Brandon/ny
New member
poets, craftsmen, painters, etc.,etc. The forum and community is full of amazing folks with amazing talents. I just posted a few examples, but I'd say everyone here are amazing people. It is not just the work they produce, humor they share or helpful advice on life. I see friends who may never meet helping out one another and caring. It is good to see and good to kow you people are out there.
Ed's poem, Brandy's fine craftsmanship, Donnie's gunning ganser, Vernon's amazing painting
There are strange things done in the name of fun
By the men who swing the coil
And they search for finds till they loose their minds
In the rocks and sand and soil
They must take their licks from the snakes and ticks
On the trail of bits of history
And we understand this type of man
But to most it is a mystery.
To the woods they head with a sense of dread
For the relics of the past
Where the skeeters whine and the chiggers dine
And a bark-chipper won't last
On the same path way as the Blue and Grey
As they struggled there and fell
For a US plate or a minnie ball
And the story they could tell.
On the water's edge stands the human dredge
With a water scoop in hand
And it's rings they seek that the water keeps
'Till they pluck them from the sand
Braving wind and surf till they're blue as smurfs
By the waters icey hand
Be it gold or rings it's a water thing
It's boring hunting land.
A silver dime in the tangled pines
Where a school house used to sit
Or a spanish reale that will make them squeal
And dance like idiots
For ground that might hold a coin that is old
Is the coin-mans promised land
And they dig for coins till they pull their groins
And blister knees and hands.
They love the dark of a lonely park
The midnight hunters lair
For no noisey talkers or slack-jawed gaukers
Will annoy them when they're there
Just the quiet of night and small flashlight
For the crowds are all in bed
It's the stars and moon and the silvers tune
Where the midnight hunters tread.
In the hills and streams is the stuff of dreams
That wonderous golden metal
Once the gold bug's bit they can never quit
For coins they can never settle
Be it bears or snakes or bones that ache
They will brave both the heat and the cold
For the zip-zip sound in the lonely ground
That means they have just found gold!
They haunt the bark of a childrens park
The men who seek for clad
But I must admit I would darn soon quit
For them zinc things drive me mad
But the clink of change though it may sound strange
Is the clad-mans siren song
But here's the deal I have to feel
They've been toke'ng off a bong.
There are strange things done in the name of fun
By the men who swing the coil
And they search for finds till they loose their minds
In the rocks and sand and soil
And the take their licks from the snakes and ticks
On the trail of bits of history
And we understand this kind of man
But to some it's just a mystery.
(Kinda like where did I come up with this?) DC
Ed's poem, Brandy's fine craftsmanship, Donnie's gunning ganser, Vernon's amazing painting
There are strange things done in the name of fun
By the men who swing the coil
And they search for finds till they loose their minds
In the rocks and sand and soil
They must take their licks from the snakes and ticks
On the trail of bits of history
And we understand this type of man
But to most it is a mystery.
To the woods they head with a sense of dread
For the relics of the past
Where the skeeters whine and the chiggers dine
And a bark-chipper won't last
On the same path way as the Blue and Grey
As they struggled there and fell
For a US plate or a minnie ball
And the story they could tell.
On the water's edge stands the human dredge
With a water scoop in hand
And it's rings they seek that the water keeps
'Till they pluck them from the sand
Braving wind and surf till they're blue as smurfs
By the waters icey hand
Be it gold or rings it's a water thing
It's boring hunting land.
A silver dime in the tangled pines
Where a school house used to sit
Or a spanish reale that will make them squeal
And dance like idiots
For ground that might hold a coin that is old
Is the coin-mans promised land
And they dig for coins till they pull their groins
And blister knees and hands.
They love the dark of a lonely park
The midnight hunters lair
For no noisey talkers or slack-jawed gaukers
Will annoy them when they're there
Just the quiet of night and small flashlight
For the crowds are all in bed
It's the stars and moon and the silvers tune
Where the midnight hunters tread.
In the hills and streams is the stuff of dreams
That wonderous golden metal
Once the gold bug's bit they can never quit
For coins they can never settle
Be it bears or snakes or bones that ache
They will brave both the heat and the cold
For the zip-zip sound in the lonely ground
That means they have just found gold!
They haunt the bark of a childrens park
The men who seek for clad
But I must admit I would darn soon quit
For them zinc things drive me mad
But the clink of change though it may sound strange
Is the clad-mans siren song
But here's the deal I have to feel
They've been toke'ng off a bong.
There are strange things done in the name of fun
By the men who swing the coil
And they search for finds till they loose their minds
In the rocks and sand and soil
And the take their licks from the snakes and ticks
On the trail of bits of history
And we understand this kind of man
But to some it's just a mystery.
(Kinda like where did I come up with this?) DC
