The Last Downsize by Tectak

[Leanne]

Here once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags,
the sulphur-stained tubers safely packed in desiccated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring. Some died, of course.
That was years ago; I left the knife, the grubby duster, the remnants of the year
upon the slatted bench. An ashtray, too, longer ago than I thought,
now topped up with wood chips; I can just recall the last vexatious turning
on my squeaking lathe. A source of pride, a single table leg; never again.

We will leave this place soon. Leave behind the tins and pots and poison jars,
the stiffened bristle brushes, kept in hope of rebirth and suppleness. Me too.
The chisels hang forlorn and yet still keen, never blunted by their purpose
in my time, but sharpened every year, or so I tell myself.
It’s hard to say goodbye to friends like these. Solid, unchanged, ready for their task.
Like so many well remembered, but not seen for year on year, and yet
they will be missed. I cannot see that I will need them now; I once could.

What has changed: them or me? It seems that waste is not the crime it was.
Out go the rusting nails, the slot-top screws: if only the cross-heads had not come along
this ethnic mix would, perhaps, be saved. No. It is time to go. There is always a time.
They rattle through the heap of broken canes, paint-stained cans, evil bottles, metal tube,
corroded iron, broken trowels, a million plastic pots ( I always kept just one or two)
and then silence. I am suddenly transfixed. This edifice before me is my life.
Or strangely, I say inside, my old life. A broken-glass picture tumbles down; my last dog.


The original post with comments is here

[tectak]

Here once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags,
the sulphur-stained tubers safely packed in desiccated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring. Some died, of course.
That was years ago; I left the knife, the grubby duster, the remnants of the year
upon the slatted bench. An ashtray, too, longer ago than I thought,
now topped up with wood chips; I can just recall the last vexatious turning
on my squeaking lathe. A source of pride, a single table leg; never again.

We will leave this place soon. Leave behind the tins and pots and poison jars,
the stiffened bristle brushes, kept in hope of rebirth and suppleness. Me too.
The chisels hang forlorn and yet still keen, never blunted by their purpose
in my time, but sharpened every year, or so I tell myself.
It’s hard to say goodbye to friends like these. Solid, unchanged, ready for their task.
Like so many well remembered, but not seen for year on year, and yet
they will be missed. I cannot see that I will need them now; I once could.

What has changed: them or me? It seems that waste is not the crime it was.
Out go the rusting nails, the slot-top screws: if only the cross-heads had not come along
this ethnic mix would, perhaps, be saved. No. It is time to go. There is always a time.
They rattle through the heap of broken canes, paint-stained cans, evil bottles, metal tube,
corroded iron, broken trowels, a million plastic pots ( I always kept just one or two)
and then silence. I am suddenly transfixed. This edifice before me is my life.
Or strangely, I say inside, my old life. A broken-glass picture tumbles down; my last dog.


The original post with comments is here

Thanks all. I am honoured...I think

[Leanne]

You bloody well should be

[Erthona]

It's not that he doesn't think he should feel honored by this, he just doesn't know how. A satiric life tends to be limiting in that way

Congranualations Tom



Dale

[Leanne]

It's a great poem, deserving of a spotlight.

[popeye]

Thanks for sharing a most well written piece of nostalgia tec tak!

[tectak]

Thanks for sharing a most well written piece of nostalgia tec tak!

Got any slot heads left?

Best and thanks,
tectak

[billy]

nice one you ole chiseller

great choice Leanne.

[just mercedes]

I enjoyed this very much - the focus on the 'things' a great way to tell the story.

[Keith]

Many thanks Leanne for posting I had missed this first time round.

Tectak, I can add this to the films that made me cry. Thanks TOMH

[ChristopherSea]

Reading all spotlights tectak. Finally cleaned out the garage, tool shop and potting shed, eh? This piece cries out to the gadener in me and how one day I won't be able to keep up with my acre of gardens and will down size to an old fart condo. That last line choked me up and gave me goose bumps... Well done Tom, you are one sharp tool!

[Bemh]

What an amazing poem. Thanks for the spotlight!

[beaufort]

Great choice, great work.

[tectak]

Great choice, great work.

Thanks all. I am still here.
Best,
tectak

[milo]

Great choice, great work.

Thanks all. I am still here.
Best,
tectak

I remember tom, this is a fitting memorial.

de mortuis nils nisi bonum

[tectak]

Great choice, great work.

Thanks all. I am still here.
Best,
tectak

I remember tom, this is a fitting memorial.

de mortuis nils nisi bonum

I AM STILL STILL HERE!
Tectak

[billy]

stop it tom, your bloomers are showing

[bena]

stop it tom, your bloomers are showing

Billy, you made me laugh, as usual.

Tom---this is a fantastic piece. I'm glad someone dug it up. (snickers)

So sad, yet so poignant.

love ya,
mel.

[LorettaYoung]

Here once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags,
the sulphur-stained tubers safely packed in desiccated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring. Some died, of course.
That was years ago; I left the knife, the grubby duster, the remnants of the year
upon the slatted bench. An ashtray, too, longer ago than I thought,
now topped up with wood chips; I can just recall the last vexatious turning
on my squeaking lathe. A source of pride, a single table leg; never again.

We will leave this place soon. Leave behind the tins and pots and poison jars,
the stiffened bristle brushes, kept in hope of rebirth and suppleness. Me too.
The chisels hang forlorn and yet still keen, never blunted by their purpose
in my time, but sharpened every year, or so I tell myself.
It’s hard to say goodbye to friends like these. Solid, unchanged, ready for their task.
Like so many well remembered, but not seen for year on year, and yet
they will be missed. I cannot see that I will need them now; I once could.

What has changed: them or me? It seems that waste is not the crime it was.
Out go the rusting nails, the slot-top screws: if only the cross-heads had not come along
this ethnic mix would, perhaps, be saved. No. It is time to go. There is always a time.
They rattle through the heap of broken canes, paint-stained cans, evil bottles, metal tube,
corroded iron, broken trowels, a million plastic pots ( I always kept just one or two)
and then silence. I am suddenly transfixed. This edifice before me is my life.
Or strangely, I say inside, my old life. A broken-glass picture tumbles down; my last dog.


The original post with comments is here

Thanks all. I am honoured...I think

---

It seems that life is a series of change; almost circular; like history, and the earth. It's a beautiful poem, I see in it the suggestions you have given me, and I see it's poetic force almost as language. Great poem. Loretta

[ellajam]

I haven't read this one in a while, it's still got it, good pick, Leanne.