Rock Quarry Poem by Lamont Palmer (Lamont Palmer)

Fathers get stones for their gardens there,
near Marriotsville, where the peaks are demure.

The gradual vegetables spring to the front,
as the rocks are placed in wished-on gardens,

the primary colors of primary pride,
learned from a gruff, Virginia grandfather.

Durability surfaces in the many,
and in the many, you are blessed to have it.

At the bottom of beauty, lies a pit;
countless rocks harder than a plain man's life,

lay like colors, the earth's tough graffiti.
The dust of craven trucks crossing the roads,

cross the epopees, too, gravel in the belly,
off the red edge's gut, doused in its crimson

substance. It is evening; the workers are gone.
Surrounding depths may possess a knowledge,

but china clay does not know when a man is dead.
The rocks go on sitting, facing a precipice,

they go on reveling in cryptic rains;
cold quarry swimming, the start of memory.