Black Dirt

Dust Bowl Migration And The Great Depression

 "The sky, least ways how I knowed it, 

always looked black. Mama said rain clouds look 

summit like 'em but I aint never seen that,

just clouds of dirt blowin across the sky." 

"That goddamned wind never rests, 

and that dirt makes my poor mama cry.

"Black rollers” we calls ‘em. 

I hope I sees rain 'for I die."

“Mama gits mad me sayin goddamn,

sez it be usin the Lord’s name in vain,

but my daddy allus said it

now he’s dead so I sez it the same.

… ain’t no God anyways.”

“Me being the oldest... almost ten,

means I'm man of the house now, but then,

we don’t have no house, we be dirt poor;

just this broken-down truck and lots of dirt, that's for sure."

Turning, the boy wiped away woe;

sunburnt face naked with hurt, 

streaking both cheeks with 

that goddamned black dirt.

He was a bony little cuss, 

small hands calloused and bruised, 

dressed in patches and rags and

worn-out old shoes.

I took some notes, time to time,

more to impress then to solve the crime.

There wasn't much this ole sheriff could do 

swamped with migrants; sometimes unscrupulous ones too.

The kid and his family were trying hard to get by.

Fleeing the dust bowl and that goddammed black sky. 

Too bad they was robbed and their daddy had to die.

The lad tried to be brave, lifting his head

but I knew in my heart, soon, he too could be dead.

Survival was tenuous during this goddammed depression

and I saw little hope in that poor kid’s expression.

Alone, without a father, 

they was robbed of everything ... 

left without a goddamned dime. 

Tragic victims of a terrible time.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

It was indeed a terrible time. The majority of the Dust Bowl residents stuck it out, but many migrated to California, where their descendants settled and flourished.

[felioness]

Thanks John, I remember hearing stories about it from my grandma and her sisters, life was tough. Thanks for the read.