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Tell-Tale Reality…This Be…
In the twilight
salty evening breeze
petals of blooming spring
Mayflower flowers
waved out in the wind
with waving sails
of an offshore
anchored namesake ship
whose passengers eagerly ready
to lay the foundation
of the coming peculiar institution.
Meanwhile
on a golden sunrise morning
in the always surreal
spring season
cool breeze saturated
the terrestrial space
where lived a sublimed proud
and joyous people—singing
and dancing—beating
praising rhythms of thanksgiving
to their great creator.
On a particular
bright paradise sunrise morning
an African patriot stepped out
of his kingly dwelling
to breathe the sweet-smelling scented
air—months later ending up
middle passage beaten—bruised
branded shackled cargo
in the belly bowels
of a blessed seasoned slaved ship.
Sitting on blood-stained cotton
in the burning heat of the day
a weary work worn black mother
reached between blood stain loins
and raised up her beautiful newborn—
praising God—and screaming
she strangled the child
that it not live and grow up to be a slave:
Better to be dead in the grave
than to live to be a baby slave.
