In a political season of certain voter rights held hostage, itís easy to argue some things never change.
Looking and Seeing
A mother of swirling black smoke bore you
Bundled in burlap
Atop burning earth's dust bowl
A life of sweat tainted tobacco leaves and cotton bales
Shrouded in tight braids of hate's acrid air
Above were only your father's cries of mercy
Filling the grit dense clouds
As Jim Crow rode the thunder
Looking down to make more the same
More swaddling to construe miscreant
Some of us
See the many blind eyes
Instead of stars
And remind ourselves
The past always sends forward its remains
To be a haunting presence
Helping us see
What we are truly looking at
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|Reviewed by richard cederberg
|"A life of sweat tainted tobacco leaves and cotton bales
Shrouded in tight braids of hate's acrid air" ... for some reason this seems another tidbit, or perhaps a teasing mist from the newest novel you mentioned you were writing. Powerfully imaged, Odin. Peace ...
|Reviewed by Jerry Bolton
|I think I was all wet with my comments, so I took them out, hope you don't mind.|