
where blood stains concrete my convictions
flowing from the curb to the overpass
in the night like candles floating water
under tree branches ready to crack
formatting clouds to sky write, come with me
a man in the park on his back
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
Around the table,
Literacy discussion turned elitist...
Bemoaning some poor Johnny,
Son of a plumber who does not read
Beyond the practical need,
And has no desire to.
I stopped to check my sense of what I had just heard...
Was transported to a prairie farm;
Thought of my Father, then in his eighties
Who felt no need and no sense of loss
For not having read Shakespeare nor Kant
For missing Milton's Paradises and Hemingway,
For by-passing Black Elk Speaks and C.S. Lewis.
Every morning, he read his Bible;
Some nights he read the mail's
Motley collection of literature:
Ads and politicians and fanatics,
Demanding money and his time,
But mostly money.
"I don't have time to read!"
He'd shout when I suggested a novel.
What literature he had was in his head,
Poems memorized when he was a boy
In a two room school, or
His own lines, written as a young man,
Describing work and friends
Long distant now, but still alive
In memory.
Dad taught me how to read
In different literacies and different texts:
Nuances of sky to read the weather -
What chill or storm or drought was on its way
("Storm's coming, boys! Let's get that hay!");
Cows and calves and bulls,
(Which one was sick or well, dry or bred);
Ways to diagnose mechanical ailments
("Start with the easiest options first");
Metals, to know which welding rod applied
("Aluminum sags, and cast iron cracks");
Grain, rolled crisp between hard hands,
(a test of ripeness);
Cement, to blend the perfect mix,
("Clean gravel/sand, no dirt, not too much water!);
Conservation,
("Always keep some grain on hand" &
"Keep your fuel above half-tank").
So many literacies...
Dad, the Master Reader of them all...
No wonder he'd no time for books.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 9:26 PM UTC
In a far off land,
with a prince who kissed my hand,
he gave me roses with black & white petals
and showed me how to steal priceless metals
he made me walk on a tightrope on the moon
and took me for a ride in his spaceship pontoon
and while I've no truth to what I've said,
I think I have more adventures while I'm in bed
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
This is the core of industries
It's crazy oh you see assemblies before ores fall in the streets but
It's all for you and me
A steampunk nation
Baby pollution rises up then the loving comes arraigning 'cause
Our art's official and only partially artificial
And our heart's in the middle of sharp hardened shards of metal but
There's not where it settles
Because it's beating to the steaming of God's hottest *** or kettle
And now we face it, this creation we made to
To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's
Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation
In our steampunk nation
Our steampunk nation
It's places having creation
But with black metal makings
And wordsmith's an occupation like phrase on paper's the way we say she's
Making our hearts start raving and baby maybe even raging for
For beaming metals and
Yeah steaming kettles, Meccas of our cyberstation Hades
And now we face it, this creation we made to
To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's
Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation
In our steampunk nation
Our steampunk nation
Oh how do we face it, this creation we made to
To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's
Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation
In a steampunk nation
A steampunk nation
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Partly darkened and part in light
A time when the stars and sun shared the sky
Bear witness to two behemoths wielding might
Impending clash foreseen to go awry
Two trains of thoughts charging from opposite ends
Each bearing their own solid ideals
Their flags that flew with conflicting brands
Convictions they carry on beaten, weary wheels
Almost an eternity, the time is soon
Seconds lasted before they finally would meet
Feeling of dread like the cloud covered moon
With war cries of whistles, they would greet
No possible way that they could miss
War waged in steeled wills and forged metals
Anticipate the moment, their couplings would kiss
Unleashing a barrage of predestined reprisals
Sheer destruction as they ate into each other
All in tow haphazardly derailed
A clash made of brute strength and power
A result of when decisiveness had failed
All was motionless save for the light of day
The two lay dead; spent currencies in coal
Fire and smoke had emerged from the fray
Signifying that the two have met their goal
Their cargo now freed, engaging in petty skirmish
Lunging and wrestling as they fought for dominance
Determination to overwhelm; never to languish
Jousting fists fueled by pent-up vengeance
Almost at end this long drawn battle
Much like a storm to be patiently ridden out
When the last of the debris should settle
Then would be lifted the dusty veil of doubt
The sun has now risen revealing the aftermath
Shedding light on the devastation incurred
Dark thoughts possess the most potent of wraths
But nothing could beat the muscle of the written word
Looking back I've realised the harm I've caused
Found great solace in the dark words I've governed
Life still hurls; it can never be paused
Just dust yourself off for you're better off enlightened
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
They call this a form of madness because you stepped into my void right out of my dreams where you reigned free in my subconscious waving like the good naval officer that you were returning home after a long mission wearing all-white linen none out of place crisp clean-cut shoulders padded with shiny metals head balancing the white hat that sat tall there like a good boy behaving in the church pew and all I feel is your radiant smile glowing out of you like a million little sunbursts swallowing me whole by the pier leaving behind nothing to prove I even existed.
Now, isn't that madness?
Shalini Nayar
25.11.14
(c) 2014
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
As poppies drip blood red petals
Among the fields where souls do roam
A silenced voice, away from home
Buried deep with twisted metals
Khaki men, are dead and rotting
As poppies drip blood red petals
Overgrown with rats and nettles
Men and women stood reflecting
A resting place to end the fight
In peaceful slumber they settle
As poppies drip blood red petals
Weathered cadavers all bleached white
Depressions fade, vista settles
Bodies and branches both stripped bare
Once passionate men, showed they care
As poppies drip blood red petals.
© 27/6/2012
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
Love rests his arm against mine.
Together, we make cinnamon sugar.
Mixing metals,
In the unity of silver and gold.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 1:17 PM UTC
Tough girl isn't afraid of much
Tough girl is strong
And brave
Tough girl has mastered the art of apathy
The science of not giving a ****
She is confident
And swift
Tough girl has trained herself not to care
Walks with confidence
Keeps her head up
She is a whirlwind of resilience
Withstanding each disaster
Every hurricane
She refuses to let the world break her down
Her skin
Is a combination of metals
Her smile, a shield
Bone made of iron
She is incapable of corrosion
Her heart always guarded
She is unbreakable
Knows how to put up a fight
And win
She doesn't give in
And no matter how hard people try
To bring her down
She doesn't let them get to her
But I
Am not her
Our resemblance is uncanny
And I have the ability to pretend
To fake a sense of pride long enough to believe it
A concoction of false courage
And intimidation
But she
Is not me
Tough girl is everything I have ever tried to be
Having spent hours practicing blank stares
And learning how to walk
Like the ground below you isn't breaking
Trying to breathe like there isn't a storm building within
Resistance is a skill I have spent forever trying to build
But I am not solid
I am not tough
I am softness that wears rough around the edges
A jacket built of barriers
With barbed wire skin
All of this protection
And I somehow still manage
To frequently break open
I am not a super hero
I can barely save myself
Let alone anyone else
And as much as I wish I was
I am not tough girl
As much as we look alike
As similar as we seem
I am not she
I care too much
Think too deeply
And love too passionately
But I'm starting to realize
That maybe
It's not such a bad thing
Maybe the girl
I've been trying to be all along
Is not as put together as she seems
Those who appear fine
Are often the ones coming apart at the seams
I may not be tough girl
But I can still make believe.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Metal bones dropped over another
clashing sounds across the night of smoky denials
in a city of thieves, paupers and scholars.
Worn down and without memory, someone's father
brushes off the dust of a young person's tombstone.
The oblivious student bends over information
into another alarm bell of insatiable chases.
Huddled in a street corner
like sprites of another dark jungle,
workers in uniform and hard hats share
stories and spare time as if nothing else matters
but this fading incomplete point in time.
Overhead looms the impending bright dangers
and dim warnings being built
From metals and soil into another giant promise
trying to excuse itself as it rips through
the city lungs, calmly abiding
and seeming always ready to die or live through.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 8:59 AM UTC
Precious Metals
She’s got steel-blue eyes and an iron will
A lead-foot when she’s driving
A silver tongue but she never lies,
Brassy bold when she’s conniving.
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.
She’s got a smile that turns me upside down,
Inside out and every which way
And I hope I’ll get to see that smile
Every morning, every new day.
When she laughs the world’s ecstatic
When she’s angry they look out,
Cause she’s precious metals all mixed up
And here’s what she’s about:
She’s got steel-blue eyes and an iron will
A lead-foot when she’s driving
A silver tongue but she never lies,
Brassy bold when she’s conniving.
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.
She’s got a dynamite body that’ll knock you out
Sometimes she says things without thinkin’
And she likes a good martini,
So she’s fun to take out drinkin’.
She sets her goals and standards high,
Not afraid to chase her dreams
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And this is how she seems:
She’s got steel-blue eyes and an iron will
A lead-foot when she’s driving
A silver tongue but she never lies,
Brassy bold when she’s conniving.
She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.
Yeah, She’s precious metals all mixed up
And I’ll love her till she’s old….
Cause the precious metal I love best
Is her heart made out of gold.
PwL 12/06
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
It's pretty and precious when you speak and spit those words of yours that are meaningless.
It's deep and thoughtful when you think you own the land that you were raised up on.
I think it's hilarious when shoes are compared to the price of bread.
Is it me that sees material being more worthy than food?
Brazilian weaves become ends meal and yet no meal is eaten at the end of the day.
Gold twisted to coins
And yet POVERTY is still a lifestyle.
The TRUTH being twisted into LIES.
Fast money reaching it's greatest peak
But in reality we know that slow money is more purer.
Our hands are filled with BLOOD
Our MINDS are locked in chains
Our wrists are slit with blades.
We are blinded by our stories
Covered by our problems
Scared of the truth.
We'd rather face the darkness than being caught in the light.
Because I heard that once you're caught in light
You're a "GOODY-TWO-SHOES".
We throw punchlines
But they bounce back
With lines that form a REBOUND.
Superficial, materialistic and cynical is what we define.
DREAMS burnt away
As if in a crucible where metals are melted and purified.
Our streets are blocked by ashes
Our senses are polluted with gas.
Yes, our MEN are filled with violence
And yet our WOMEN appear to be resentful and bitter!
But have you forgotten that BITTER was once SWEET
HATE was once LOVE
ENEMIES were once FRIENDS?
It's more simple when we reflect our backs on the mirror
'cause now it's not us that we face.
We running from the truth
Due to our fear of our roots.
Remember that God didn't create a coward
Neither did he create a sinner.
It's just the life that we face that trickles us down.
We pop bottles in funerals.
We take shots on horses 'cause we want a hell of a ride.
Our tongues twist what's true to false.
We have become slaves of our sins
So in denial, lost, confused and BRUTALLY tampered with.
We are set for LIBERATION,
INKULULEKO
FREEDOM.
We have misused our freedom.
Yes , we don't appear to be SINNERS,
We are sinners!!
But I prefer to be a RIGHTEOUS SINNER . . . .
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
Some get that way by playing it safe,
memorizing mantras, righteously abiding by rules,
some get there by cutting seams,
lost in purposelessness, partaking of
ether, marijuana, alcohol, or anything
that's buzzy enough,
some find their sweepstakes in curls,
in fantasies, on the internet, or in the aftermath,
some claim the spoils, some gracefully accept
determination, some divorce their wives,
some happily raise their pulse to the heavy metals,
some review albums and cut down the ********
some write love stories for our grandmas,
our moms,
our ex-girlfriends,
some find it in politics, right winging, left winging, chicken winging,
some in bomb threats,
some find it in supremacy,
others in melting pots,
some cheer up over breakroom chitty-chats,
some in **** ***
some in sympathizing with pedophiles trapped in iron lungs,
some when they have hit the bottom rung,
some by rationalizing,
boosting themselves above half-wrongs,
to coast on the half-rights,
some by breaking up,
some by declaring war,
only to get discouraged, yet proud of the scars,
some kids dance to experimental music,
some write blogs about capitalism,
some find it kicking it with bitter vegans,
others while murdering their parents,
but everyone is a winner,
everyone is right,
everyone has earned the paycheck,
the vacation,
the **** wife,
and the key to eternal life.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
Today we all gather to listen to the merits(?) of mining the Iron Range
Not for iron, but for copper and nickel and other precious metals.
Are these metals more precious than clean water?
Are these metals more precious than our pristine wilderness?
Are these metals a legacy of what is to become of our planet Earth?
We have taken the oil and turned it into plastic that cannot be broken down and turned back into nature.
We have burned the coal to perpetuate our desire for more and more comfort via air conditioning and heat.
We have polluted our atmosphere, melted our icebergs and glaciers
Destroyed our coral reefs
And now we want to risk the pure waters of our northern wilderness
Reaching out to Lake Superior, Hudson Bay, the Mighty Mississippi
And our entire planet.
Why not keep a tiny part of our planet clean so that our children can say-
Look, this is what we once had, this was Eden in our parents' time.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 8:53 AM UTC
*The man with green hair and green hands.
A long long time ago
When army’s wore uniforms.
We were khaki they were grey.
My grandfather was fire warden
In WW2 he had seven sons
And three daughters .
You could say he was
a bit of a pacifist.
Make love not war
Was his mantra.
He married my Grandma
when she was seventeen.
They were to stay married
for over sixty five years.
And produce tribe of ten children.
He had spent his whole life
Working as a coppersmith
For the same company.
His hair and hands tinted green
From the metals Verdigris.
My father was a baby just born
In the middle of the war.
We lived in Manchester.
Money was always tight.
But we were happy.
Just as Herr ****** invaded Poland
My grandad bought our first house.
We always rented until then.
It was a large town home.
The six older boys
All joined the marines
At the outbreak of the war.
They did one act of preparation
That ultimately saved the family.
They took down an old barn for a farmer
And used the beams to shore up the stone cellar
of the house.
When the air raids came later.
We would all huddle under the stair well
Until the all clear sirens sounded.
When the bad raid came
It was the early hours of the night.
Grandad was out on fire watch.
Six of the sons were on ships
In Europe and the far east.
My aunty told me much later.
When the war was long over.
She heard the bomb falling
It screamed as it fell.
Exploding just outside our house
the house caved in and they
were all buried under the rubble
in total darkness.
She said grandma was
breastfeeding the baby my dad.
Grandad was busy the raid was a hard one.
A friend said Frank your house has been hit
It’s bad.
He dropped everything and ran and ran
Breathless he reached the fallen house.
In his heart he thought we were all dead.
It took ten neighbors four hours to reach us.
They pulled the girls out first
Then the baby my dad.
And finally the dimutive figure of my grandma.
She was weeping.
She said Frank we’ve lost everything.
There’s nothing left.
He held her in his big arms
Tears flowing from the eyes of a man
Who had had a hard life.
Who never cried.
He kisses her full on her lips
A single sign of public affection
That was out of his character.
He whispered to grandma.
That odd Mary
Because I just found
Everything I ever wanted or needed.*
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches. You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.
The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation
A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.
my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found
In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.
eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend
his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.
upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.
A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.
Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
Around the table, literacy discussion
Turns elitist...
Bemoaning some poor Johnny,
Son of a plumber who does not read
Beyond the practical need,
And has no desire to.
I stop to check my sense of what I have just heard...
Am transported back to a prairie farm
And think of my Father, now in his eighties
Who still feels no need and no sense of loss
For not having read Shakespeare or Kant
For missing Milton's Paradises and Hemingway,
For by-passing Black Elk Speaks and C.S. Lewis.
Every morning, he reads his Bible;
Some nights he reads the mail's
Motley collection of literature:
Ads and politicians and fanatics,
Demanding money and his time,
But mostly money.
"I don't have time to read!"
He shouts, when I suggest a novel.
What literature he has is in his head,
Poems memorized when he was a boy
In a two room school, or
His own lines, written as a young man,
Describing work and friends
Long distant now, but still alive
In memory.
Dad taught me how to read
In different literacies and different texts:
Nuances of sky to read the weather -
What chill or storm or drought was on its way;
Cows and calves and bulls -
Which one was sick or well, dry or bred;
Equipment to diagnose mechanical ailments;
Metals to know which welding rod applied;
Grain, rolled crisp between his hands, a test of ripeness...
Cement to find the perfect mix,
So many literacies...
Dad, the Master Reader of them all...
No wonder he'd no time for books.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC