This week for the WordPress Photo Challenge we are asked to imagine a photo for the cover of a favorite book. Maybe someday…
One of four Aprils so long ago…
southern state proceeded to secede;
shoot the cannons, shoot them now!
That is when the darkness came.
Cotton, rice; cotton rice to tend;
bring the woman, children too,
slaves from Africa, “men in black”
no rights for you… no rights for you.
Hey, Yankee dressed in blue
and you Rebel decked in grey;
“Stars and Stripes” for one
and “Stars and Bars” were new.
Bugler Jimmy Dugan age nine;
sound your horn for meals and drills.
Cadets of Virginia stand so tall,
as tall as fourteen years can call.
Spinning, knitting homespun wool;
cut those thorns for sewing pins.
Onion skins to dye the cloth.
Hats from corn husks weave.
Grow and gather food to eat;
sun-dried strip form hunted meat.
One or two meals in a day and
only left-over’s for slaves who work.
“Hi, Spy”, “Blind Man’s Bluff”,
Still the children played…
“Fox and Geese”, a ton of fun while
singing tunes of “Bonnie Blue Flag”.
Did they notice life had changed?
Would “Johnny Come Marching Home”,
As brown six-year-olds hummed “Swing Low,
Sweet Chariot” in filthy stalls?
Sew the towels, knit the socks,
run the “Underground Railroad”;
Hope the whistle does not blow…
freedom, freedom, freedom’s call.
The hardest and slowest change….
angry people who are not unified.
Freedom, freedom let it ring…
too many Aprils once-upon-a-time.
Linking to dVerse
Listening on an Indian Summer’s day
a lone peeper calls once more,
as if spring is held in the stiffness
of an autumn day, where brittle
cattails chatter in dry October wind.
Crickets vibrate low and long; as
lady bugs applaud with song of wings
and dance about Chick-a-dees perch high
gathered all to pierce a tepid day!
For north another type of wind hollows
brings flurries which will deaden gaiety
by week’s end; as October bides farewell.
Dylan Thomas – presented by Kerry O’Connor. Explore writing a poem using the technique described in this post over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.
I am like a solitary leaf
Reserved is my color for one-
on-one with depth beyond;
the grandiose pile of leaves.
On the ground’s stubble I lie
reserved until approached…
I am like a solitary leaf.
Stop over at dVerse… where the poems keep coming!
“Let’s listen in on their conversation…”
“Harold, why is it you always need to be first?”
“I told you Hank, I’m the youngest!”
“Now wait a minute,” chimes in Hue,
“My T4 is higher than both of you together.”
“This three-sum seems a bit restless,
as Autumn’s sunlight is rising lower
in the eastern sky; on this 50 degree day.
We have trail-blazers in our presence
or maybe I should say sky-soarers.”
“Known for their famous V-formation;
there seems to be some confusion
as to who will lead this fine group.
Late breaking news… an agreement
has been made! They will rotate!”
“Though the Canadian goose is a
renowned bird at Horicon; it is
understood that more than 305 types
of fowl have been sighted in this
legendary wetlands through the years.”
Linking up at dVerse… where news is breaking!
Stir stars above God’s Earth.
Silhouette against sky;
sentinel tall and wide.
Snooze now thou meager man;
sunset quickly reclines.
Strum peaceful lullaby;
sleepless in twilight sky.
Taking it to the skies over at dVerse where Pleiades form is being practiced.
Shine through, shine out, my humble self…
shine as a guardsman firm; filled to carry on.
Shine in love languages, shine in understanding
with compassion, branches from the heart.
Shine endless, stretched from dawn till dusk;
the babe, the broken unceasingly shine and bury not.
What rotten roots, what pain and sorrow
lurks about childhood’s vacant chambers?
Endless bright light, which heed so great
its flame is lit… flickers on and on and on.
Hide not the light for love to shine along.
Not knowing who or when? Yet shine your
light strong in word or deed of love… shine on!
Children are thirsty to be accepted and loved, as brokenness abounds. Shine a light to carry them on. Poem based off a childhood song “This Little Light of Mine”; which I’ve been humming for weeks. Poetry form from the poem “Weave in my Hardy Life” by Walt Whitman, 1819 – 1892. Linking up at dVerse… where the music has just begun.