I see black people detaching themselves
From their roots
Burrying the truth that once lived
On the miners boots
I see the black youth leaving school
Thinking , damn we’re so cool
Yet they die too soon.
I see red tears flowing out of old black women’s eyes,
They can’t do anything
but cry.
I see black women evolving hate in this hopeless state
Trying to concentrate on giving love
But the one they get
In return is fake.
I see old black women
re-teaching their children how to love and care
but everytime they try
its like they shoot themselves
in the heart with a bullet of fear.
I see black people detaching themselves
From the truth......
Forgetting their ancestors roots.
By. Chris Ngomane
The old red barn has fallen down,
Last vintage of my daddy's farm.
The cattle and the horses were
Sold off these many years ago.
At Mama's urging, Daddy quit
And moved into the nearest town.
Vandals burned the old house down,
Surviving barn stood on alone.
It battled wind and winter storms
Until one strong blast flattened it.
My daddy searched the scene next day
Looking for pieces of his life.
Now Daddy drives the country round,
Counting old red barns still standing.
Inspired by Rick's contest.
In Southern Arizona, there is an old cave
A history, does it have a story to tell
More than a hole in a mountain
For many a outlaw it was their grave
Years before the Indians lived there as well
Protected by thorns of the Prickly Pear, that is for certain
Bank and train robber, hid their stolen stash there
Cool their heel and hide from the law
No doubt, that many were shot in the back
Out of greed, in their outlaw lair
Living by their law
Cochise and Geronimo, also left their track
"La Posta Quemada", a cattle ranch it later became
Where cowboys would ride
The mountain was steep and mean, cactus galore
"The Burning Post", by the White man;s name
The thorns would rip the horse's and cattle's hide
And the cave with all it had to store
The old steer would go to the top and hide
Would stay there for years and never come down
To gather them was a cowboy's living Hell
For the horse's armor, around his chest would be wet rawhide
From he cactus thorns and the steer were found
Yes, old Colossal Cave does have a story to tell
You no longer see them around, faded into history
Every town had one, had everything under the Sun
Well for that time anyway
The Ma and Pa type, they all had a story
It was a place for general fun
Some even did business on Sunday
Polished hard wood floor, sawdust scattered all around
Big wooden barrel full of peanuts, throw the shell on the floor
No charge, cause they were free
A place where the lost could be free
There was always a welcome mat outside the front door
Out house round back if you had to pee
The butcher, bag boy and counter man were all one
The ladies would leave their shopping list, come back later
He always wore a long white apron, white shirt and tie
He never quit until all the work was done
Free jaw breakers for the kids, throw in an extra tater
He could tell some tales, but never told a lie
Big pot bellied wood burnin stove, always a pot of coffee brewin
Where old timers could sit, whittle and spit
So they knew who was coming in the front door
Everybody knew what everybody was doing
Always spic and span, don't worry about a little grit
The Old General Store, they don't make them like that anymore
Frozen body in
in the icy river
A young woman
met her fate early
She wanted freedom
But she found
Let the night come
A single candle burning
cuts through the gloom
In lands of shadow
Where can a soul find peace?
Old answers no longer
suffice
As the old tent - maker said:
"...sultan after sultan
with his pomp
abode his hour or two and went his way"
Tram stops Old lady asks "Am I twirly?"
Conductor looks up tram and shakes his head
On she gets and on we go
As a young lad on the way to school
I often wondered how old one had to be
To be Twirly
Three stops on the way were always empty
Three stops in a row
Trams all stopped
The area was bombed out
No complete houses stood
No one ever asked why they stopped
It made me proud to ride
With folks like that
Twirly or not
(Charles II after the battle of Worcester, 1651)
They spur their horses from the bloody field,
the battle lost – a story old as time –
the King in flight, his kingdom’s fate is sealed
in common soil. And still the church-bells chime.
They spur their horses from the bloody field,
with Roundheads hunting King for every crime
of office and religion. Must he yield
his head now, like his father, in his prime?
His followers will see he’s well concealed.
The battle lost (a story old as time),
the head of state about to be Bastilled –
but no. Just puzzle out this pantomime:
the King in flight, his kingdom’s fate not sealed.
They make him peasant, royal face begrime
and so obscured, you see the crown revealed
in common soil. As all the church-bells chime,
they spur their horses from the bloody field,
the battle lost – a story old as time –
the King in flight, his kingdom’s fate now sealed
in common soil. And still the church-bells chime.
Tick tock, tick tock,
strikes the old clock.
Boom, boom, boom!
roar the sounds of cannons.
Roll, humanity's ship, roll,
cast your net, drag the troll.
Unending curse of history
marches to the same folly.
Tick tock, tick tock,
strikes the old clock.
Boom, boom, boom!
roar the sounds of cannons.
Time slips away, drifting by,
same ending, innocents die!