~ I come from a line of men
made from steel,
by placing girders
seemingly,
as if up literally ~
in the land of the clouds
earning them the nickname,
“cowboys of the skies”
better known as
~ iron-workers
who as a gang of brothers
“The Hamilton’s”
with many relatives
helped to construct
and connect through iron
the city of Detroit
like the Fisher building
and GM building
now Cadillac Place
and too ~
the Ford River Rouge plant
in Dearborn
then on to ~
the bridge of Zilwaukee
and way,
way up to ~
“The Mighty Mac”
leaving a legacy as a family
not unlike other families
that partook in erecting
the main structures
of the Great Lakes state
called Michigan ~
~ these were Scottish boys
built stout with the genes
of ancestors,
similar to Daniel Boone
and Davy Crocket
who had migrated in 1729
from the lowlands of Scotland
which inherently gave them
strength
and courage
along with the ability
to be
mentally,
strong willed
that would be ~
tested,
again and again
while being
bodily cast in the fires
of sweat and intense labor
making them feel as if
a hard week’s work ended
with a meal of steak
and potatoes
as the mark of success
in America
for a job well done ~
~ loyalty and trust
was their code of honor
with family and workmates
as well as never taking
what was not yours
too ~
without hesitation
lend a kind hand
to your neighbor in need
but never,
never
infringe upon
another’s freedom
as was expected
in return from others ~
such character traits
no matter by some
thought to be good or bad
is what flows
within my veins
and what adds flavor
to my words ~
for these were not only
men having ideals
built with brawn
they were thinkers,
molded around
the Scot-Irish,
Presbyterian ideology
brought by their father
as a boy to Michigan
from Pennsylvania
~ wherein believing
wholeheartedly
in the intelligent process
of learning ~
as to the common man
even if considered,
the everyday kind of sort
“the people,”
should be firmly educated
in the current thoughts
of the day ~
~ nor neither
were they
all work and no play
for instance,
my grandpa could strum
a tune by ear of course
on any instrument
having strings
especially, the fiddle
along with the harmonica
in a neck brace
together,
at the same time
only to break
their harmony
to amuse ~
by doing a solo
with the mouth organ
or “Moothie “
using only his nose
all done intentionally
to entice his listeners
into singing the song,
“Old Shep,”
after he started
to mouth the words,
“When I was a lad
and old Shep was a pup”
~ just for the fun it
as he played his fiddle
similar to the past tradition
of his brethren
whose type of music
overflowed
the mountain-tops
along the Appalachia
of which became
as some say,
the forerunner of
yes of today’s,
Country Music ~
~ and yet ~
as a young boy
growing up, under
this kind of influence
by men, such as these
my favorite times
the most fun ~
spent with them
was when they,
were spinning a tale
telling a story,
as a Scotsman could
regardless,
if whether
grim or cheerful
always,
always ~
ever so slightly,
it was embellished
just enough ~
designed purposely to peek
the curiosity of the listener
so to be strung
along
the weave
like
that of
a spider’s web
being suspended
in time for awhile
until
the teller
of the tale
freed you
from his verbal grasp
at the climax of that story
brought to its end
of which in its aftermath
coming back to your senses
you then fully realized,
how it was all
masterfully orchestrated ~
~ it was during these moments
where I learned to spin a tale
then to mold a story into words
weaved together like these ~
words I tell with a little bullshit
~ spun as a story poem ~
peace out
Words by ~Keith Alan Hamilton~
