Saturday, October 18, 2014

Georgia

Why do I rise with the chickens
To watch well armed men leave in search of dinner
We broke bitches call that free organic meat
But judge if you must
Trees, warm sunshine, green grass and flowers
Fill my hours
Other poets already told you
There's pleasure in pathless woods
Little trips to town
Greeted by smiles of old, old friends
And the comfort of kin folk
Yet the not so distant history of this place is a yoke
The incessant interjection of isms and phobias choke
Me
They keep it beneath the surface
I'm just white enough
To have heard it



No comments:

Bookmark and Share