August 2017
Joe Cottonwood
joecottonwood@gmail.com
joecottonwood@gmail.com
I’ve worked in the building trades most of my life: carpenter, plumber, electrician. Also a writer all my life, published a bunch of books, never hit it big. Built my house under redwoods on a mountainside, raised a family, still living with the same woman these fifty years, play with the grandkids. That's a career and it continues yet. joecottonwood.com
Author's Note: About the poems: Too many about flowers. Too few about concrete. Here, an attempt at balance.
There is Magic in Concrete
Embrace shovels and sweat.
Measure. Dig. Measure.
Build forms with low-grade wood.
Measure. Check for level.
At some point it’s inevitable:
you are on your knees in mud,
your eyes to the earth,
your butt to the air.
Chop rebar
in a shower of sparks.
Learn the names: doughboy,
waler, pier cage, stirrup.
Weave, tie wire. Twist pliers.
You need a body of thunder and mist,
strong muscle, light touch.
Pour. No second chances now.
Wade in boots.
Shake the rocky depths,
vibrate. Voids not welcome.
Work the surface flat, in circles,
with the tool called a ‘float’
(because that’s what it does)
buoyant
on a gray puddle.
Hold the leading edge at a slight upward angle,
avoid plowing. Your fingertips
sense the mojo
of a sleeping wet bear
solid in mass yet grudgingly liquid
sort of bouncy
as you stroke.
Pebbles disappear, embedded.
Brush it for texture, or swipe it smooth,
a pretty coat
over guts of gravel and sand.
Now hose the mixer, shovels, tools,
hose your hands and boots.
As the water disappears, so shall you.
Honor the skilled arms,
the corded legs and vertebral backs,
honor the labor that shaped
this odd stone
sculpted, engineered,
implanted with bolts,
ignored, forgotten,
half-buried in dirt
bearing our lives.
Here’s to the Fragrance of Concrete
Here’s to the fragrance of concrete
as it cures
Yes, I said a fragrance
damp
yet oddly dusty
the scent of first raindrops
As you can smell an oncoming storm
here is the aroma
of pending permanence
the breath of a body exhaling its last,
its peaceful last
When the formative stage ends
another slow lifespan begins
anonymous, unloved
Inhale, savor the dignity of concrete,
the humility, the power,
the gray bouquet
There is Magic in Concrete
Embrace shovels and sweat.
Measure. Dig. Measure.
Build forms with low-grade wood.
Measure. Check for level.
At some point it’s inevitable:
you are on your knees in mud,
your eyes to the earth,
your butt to the air.
Chop rebar
in a shower of sparks.
Learn the names: doughboy,
waler, pier cage, stirrup.
Weave, tie wire. Twist pliers.
You need a body of thunder and mist,
strong muscle, light touch.
Pour. No second chances now.
Wade in boots.
Shake the rocky depths,
vibrate. Voids not welcome.
Work the surface flat, in circles,
with the tool called a ‘float’
(because that’s what it does)
buoyant
on a gray puddle.
Hold the leading edge at a slight upward angle,
avoid plowing. Your fingertips
sense the mojo
of a sleeping wet bear
solid in mass yet grudgingly liquid
sort of bouncy
as you stroke.
Pebbles disappear, embedded.
Brush it for texture, or swipe it smooth,
a pretty coat
over guts of gravel and sand.
Now hose the mixer, shovels, tools,
hose your hands and boots.
As the water disappears, so shall you.
Honor the skilled arms,
the corded legs and vertebral backs,
honor the labor that shaped
this odd stone
sculpted, engineered,
implanted with bolts,
ignored, forgotten,
half-buried in dirt
bearing our lives.
Here’s to the Fragrance of Concrete
Here’s to the fragrance of concrete
as it cures
Yes, I said a fragrance
damp
yet oddly dusty
the scent of first raindrops
As you can smell an oncoming storm
here is the aroma
of pending permanence
the breath of a body exhaling its last,
its peaceful last
When the formative stage ends
another slow lifespan begins
anonymous, unloved
Inhale, savor the dignity of concrete,
the humility, the power,
the gray bouquet
“There is Magic in Concrete” was first published in Indian River Review.
© 2017 Joe Cottonwood
© 2017 Joe Cottonwood
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