Best Addie Poems
ain't it a shame
when hate lynches
a 14 year old Colored boy
in 1955 Mississippi
and blows away the dreams of
four innocent little ***** girls
in 1963 Birmingham, Alabama
yeah
bus that to your segregated thoughts
as I interracially walk you
through Little Rock, Arkansas
with Daisy Bates & nine Black Children
to march along side the National Guard
on their way to a lily white school
as the message of this
un-segregates & untangles
the history of hate
attackin’ ******* in 1957
whose only desire was to be educated
and schooled too
racism & hate
doesn’t try to guide
the white citizen council back
to their good senses
‘cause racism
don’t care ‘bout nobody
being Jewish or Colored
when it needs to
fire-bomb
***** churches with ******* in them
or feels the need to hang someone
from a tree out of existence
racism even devours its own kkklan
as the innocent
pay the ultimate price
racism doesn’t care
if your church is the 16th Street Baptist
and 14 yr. old Addie Mae Collins
is one of the four black Alabama children
killed in attendance
racism ain’t concerned about
you being white either
or your last name being
White
Black
Brown
Till
Schwerner
Evers
Liuzzo
Mandela
Martin or Rodney King
and so many other names
that we’ll never know of
that racism wounded or buried six feet
under hate
racism doesn’t care about
what kinda NAACP dream
you’re having
or concerned about your last name
being "Parks" in 1955
when it attempts to guide you back
to the "Colored" section of the bus
where you know your
civil-rights will be denied
every time you allow
" segregation & discrimination"
to collects its fare
racism & its hateful followers
have no regard at all
for one’s race / religion
or sexual persuasion
especially when racism peers
into its discriminating mirror
century after century
time after time
day after day
and tells itself in 2006
"it’s better than you"
because you’re "cultured" different
from them"
yeah
racism stirs an ugly pot of soup
that no one should ever have to taste.
Tears wet at the tip of his chin
Dried, from the wind, on his exposed cheeks
Fresh scent of strange fruit filled the clouds
Which overcast the band that played mournful music with their walk
That sung sorrow hymns with their prayers
Woe voices traveling through the steel bars from the mouths of innocent sexes
Voices shuffled through the beaten bodies,
Terrorized by the pale hand that held the leash of a brainwashed dog, taught to execute our heritage
Burning sun, cooking the flesh of a man, causing the smoke smell similar to the burnt smell of the four baby girls, whose bodies were modified by hatred and fire, bricks and inequality
They metaphorically lynched Cynthia Wesley, Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson, and Denise McNair
They lynched the quiet ones, the blessed ones, the powerful ones, the trust of our race
Don't let them lynch our generation
Addie Marie Beima.
May 20th 1945 - February 21st 2021
Loving Mother & Grandmother.
With unfailing love,
at some point in life,
she saved us all.
Though we weren't blind,
we couldn't always see,
the dangers which lay ahead.
As a lighthouse,
guides a ship and crew,
safe unto the harbor.
She,
illuminated the perils,
of our storm tossed nights.
She guided us,
with stern patience.
Helped us navigate,
life's hidden shoals,
and emotional strife.
She risked it all,
treading deep into our darkest nights.
A strong yet gentle woman,
holding beacons of love and hope.
And though her lamp,
has been extinguished.
She will remain,
our lighthouse forever.
This is one of the most famous “girl groups” anyone knows.
They began in Passaic, New Jersey as the “Poquellos”
The four members were Shirley Owens and Beverly Lee,
along with Addie “Mickie” Harris, and Doris Coley.
These four young girls had a huge stroke of luck for a fate
when they had Mary Jane Greenberg for a high school classmate.
This start of some great careers took place in nineteen fifty-eight.
Mary Jane’s mother operated a small record label.
Florence Greenberg knew these girls were quite talented and able.
Now known as “The Honeytones”, they recorded their first song.
“I Met Him on a Sunday” was a hit. It did not take long
before “The Shirelles” became a popular recording act.
Their success in entertainment became a solid fact.
Everything with their careers seemed to be going quite right.
“Dedicated to the One I Love” and “Tonight’s The Night”
along with “Baby, It’s You”, “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow”,
“Mama Said’, and many other hit songs some people would know
boosted their popularity and brought them much joy.
However, their biggest hit was a short one called “Soldier Boy”
This intended B-side song brought them their greatest success.
It went to number one, and brought everyone happiness.
That little song they did not care for helped them on their way.
Success and fame continued for this group from day to day
Music from this girl group is still played and enjoyed today.
Thanks to both wikipedia.org online encyclopedia and allmusic.com for information I obtained to write this poem.
.
On those cool summer evenings when coyotes haunt the night
And the campfire is dying—burning low, then flaring bright,
A cowboy plays harmonica while others sing and hum
While down by the chuck wagon a lonely guitar does strum.
A few pokes like Lon Stonecipher stare silent at the fire,
Imagining old friends and folks in times both dear and dire.
Lon sees and talks to faces that flicker in gold flames—
He asks them of the weather—remembers all their names.
“There’s Delton and Rosella, old Burlin and Rob Alcorn,
There’s that sweet Renata Robins that kissed me one June morn.
There’s Cal Shirlo and Spud Scanlon, that both died in the war,
And Addie Belle from Abilene that said she’d love no more.”
Cowpokes yawned and nodded—on this wild words did not dwell—
They knew the man he used to be, but this was just his shell.
The faces in the fire gave him comfort and offered hope,
They were his last salvation—without them he could not cope.
Lon stared into the fire for many hours before sleep—
His rest was fitful, frenzied—never calm, peaceful or deep.
And often he’d awake and gaze mournfully once again
Into those glowing embers in search of friend or kin.
“I can see my last saddle pal, young Mathew Leatherwood
And a Dodge City gambler that I shot right where he stood.
I see my dear grandmother and my sister Anna Lee—
My grandpa and brother Jim, who died at the age of three.”
The fire burned low and so did Lon out on that prairie bow,
But this was as it always was, at least until just now.
“I see you, ma—I see you, pa—your faces smile at me,”
So said old Lon one last time, drifting upon a prairie sea.
They buried Lon Stonecipher right out on that cold, dark land—
And right beside him built a blaze as hot as they could stand.
Then they watched the flames dance, and stared long into that pyre,
And to this day some still swear, Lon’s face was smiling in that fire.
Why?
Why not!
Their point of view
Each Friday they drank
vengeance
every bottle drowned
another ache
Knights
shedding the end of a week
elegant shine
lost in devil may care
Needs
numbed in a 3-day marathon
Drink, drink,
drink until dread's dead...
Why not?
Coz they can't unsee
a view
ailments never quit
piling
rays gamma
radiation
ever shooting -
more cancer
reactions
'n side effects that conquer
In and out
they pass,
dysenteric E.coli
offsetting the once ominous
virus
polio
raked out but replaced
by a Covid war...
(12/25/2020: '96 Fun Country DMS; memories of Hoodless..)
II - Sharon and Adeline
So who gets the blame, for the perfidy of their young lives,
having shared of caustic adults and their lust-groping girth?
A petite, astute blonde with candid need of sexualized aura
Never concealed, she’d writhe a come-hither to grown men
Never liking the boys who were closer to her pretty preteen
Only seeking pernicious pleasures of a pedophile aficionado
Not contrite, she’d dance the pole, just as mom had shown…
As she envied voluptuous Adeline, perfunctory in beauty's miasma
Nothing contrived in her distrust of oglers whose gaze could harken
Devils from her past, piercing them with angry blues so condemned…
As her mom disabled, leaned on a man who made Addie his manna
Dined on precocious curves she’d wish had never been bequeathed
Exploding in tantrums she fought unable to suppress all the seethe…
Little girls lost in the littler woman’s world, of the big man’s brothel
It was a ruse that it had closed, for females still suffer these incubi
Nice asses openly paraded non-stop; lower wages that still demean
Elderly men joking with objectified daughters, still considered, wise…
(2/22/2021: DMS; memories of SCH)
My name is Addie Shaughnessey,
I’m in love with a Cowboy,
Though he up and rides away,
Time and time again.
I understand the lure,
Of those wide open spaces,
And I’ll be right here waiting,
When his trail comes to an end.
He’s chasing wild cattle,
By the muddy Rio Grande,
For a drive across the world,
From Texas to Montan’,
One day he will come back to me,
I’m very sure of this,
They were the final words he spoke,
Before his good-bye kiss.
So I’ll hold his image in my heart,
Stay true to him and strong,
For a Cowboy loves the prairie,
Like a woman loves a song.
For Addie who put up with him
Through all those years of scrabble
Who left before he came so grim
And rose above the rabble
He sits and sips in friendly bars
Filling napkins with his life
I read them later under stars
A thin worn blade of knife
Reminiscing ever missing
Addie’s gentle hold
Trying to point the way along
To other wayward old
And though I didn’t know you then
I’ll take the time t’ thank you Glen
For sharing that’s been told
I need better ears, the teen told Les, her inventor daddy.
Daddy was a wizard with engineering, so he began a design.
He built a hat for his daughter, Addison, whom he called Addie.
Now she hears everything and more, even without a party line.
she was worried they would go with Daddy
they liked him the best, both Beau and Addie
She poisoned husband before he went to bed.
I did not do it, this lying wife often said.
Beau and Addie were sure it was their mother.
Told the police, it could have been no other.
She is incarcerated for the rest of her life.
No visitors either, for a murderous wife.