My Hero

My hero

A poem about heroism. A hero can be anyone, even parents. I was thinking about my Father’s job which was making bricks that lined the kilns in the making of Ultramarine Blue. An incredibly tough job that had not really changed in over 100 years.

My hero

By The Ordinary Poet

My hero

Brick by brick his muscles tightened,
Carts loaded up by hand,
Red clay moulded into shapes,
Built up by this man.

Six foot high upon a trolley,
Now ready for that push,
Such a strength of legs was needed
This movement breaks the hush.

Into ovens to bake them hard,
Lining kilns their job,
Another cart now to be loaded,
As muscles ache and throb.

Twelve-hour shifts this man would work,
Building six foot high,
Towers of red clay upon a trolley,
His fatigue he would defy.

I watched him, as a younger man,
In awe that he could do,
The seemingly impossible,
My hero Dad is you.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

The contact form of this website was disabled. The project "The Ministry of Poetic Affairs" is no longer an active project. See for more information:

%d bloggers like this: