My Grandpa was a metal monger.
In his day his muscles bulged as he shod horses
or fixed wagon wheels
or forged plow shears.
His Oshkosh overalls were covered with the residue
of his trade
though they never seemed dirty.
Forge coals reflected in his steel grey eyes
through round metal rimmed glasses
pitted and grimed by tiny projectiles
launched by his forge hammer
ringing rhythmically on his anvil.
He had a quiet, in no way shy smile that tilted
his brushy grey mustache.
Leather hands somehow gentle to the grandson
but hard as the iron they forged.
essential Craftsman to the Community.
The artist reduced to element,
humanity in commerce,
a timeless ideal.
John Deck The Blacksmith.
Written in September 1976 when there were no blogs.