Donald Carter ,The Old Feed Mill</head><body><center><center><img src=http://www.saviodsilva.com/p1.gif border=0 alt=Saviodsilva></center><hr color=3C00FF size=4><br><font size=4 face=arial><b><a href=37.htm>Donald Carter </a></b></font><br><center><img src=http://www.saviodsilva.net/poem/a/1.JPG border=0 alt=Poem></center><br><font size=3 face=arial><b>The Old Feed Mill</a></b></font></center><blockquote><blockquote><p align=left><font face=arial size=2><b>Near my grandfather's house there was a fine spot<br>where I often would go, to enjoy life a lot.<br>The tired old structure, stood on top of a hill,<br>a cavernous building, an ancient feed mill.<br>Grandpa Carter would call me, out of the house<br>and I would follow him up, to the mill like a mouse<br>He would wear his Oskosh, By Gosh overalls<br>And I would be dressed, in small coveralls.<br>On the way up the long, steep sloping hill,<br>He would give me a nickel, to spend on a thrill.<br>In the mill's front office, a cooler was filled with Niehi,<br>grape and orange soda, and candy to buy.<br>When we entered the door into that room,<br>the feed mill was covered, with a mysterious bloom.<br>There was dust in the air and sunbeams came down<br>the smell of ground feed, was found all around.<br>I watched the bags filling, with powdery feed,<br>grain had been ground from tons of rich seed.<br>The brawny men worked, with diligent skill,<br>stacking brown bags, with feed from the mill.<br>In the front office, old men sat around<br>a checkerboard table someone had found.<br>They would tell mighty tales, and suck on a pipe<br>take swigs from a jug, of moonshine just right<br>They talked and they argued, on through the day<br>about Washington policies, in a political way.<br>debated the laws, and hated Government when<br>it sent alcohol agents, and revenue men.<br>Beside the old men was a gleaming spittoon<br>filled with brown juice, spilling into the room.<br>An old yellow cat slept, on a pile of rags<br>her eyes were half open, for rats in the bags.<br>Hung on the walls of the mill were wondrous sights<br>of ladies in scanties, dressed ever so light.<br>Each year of the mill was on a calender pad<br>advertising those stores, where feeds could be had.<br>I loved that old mill above grandfather's place<br>each trip was adventure, a thrill I could face.<br>I learned about life, from those old men in the mill<br>long, long ago, in that place on the hill.<br>I am 68 years old and this old mill was one of my favorite places to vist when I was at my grandfather's house. Don</b></font></p></blockquote></blockquote><hr color=0000ca size=3><center><font size=2 face=arial><b><a href=http://www.isavo.net/poem/sk5.htm>This Poem's Index Page 1</a><br><a href=http://www.yensa.net/poem/sk5.htm>This Poem's Index 2</a><br><a href=http://www.isavo.com/poems.htm>Poetry Website</a><br><a href=http://www.saviodsilva.com>Saviodsilva</a><br><a href=http://www.isavo.com>Isavo Site</a></b></font></center><SCRIPT LANGUAGE=JavaScript SRC=http://www.saviodsilva.org/r/fantasy.js></SCRIPT></body></html>