A miner's lamp; a remembrance from the past; my grandfather's ghost; the knuckles of his hands spotted blue by tiny pieces of coal. Short of stature, long of stride ... pride in claustrophobic surroundings. Powder-black face, a bucket of bitters quenches repressed desires. Fifteen years of age ... how long can a lifetime be? The angel's voice echoes in spider-sized corridors ... alone ... Dreams turn into embers which ignite into a flame that, all too soon, withers and dies.
Roger,
I have read that a miner's life was very hard and unimaginable to those of us who pass our days in the light. This was very powerful and really, not only a tribute to your grandfather, but to those who shared his dangerous work.
Thank you for sharing this.
Leann
Reviewed by Sol Solinski (Reader)
Reviewed on April 11, 2007
I really don't care about your grandfather and your poetry is so god awful that Walt Whitman's ghost should cockslap you
Awesome write Roger...
I could feel every word
you wrote. That shows you
are a darn good writer!
I'll be reading more of you...
I also have a poem about my
grandfather..The Man I Never
Knew.. Check it out sometimes.
Again...awesome write here.
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A vivid picture from these lines. The last line is powerful; you capture the passion we have when we first conceive a dream. Hugs:)
Sheila
Denise
I have read that a miner's life was very hard and unimaginable to those of us who pass our days in the light. This was very powerful and really, not only a tribute to your grandfather, but to those who shared his dangerous work.
Thank you for sharing this.
Leann
Candida
~Nikki~
Leland
I could feel every word
you wrote. That shows you
are a darn good writer!
I'll be reading more of you...
I also have a poem about my
grandfather..The Man I Never
Knew.. Check it out sometimes.
Again...awesome write here.
~~Linda~~