Long Plantation Poems
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Like myself, you have seen, felt, and heard many things, and it was indeed a God moment. Moreover, when you experienced them, they were eye-openers, inspirations, and sometimes game-changers.
At church last night at the close of prayer time, we each joined hands and each one prayed for something in particular. At the very end, someone prayed and expressed an experience that appeared or felt like a burial but in fact, it was a planting. When I heard that expression, I was deeply moved, sensing the reality of such a statement as it relates to our lives.
There are times we feel that we have been set aside and processed or spiritually cremated for burial. When we encounter this reality, let us not assume that it is truly a burial. More than likely it is a planting which means we were put underground as seeds and not for a permanent dwelling. It is likely that God Himself has ordered a seemingly deadly process as a planting and not a burial. It is a resurrection and not a destination. It is a plantation procedure for a futuristic and fruitful life-giving production.
Say it with me, I may be underground but I am not buried. I may be underground but I am a seed and not a corpse. I may be underground today, but before long you shall see me as a bloseom, a flower, a fruit, a God Plant.
A stream flows by the ancient oak, a steadfast soul remains,
A heart of the forest, a living log, a cover that still sustains.
The redwood of old growth, a verdant menagerie,
Simple in its English name, yet rich in its legacy.
My lowly view,
Navigating slippery slopes, salamanders in their hue.
They dart in and out of holes, in the clay they seek Refuge,oid debris, their world they won't subdue.
The forest boasts of many kinds, each with its unique feature,
The young maintain their heritage, with the plantation as their teacher.
Expecting watchful eyes, some wear their feelings on their face,
Their composure reveals their thoughts, their feelings they can't erase.
In nature's design, many depend on the old oak's shape,
Each creature with a purpose, none existing out of place.
Some salamanders are short, thick-headed and round,
Living and dying inside the wooden cavity they've found.
Others, with huge heads, delve deeper inside,
Breathing in the oak's heritage, rooted and never denied.
And as she watches from afar, she can't denie that those large
Head's can't get inside of what she feels inside.
A Country Worker
Watching grass grow, seeing paint dry, doing the dishes
Are mysterious consuming matters since Madge moved on
Grass grows a little slower, decays
Paint peels and flakes through age
Dishes get dirty and pile high, break
This all sounds so very boring I’m sure
Still the lower 40 acres won’t tend themselves
They have Old Alvin to plant the corn
Who tills the soil tired
He takes time to remember the tender years
Rolling marbles down the highways and hills
Waiting for their return
There is nothing left of the lost plantation
After a while all grows silent
Nothing comes back
No one is at home or in the field
Waiting for the telephone to ring
No. I don’t think so
Just another boring thing
Not worth mentioning
The Dogs of War are on a Blood Trail.
The first, Blinken, of many vermin that will lead to Biden's son, who is up a tree hiding, will soon be devoured.
Just before Hunter, now hunted, is tracked down and torn to shreds by public scrutiny and judicial process, will he likely take his own life, being the coward that he is, to spare his father from further embarrassment?
Or, due to his own frailty, and utter corruption, will the resident and cheat, father Biden, suffer and collapse from heart failure by the sheer weight of his own sins?
The story is unfolding, like a Shakespearean masterpiece, that will be retold for centuries to come.
Nixon, Kennedy... will be like children's Mother Goose stories compared to this epic, Romanesque drama of fortune, tyranny, and betrayal.
So great, they may have to edit Dante's Inferno, just to include the heads of Biden weeping on that icy lake.
Now, lay quietly in the bushes, from vantage points, and peer down on the amphitheater before you.
The stage is set.
The General, Trump, can be seen lurking in the rafters as his legion are concealed within the trees at the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest.
Will there be an Arminius, a Republican, who had acquired Democrat citizenship, that will lead the 50 FBI agents into ambush, and perhaps lead to the fall of Rome, a.k.a. the Democratic Party?
There won't be enough bread and circuses to save the Plantation Party after this loss... one can only hope.
by,
Martin Braun
4/23/2023
Source: rep harriet hageman calls for anthony blinken to appear before weaponization committee over intel letter about hunter biden laptop
As I work hard in the hot cotton fields all day
I dreadfully think about the long night to come
Since you lost your wife you tell me you're lonely
and sneak me out from my shack to your huge mansion
Into your bed, where you use me and pretend to love me
I must pretend to like being with you, to stay safe and alive
My family has no idea I am with you almost every night
The lottery day is coming soon and I am fearful of being sold
My babies are here at this plantation, alive and thriving
I hope to be able escape soon before they are put to work
Their Father was recently beaten to death for misbehaving
He was fighting for us to try to escape to the north to be freed
Lincoln is doing what he can to make changes, I have hope
In the meantime, I continue to plan ways to escape or kill you
I continue to endure the long work days and poor living conditions
And at night I will continue to be with you as your slave to love
As I will continue to fight for my family and for our freedom
7/3/19
Echoes from the hills and mountains
Journeys far and beyond
A former Slave story told
Rightfully bold
Being captured to become a slave
Plantation determined a slave behave
Keep all in slaves in line
That is not what I had in mine
Plantation owner called me “SASSY”
I hated that, but it fit my personality
My name should have been “REBEL”
Often beaten, torn and raped
Words need no explanation
Determined in never to surrender
Remembering my Great Grandmother stories in “ONE DAY, WE WILL ALL BE FREE”
My tears would fall as to when
My eyes looked behind the clouds in knowing where help comes from
Heaven’s wise
I knew I had to be strong
Faith was the foundation
It spread out throughout the nation
I stand not only as a former slave, the focus to overcome
Determined too never be still
Soulful with a free will
Plantation shouts, “Speak only when spoken to”
Those words caused storm within my spirit
I was going to cut the chains that bind
I was created with a purpose to do exceedingly well with destiny behind
I often heard other slaves talk about Freedom one day to live
It was my adverb and I let it be their adjective
Being tormented beyond relief
This was the time go do something and not accept
Escaped during the night when everyone was asleep
Ran through the forest and walked through Rivers avoid the sense of tracking dogs
I found myself in the state of North Carolina
There were messages echoing that slaves were now free
Plantation owners had no choice but to abide or be treason
Life as a slave no more
A new progressive life to explore
Unto the many souls that had gone before
Their legacy I see
The Heaven’s observed, and cut slavery loose
My Great Grandmother was right, she said one day, and one day became that given time
A former slave spoke and remembers
Can now slumber
Slave wise throughout.
The only problem with 'Moonstruck'
is Cosmo's moon could never be so large in winter,
stand for luck.
Mid-winter sledding brought joy
snow, speed, although the kids were beautiful
none were boys.
Walking the boundaries, and the old field
boundaries. Aged maples, barbed wire
past the cambium.
Northern hardwood all the way, except
less than an acre scotch pine plantation
and a few primeval spruce.
Pendant spruce cones in tree tops
colonizing the old field too. Conifers
a primitive civilization.
Lyonia has red, scaleless buds.
Shrub or small tree, maximum height 12 feet.
It's a heath, Ericaceae.
Small, white, bell-like flowers become
seamed capsules, similar to but smaller than
laurel, Kalmia.
The buds had me thinking red chokeberry,
Rosaceae, but of course the fruit
was completely wrong for a rose.
A timber stand improvement now
in the scotch pine would encourage tall
even straight trees, a cathedral.
The maples on the upper rocky slopes
where the skidders couldn't or wouldn't go
are impressive as eagles', hawks' nests.
Mid-summer, Spiraea, field of pink flowers
fully encircled by mountain ranges.
Bees working them.
Nancy, the broker, coming at five.
These 160 acres, a dream, are unnecessary.
Offer 500 dollars per acre.
Not an investment, a sanctuary.
Backed against the Taconic ridge,
real moon rising.
Blown by Atlantic wind and sail in chains
once were ragged souls like chattels branded -
from the Guinea Coast to old Port of Spain
African herdsmen on slave ships landed.
From my father’s car I saw the canefields
where slaves cut from cyan-see to cyah-see.
Where broken men of burden stooped and kneeled
my father would stop to cut cane for me.
Now broke are those fetters of time and fate
in that dark and soulless age of tyranny,
and I in old plantation, horse ranch and estate
on his fold-out walking stick seat sat his knee.
In its powerdrive push-button auto as a lad
I rode the hills and streets of old Trinidad -
in that big pale grey Plymouth Fury I swear
I saw ghosts of the mills and the ploughshare.
Written: December 2009
— — — — — — — — -
Wrapped in silk, you hold my hand,
my countess.
Full of quiet fire and tenderness.
We ride winged horse carriages by our apricot plantation.
There by the sea,
wine and raspberries are waiting for us.
I fell asleep on the sand,
covered by the wind and your hand.
In front of us, a cove in stone is dreaming.
*
We are in the water together,
pure folds of passion.
An icosahedron enveloped by a cube,
Plato’s house is next to it.
You are the woman because of which I seek god’s power.
To change the water color
into a shade that will make you smile.
I call upon a long line of ancestors
and all the genealogy power.
By divine influence
I change the shade of the water.
I woke up your joy and laughter.
However, all my heavenly signs are quickly disappearing.
In your hands, I am an ordinary man.
Loved and happy.
*
Invisible contracts from the past are binding.
We flirt with who we indeed are,
leaving the empty shells behind.
In a world full of evil,
I know despair is not our destiny.
All the meat-fed hunger of ours,
made us converge for years,
to the same point of life
wisdom and understanding.
*
You are my notebook of joy
where I write the symbols
what the waves are whispering to me.
The semantics of the record is unknown
The lines cover your right shoulder
where only my pen can write.
When the record is finally done.
Melted by your warm embrace
I become a stone.
A monument to our love.
— -# — -
Watered and nurtured in
a congregation of a large brotherhood
the master is loving and caring
never allowing harm befall us all
or competition from green exploiters trouble us.
Weeds are cleared and burnt
Pests- fought back and eradicated,
all these enjoyment and their corresponding blessings
so unthinkable and unexplainable but real.
Then comes another master
with lips that can hallucinate the mind to goodness
and countenance so charming to both good and evil.
Our backs are scraped off to look a new
then packaged in groups to look so refined.
Excitement between brothers overwhelms all emotions
then off we leave the master’s shed
going to an unknown with the hope of better blessings.
In bits, we are sold out
angry I am that others were chosen ahead of me
then my time comes as warm hands collect me
washed and broken into pieces- my new self.
I looked bountiful in appearance
and so gracious in sight.
Why didn’t my first master do these things?
Why was he so rigid and uneventful?
Why did he care so much to limit my independence?
And all he wants is to put us under his oversight.
Different buyers come for different parts of me
the same mouths clothed in smiles
are the same sucking all sweetness out of me
each bite, a merciless chew
complemented by a drag of my light
into their darkness to render me worthless.
Now that I am reduced to nothing,
I am thrown out to the ground straight from the mouth
while hands stay irritated and too proud
to touch or carry me to my ruin.
From one to ten and them hundreds of feet,
they all step on me without noticing.
Oh such care from the plantation!
Now I wish I had remained there
I long to return to the brotherhood
and pray for the loving arms of my first master.
All others are beings of deception and lies
they come only to steal, to kill and to destroy
but He gives life eternal to those who seek it.
I am the sugarcane chaff and right now redemption is far gone
but I leave this note to let you know
that your ability to read it is a chance to accepting Him.