ol' southern photograph o' a tragical past

                    a sad, sun-bleached, sepia photograph
                   of a dusty crossroads; three
                   odd miles from no(some)where, mississippi.
 
 

i see heat risin' in ripples

from th' desolate, dry, wrinkl'd,

seemin'ly abandon'd ridges

            o' elderly earth. 

that farm house up th' road looks

t’been desert'd-  long, long ago. 

this ground here don't nurture no more. 

two bare-foot'd, black-skinn'd boys

            in overalls

look t'be in a rush,

carryin' rope-bundl'd ice blocks;

tryin' t'sneak on past

'thout leavin' a trace of bein'. 

            a futile effort-

due t'th' simple fact that

in their footprints

droplets o' darken'd earth are lef' behind. 

why d'these negro boys sneak 'round,

            holdin' they breath,

whilst passin' an ol' empty-lookin' plantation

home wit' a rust'd gate

that’s lyin' flat on th' ground

in-between ol' stones? 

            then,

i see lurkin' in fron' o' th' porch,

what looks t'be

an ol' oak-  tir'd, abus'd, misus'd;

wit' a nail'd sign readin':

the stairway to heaven starts

at the end of a rope. 

a fresh noose

            hangs from a saggin' bough.

Reviews

[mcg03002]

Cool! This is so different! I really enjoyed the fact that you forced me to see the message not from the vantage point of an enlightened white man living in a more tolerant age, but through the eyes of someone...maybe a black man/woman, observing a forgotten scene out of history. The rhythm and flow are spot on. Did you follow a set form? I didn't recognize it if you did. Assuming you didn't, I have to say that this is one free-form that feels as though it were built on a very deliberate and well thought out structure. I love it. Well done.