Swinging The Sledge Poem by Jose' Antonio Orellana Artolozaga

Swinging the Sledge
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From eight to four
Beneath the glare of the sun
And turning wrenches
From four to twelve
Until the stare of the moon
There's more to be done
Under the gun
And no one complains
They take things in stride
For it is the way
Of most men and some women
Living and fixing
Fusing connecting and
Melding steel
Melting flowing aglow and
The stick burning glows
Fitters and welders
Plying their trade for thirty
Plus years day in and day out
Till finally one day
Someone says kid,
Its time to move on,
Make room for the young
Let the next batch take over.
So go the old and come new
Generations thinking the last
Should be put to rest
Without hesitation
Never thinking nor
Considering they too will
One day be told
To step aside for also their
Bones will too soon grow
Old and won't keep up the pace,
Creaking and folding
Beneath the indefatigable
Cadence, hours spinning
The cycle irrefutably
Demanding without remorse
Nor a touch of empathy but
Simply proclaiming the law
That says man worn old should be
Made to rest, wither and die

©2009 j.a.o.a.