New Blocks on the Kid

Five years ago today, my friend Jennifer L. Knox double-dog-dared me to write a poem every day for the month of April about masonry, for National Poetry Writing Month, or NaPoWriMo.  This will be my fifth year of participating in NaPoWriMo.  It's tricky to come up with poems every day for a month, and especially so when they are all about a specific topic: masonry.  I beg the reader's indulgence while I try this again.

New Blocks on the Kid
March has left like a lion
April is on the lam
But soon I will be tryin'
To make the best blocks I can

I will because I must
I must because it's there
It's there because I trust
in warming of the air.

With warmth I'll mount the mold
upon the block machine
In with new, out with old
new block never seen.

With contempt we leave you, March
and hope for a new beginning
A new block to make an arch
and April will be winning

All the cold dark winter long
patents filed, mold was made
nothing should really go wrong
as winter too soon shall fade.

As the earth will soon awaken
and I make this new design
the doubts of winter are forsaken
This new block will align

And stack upon itself with ease
into an arch with lovely lines
with facility sure to please
questions in the mason's minds.

Thick as a brick

Bricks are arranged in a number of ways
which hearken one back to earlier days.

The patterns have names which masons are fond
of referring to as a certain “Bond.”

Herringbone, Rat-trap, English and Running
Stretcher and Basket, but Flemish is stunning.

A layer of brick is known as a “wythe”
How thick is a wall? Maybe three or five?

How thick is a brick? The wythes man was asked:
It depends on the brick, you stupid ass.

Life and death and life of a rock

Rocks and stones and sand and dust

rot and decay like wood into clay.

Sediment-forming dead sea heaps:

limestone shale slate and such.

Life makes rock like layer cakes

cooked and squished, twisted pretty

marble with balls of mica sprinkled

feldspar begets kaolin begins again.

When a mason works solo

The seventh bag of mortar seemed

easier than the first few until I stabbed

the tip of my crusty trowel into

the conspiring enemy of my lower back

with apparent rage that surprised me.

80 pounds and sounds of ripping dust

spilled into the barrow and water slaked

chopping the mud with a contempt filled

hoe but I know the worst part will be

cleaning up alone tired and bruised.

Tender, I wish I had a tender now.

A poem on arches

The curve of an arch tempts gravity

whose weight hangs in the air like

an extra dose of hubris hanging, sprung

by an intrados, saved by an extrados.

Unlikely still familiar: unstable stability

for thousands of years an obvious secret

clever enough to fool Galileo and others

smarter still, sublimely simple heavy waits

patiently for a fool like me to look twice.

Poetry and masonry

April is Poetry Month!  I have a friend who is an accomplished poet, Jennifer L. Knox.  Jen asked me (no: she double-dog-dared me) to write a poem about masonry every day this month.

Sorry folks, I'm no poet, but I won't back down from a double-dog-dare either.  I'll do my best to write a poem about masonry every day this month, and here's my first attempt.
-------------------

The ivory towers of the academy

are somebody’s busted knuckles.

Brick and mortar and mud and rocks

nice and smooth except for the

rough spots and the empty cans of beer

dumped inside the walls and the blood

that turns brick-red after a week,

but sweat doesn’t stain at all.