Selected Poems
The casting
Two or three times during my lifetime
our family has gathered for the casting.
During my first casting, after months of requests
on an overcast afternoon end of vacation day,
Grandfather banged about the shed. The 3 beam tri-pod,
hanging bell and spill pot were assembled and set up.
He lit a double propane burner, with a pop, was soon
hot as Hell and roared loud, from a corner of the yard.
Each set prepared upon request. The smaller spilling
bucket was gripped with long stem interlocking tongs.
Pourer steady, wore thick padded gloves and apron, slowly
respected the fire. Sweat and metal pooled, ready in tiny pots.
Metal ingots and rods melted into shiny liquid and spilt out
the tip spout and into wooden handled double waffle molds.
Molds laid on stones, spread around, beyond the cement
throughout the yard. Everything was done in steps of two.
We poured growing scales of tear drop sinkers and biscuit weights for
fishing lines and crab traps. Even bullets and arrow heads made the cut
Cleaned by file when cooled, a full set was a sight to behold
shiny silver. Each would have to last, until the next casting.
This next end of summer will be my last casting.
I have no sinker set and I was never a fisherman.
My father returns his cared for full set, a re-melting hand me down.
My cousin will bring out the bequeathed equipment and set it up.
My father and I will sit in the sunset, be a part, pour and have a pint.
our family has gathered for the casting.
During my first casting, after months of requests
on an overcast afternoon end of vacation day,
Grandfather banged about the shed. The 3 beam tri-pod,
hanging bell and spill pot were assembled and set up.
He lit a double propane burner, with a pop, was soon
hot as Hell and roared loud, from a corner of the yard.
Each set prepared upon request. The smaller spilling
bucket was gripped with long stem interlocking tongs.
Pourer steady, wore thick padded gloves and apron, slowly
respected the fire. Sweat and metal pooled, ready in tiny pots.
Metal ingots and rods melted into shiny liquid and spilt out
the tip spout and into wooden handled double waffle molds.
Molds laid on stones, spread around, beyond the cement
throughout the yard. Everything was done in steps of two.
We poured growing scales of tear drop sinkers and biscuit weights for
fishing lines and crab traps. Even bullets and arrow heads made the cut
Cleaned by file when cooled, a full set was a sight to behold
shiny silver. Each would have to last, until the next casting.
This next end of summer will be my last casting.
I have no sinker set and I was never a fisherman.
My father returns his cared for full set, a re-melting hand me down.
My cousin will bring out the bequeathed equipment and set it up.
My father and I will sit in the sunset, be a part, pour and have a pint.
