Turning tradition

Turning tradition over to the next lot! what's remembered and what's not!

A common hand turning lathe's fold
shook when passing generation glance 

where the last hours in the shed
saw toolbox open, 
and door peeled closed
to the slow motion of a sawdust cloud.

Was it in woodwind or crankshaft
where the ether of the last lay?
Sprinkled for the wooden fairies
who'll come and make ready for the
New Turn of the day

The sons and the daughters 
will first turn in their beds
a bald future threads its sleep 
to the bare knuckle needs
in the depths of a now knurled
diamond encrusted tradition

Author's Note

will be interested to read people's interpretations of this piece

Reviews

[Marie Harrison]

I have no idea. I really enjoyed the poem but I'm dying to know. Maybe I ate too much turkey. Please let me know. It's beautiful though.

[Norma M Sutton]

Interpretation . . . my dad was a carpenter. I read this as the passing of generations, each loosing a little that the one before knew until most was only speculation.

[Wolf]

loved it

[Wondering Mind]

Handmade caskets?

[Kerry O'Connor]

Alright, here goes. I note the references to wood turning, an art and craft, perhaps practised by a father or grandfather, who passed away, leaving only a 'sawdust cloud'. The workshop is abandoned to the 'wooden fairies'. One wonders if the young children lying asleep in their beds will have the talent or inclination to continue in the 'diamond encrusted' tradition... if the future is bald, it's doubtful.

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

do you know what this reminds me of on an emotional/tactile level?~ those precious moments I spent next to grandmare while she took my hands into the dough of the 'pogacsa' her strong hands above mine~ teaching me how to knead and add the shredded cheese at just the specific time that would permit it to blend perfectly into the dough~ it reminds me of sitting next to great grandpare as he whittled tiny crows from wood in his World War I uniform which he insisted on wearing the last year of his life~ he showed me every button~ every medal~ describing and singing old old Magyar marching songs as he put the old knife in my little hands teaching me how to give life to crows and magpies out of pieces of wood~
tradition~ the care of elders~ generational memories~ this is what your poem says to me~